THE ROAD TO RUIN.
I WONDER if any of my readers are wondering what is the want in my
first chapter? For there is a want, and I feel it myself. For all that
I have said, so far, there might be no such thing as religion in the
world. Self-interest is the only "motive-power" that I have mentioned.
To be respectable, to be comfortable, to make or save money, to be
happy in a quiet way—these are the motives I have spoken of, because,
alas! They are the motives that governed the lives of those of whom I
was writing.
Is it not sad to think that, in a Christian country, after nineteen
centuries of Christianity, people can contentedly live as if they had
never learned the truths that our Saviour taught? I do not mean that
their lives would have been the same if Christianity did not exist in
the country. For Christianity gives us all of civilization that is
worth having, and civilization is actually necessary before a quiet
life is possible. But do you not think it is very ungrateful to accept
the blessings and to ignore or to forget Him Who "ascended up on high
to give gifts to men"?
There were excuses for these people, no doubt, for Hemsborough was, as
concerned religion, a very sleepy place. Yet they all went to church or
chapel at least once every Sunday—even Mrs. Lydia did so: it was a nice
quiet place for thinking over her plans. Even poor Fred, though he had
aspirations and a mind, and wrote poetry and played the flute, never
dreamed of questioning the usefulness of going to church: his mind did
not take an independent turn.
Fred, being no longer a boy, was becoming just as anxious as any one to
make money, live comfortably, and provide well for his children. The
misfortune was that this wish, instead of making him work hard and find
pleasure in it, made him discontented and anxious to find some short
cut to fortune. He found it very galling that he was not as completely
manager of the brewery as his father had been, forgetting that if such
a manager as his father had been wanted, he would not have got the
situation. Mr. Frank Hopper was very kind and pleasant, but he was
distinctly the master; and although Fred was flattered by his friendly
manner, and much pleased when he offered to be godfather to his first
boy—the eldest child was a girl—still, he felt that he was only a kind
of head clerk, or foreman, instead of managing the business himself,
and he resented this in private.
I wonder how often "lead me not into temptation" means "give me grace
to be contented"? Certainly a discontented man is a man peculiarly
open to temptation. And it came to Fred through his stepmother. I do
not know exactly how he discovered that she was using her money, her
"insignificant little sum of money," as she called it when he spoke to
her, in speculating. He warned her that she was running a risk. She
assured him that she ran no risk, and that she had really increased
her store "a little." But she never mentioned to him her brother, the
stockbroker's clerk.
Not unnaturally Fred began to think that if a woman like his stepmother
could make money in this way, he could no doubt do very much better.
There was a rule in the firm that no employé should speculate, on pain
of dismissal. But, then, no one need ever know! So Fred Rayburn set out
gaily on the road to ruin.
When he had been married for some years, a great grief befell him and
Janet. They had three children, a girl and two boys, and they all three
got the measles, and the little girl died. Little Frank and the baby,
Fred, recovered. Frank was a very loving little fellow, and long after
they hoped he would have forgotten his playfellow, he would begin to
cry at the sight of some toy or picture which reminded him of her, and
his words:
"Where is Lily? Oh, I want Lily," went to his mother's heart.
At first, Janet tried to turn his thoughts into some other channel; but
Frank still "wanted Lily," and at last Janet began to comfort him by
telling him that Lily had gone to heaven, and was very happy—every one
was happy there.
"Who takes care of her, muddie?"
"God, my dear."
"Does He love her?"
"Oh, yes; very much!"
Frank thought this over for a while, and presently remarked—
"But we love her too. Oh, I want Lily back again, muddie!"
"She cannot come," poor Janet said slowly; "but you must be very good,
and then some day you will go to heaven too, and see her again."
Hereupon Frank startled her by asking, "Who told you that, muddie? How
do you know about it?"
For a moment Janet did not answer. How did she know? Did she know it at
all, or was it only the easiest way to comfort Frank?
