"THIS IS THE MALT THAT LAY IN THE HOUSE
THAT JACK BUILT."
A WEEK had passed since Ratcliffe had been driven from his father's
home, and his name had only once been mentioned between John and his
elder son. This was on that first day when Tom had asked where his
brother was, and had received the brief and not unwelcome reply, "He's
gone, and he'll come back no more."
A week had passed, and now it was night—deep night. The house had been
closed, and the miser had come up to his strong-room to count his gold.
His gold was his life now; all natural tenderness and right feeling
had been consumed out of his heart by this canker. For long enough the
Bible, given him years ago by his wife, had remained unopened—unopened
until that morning when, as he took it up to remove it to the
bookshelves, it opened of its own accord, and his eye had caught the
words, "The love of money is the root of all evil."
Down went the book on to the floor. Why had this silent messenger been
sent thus to touch him where he felt it most? Yet he saw no warning in
the solemn words; he tried not to feel the pricking of the conscience
that was not yet quite dead, but had leaped up for a moment into
the light of the great and awful truth as it flashed upon the man's
unwilling intelligence.
"Well," said he, suddenly recovering himself, "this is the last time
that I shall ever see anything in this book."
So saying, he raised the Bible once more (for he had dropped it in the
first surprise that the reading of the text had occasioned him), looked
at its cover, from which the silver clasp was gone, coldly estimated
its money value as simply nothing; then, opening a window, he flung the
volume out on to the dust-heap below.
"There," he had said, sullenly, as he closed the window, "that's the
last I shall see of you, you printed lie! Catch me ever having another
Bible in the house!"
But somehow, after he had left the room, and all through the day, the
words had haunted him; and now again, when the shadows of night were
about him, the brief sentence rang in his ears like the death knell
of all faith and hope, "The love of money is the root of all evil;"
and again other words that came to him like an avenging spirit out of
the long ago, "How hardly shall they that have riches enter into the
kingdom of God!"
But John Drinkrow would not yield to these memories. With the
resolution of a stubborn nature, he strove against them. He did not
think of the time when death must overtake him, swift, and silent, and
unrelenting; of a future state where he must reap as he had sown; of
that eternity whither we can carry nothing, but where the poor and the
rich in this world's goods will be as though they were alike.
"No one can reproach me with dishonesty or drunkenness," said John, as
he lighted the one meagre candle which he allowed himself, and buttoned
his coat that he might not feel the damp chill of the fireless room. "I
am better than most of my neighbours; I adulterate the beer less than
many men would in my position, and I've never let my place get a bad
name. Now that young scamp Ratcliffe is off, the house will be more
respectable than ever. Tom will never ruin himself or me. He and I are
of one mind in the matter of saving, and a very good mind it is."
Thus, like the Pharisee of our Lord's parable, this hard old man
prided himself upon his supposed virtues, and grew yet harder in their
contemplation, forgetting that it was the poor publican—broken-hearted,
humble, contrite—who went down to his house justified.
Then the miser unlocked his safe and took out his bags of gold and laid
them on the table, while into one less full than the rest, he poured
the week's gains from a large leathern purse that he had brought up
with him. And now his cold eyes began to kindle and to glitter; the
unholy passion of avarice—of greed in its meanest form—flushed his
wrinkled cheeks, and nerved his hands, and he fingered and counted the
yellow heaps before him, whispering, "Mine! All mine!"
And upstairs, in his own room, Tom—true son of a miser—was following
his father's example. Stingy as John Drinkrow was, he was obliged
to pay Tom a salary for his services, and even a small share of the
profits; and Tom's only pleasure consisted in escaping to his room and
drawing out of his cashbox the bank-notes and sovereigns he had earned,
and to which he was steadily adding.
"Now Ratcliffe is gone," said he to himself, "if anything happens to
the old man, all that he leaves will be mine. I don't believe father
will ever wish to see him again, but if he should seem as if he wanted
him back, I will tell him what I have lately found out; and when he
hears that Ratcliffe has been married on the sly, for ever so long,
to a girl with no money, or next to none, and that this is what he
has been doing with himself—let alone his gay life—the old gent will
never forgive him, I'll be bound. And I shall mind it the less telling
him all this, because of my having had a fancy for that girl myself
once upon a time, and she wouldn't have anything to say to me. Ah! She
waited for something better; and now she's got a treasure, and I wish
her joy of him. But I owe them both a grudge for this, and I'll pay it
some day."
These thoughts, and thoughts like these, were passing through Tom's
mind when a loud knock came at his door. Hastily he swept his money
into the box, and hid it under the bed; then he went to the door, and,
drawing aside the bolt, opened it. To his surprise and horror there
stood Ratcliffe, his face pale and haggard, and softened a little with
what looked like penitence.
"Oh, Tom!" he said. "I managed to get in with my latch-key because I
wanted a word with you—because I felt I must speak to you to-night."
Here he paused and repressed the lump in his throat.
But Tom said nothing, and Ratcliffe, mastering his emotion, went on:
"Did you hear what passed between father and me, Tom, the other night?
I'd been drinking—more fool I!—and emptied my pockets; and then I came
to him and asked him for money, and, stupid ass that I was, I said
something about the lots of tin he had got put away. I shouldn't have
done it, Tom, if I'd been sober, but never was any saying truer than
this, 'When the wine's in, the wit's out.' Well, he rose up like a
black tempest, and he told me to go. I tried to speak, but he shut me
up, and at last, seeing him like this, I did go. But that's a week ago,
and I am hoping he may have softened down a bit and changed his mind;
and I came to-night, Tom, to ask you whether you would say a good word
for me to the governor. You're a child after his own heart (if he's got
one to be after), and he'd do a deal for your asking. And think, Tom,
we're brothers—you and I—and you're rich, and I'm nigh upon starving,
and my poor girl at home the same. Help me a little, just this once,
and to-morrow say a good word for me to the old man, and tell him you
think, if he will only take me back, that I'll work and be steady. Will
you do this for me, Tom, old boy?" And Ratcliffe's eyes moistened in
his earnest pleading, and he laid his hand upon his brother's shoulder.
Tom shook it off; not roughly, but coldly. "Look here, Ratcliffe,"
said he, in that quiet voice of his, which, though so low-toned, had
no sweetness or softness in it, "you must know you've brought this on
yourself. Your own bad habits have done it all. Now, is it fair that
you should come here and beg from me what I've saved by hard work for
ever so long, when you've thrown away more than I've got to bless
myself with?" And Tom's voice grew yet colder and more metallic as he
hardened his heart against his brother's entreaties.
Ratcliffe made a sudden exclamation, then checked himself, and Tom went
on,—
"As for speaking to father, you ought to know how little good that
would do you; when he makes up his mind, he never changes, and I should
only get into trouble myself if I tried to persuade him to take you
back. Besides—think, Ratcliffe—it wouldn't be long before he found out
about that marriage of yours, just as I did, and then you'd be as badly
off as you are now. No, no; you'd better keep clear of this house—and,
for the matter of that, of father and me too. Here's five shillings for
your present necessities, but don't you come again."
And Tom, with a mighty effort of will, took two half-crowns out of his
pocket, and laid them on the table before his brother. He did not look
at him while he did this, or he would have seen the sudden change in
Ratcliffe's face—a change from humble, sorrowful penitence to defiant
pride and anger.
The prodigal took the two silver coins, drew himself up to his full
height, and, with a passionate gesture, flung them into the farthest
corner of the room.
"There!" said he, in a husky voice. "We're brothers no more. I came
to you for help that one brother might well give another; but I'm not
quite crushed yet, and I'd sooner starve—and so would my Nan—than take
from your hand the bread that would keep body and soul together after
the words you've said to me to-night. Now I'm going; but mark what I
say—my mood is changed, and some day you'll repent this night's work. I
came here sorry I'd done wrong, and wanting to mend my ways, but you've
turned me to flint!"
Tom had risen too, and as the money rolled away against the wall, and,
after spinning a moment, lay flat on the floor, he listened intently,
as if fearing that the noise would be heard. Then he said, "A little
more, Master Ratcliffe, and you'd have had the governor up to see
what's the matter. I'm sure I hope the housekeeper hasn't heard the
row. Now go, if you 'are' going, and remember that you and I cannot be
friends again."
Ratcliffe needed no second injunction; he fixed one look on his
brother—a gaze of defiance, resentment, and menace; then he was gone,
and Tom breathed freely once more. Hastily he shot home the bolt of his
door, picked up the despised half-crowns and returned to his seat—not
to reproach himself, but to try to calculate his gains, and to form
some idea of the advantages which would come to him from his brother
being disinherited.
[Illustration: RATCLIFFE, THE PRODIGAL.]
Alas! That the interests of two immortal souls should be sacrificed to
the love of gold! Alas! That the priceless jewel of eternal life, and
the joy of Christ's free and blessed service, should be bartered for
the tarnishing glitter—the metallic ring—of perishable money! In this
one home were two men deliberately choosing the evil and throwing away
the good, shutting their hearts against all right influences—love and
charity, a forgiving spirit, pity, and sympathy, and bowing down, as it
were, with an idolatrous homage, like the Israelites of old at the foot
of Mount Horeb, to the golden calf of their hoarded wealth. And this
was the "malt that lay in the house that Jack built."
[Illustration]