"Oh, muddie, you did make that out to stop me crying! Oh, where is Lily
gone?"
"I did not make it, indeed, dear. It is all in the Bible."
"What's the Bible?"
"A book, dear. I wish I knew it better, and then I could read to you
about—"
"About Lily?"
"No; it was written long, long ago. But about heaven."
"Is it true, muddie?"
"Oh yes! God wrote it; that is, He told His servants what to write in
it."
"Do read to me about heaven, muddie. Lily was good, wasn't she? I'll be
good, too."
Janet had a beautiful Bible, one of her wedding presents. It lay on a
little velvet-covered table, and it was not dusty, because Janet kept
everything very neat and nice. But it was quite as new-looking as when
she first had it, and she had no other. However, she opened it now, and
after much turning over its leaves, she read some verses from the last
two chapters of the Revelation.
But either this was above the child's comprehension, or some strange
instinct told him more than Janet could say, for he set up a terrified
cry, and declared with tears and sobs that "he did not want to go to
heaven—it was too grand and big. And oh, Lily would not like it either."
It was long before Janet could quiet her boy; and as she sat beside his
little bed that evening, and saw how disfigured his pretty little face
was, all tear-stained and red, and how every now and then a great sob
shook his slender frame, she began to wonder what on earth she could
say to quiet him when next he "wanted Lily."
Moreover, his cry that "Lily would not like it" had awakened an echo
in her aching heart. That little timid, loving girl of hers, so easily
frightened, so apt to cling to "muddie"—ah, what a poor little thing to
go all alone into a strange place, however beautiful, where she knew
no one! Janet lived to see that these thoughts were very ignorant, and
even now she had a dim feeling that she was wrong to think, thus; and
so, between a desire to comfort Frank and a terrible need of comfort
for herself, she began to turn over the pages of her neglected Bible,
and to read a little here and there.
And if ever people tell you that there is no comfort and no help to be
found in the Bible, just remember that this is generally said by people
who do not read it. Janet presently came upon the story of the little
ones brought to Christ for a blessing, taken up in His arms, welcomed
and loved. "Suffer little children to come unto Me, for of such is the
kingdom of heaven." Yes, Lily was a lovely, innocent, good child; her
mother could quite believe that "of such are the kingdom of heaven."
And Christ was there; Lily would have been "suffered" to go to Him.
It was a ray of comfort—just a ray of that "Light that lighteth every
man"—the first that had shone into Janet's heart. But the rays of that
Sun have a most wonderful power of increasing and brightening. Janet
soon read her Bible for other things besides a need of comfort. She was
not clever, but she had plenty of good sense; and before long, she was
a different woman, and her two little boys were carefully taught and
trained.
But her husband did not altogether like her "new notions;" he thought
them harmless, indeed, "if she did not go too far," but he had no
sympathy with them, and silenced her when she tried to share them with
him. Not unkindly—Fred never was unkind.
Frank was about six years old, and little Fred about four, when events
happened which broke up that little home over the brewery gate, and
scattered the family far and wide.
First, Mrs. Rayburn's brother, growing overbold from long success,
ventured all his own savings and all his sister's money in one great
venture, and lost it. The poor woman had but a few pounds left in the
world, and she took to her bed and very nearly died of the shock. Janet
was so occupied with her that she failed to observe how uneasy and
unhappy her husband seemed. Fred had indeed lost a good deal of money;
his little capital was slipping through his fingers so fast that it was
wonderful that he did not leave off his speculations, and keep what he
had left. But this seems to be the last thing a man thinks of doing, if
he has once taken to speculation; and the day came when he had to pay
away the last of the money his father had left him.
But, though this was bad, there was worse to come. I do not understand
these things well enough to tell you exactly what he did; but I know he
made a reckless effort to regain what he had lost without having any
capital to pay up if he failed. And he did fail, and found himself in
a most miserable position. Not only did he owe money that he could not
possibly pay, but, of course, the whole affair became generally known,
and that meant ruin.
He was dismissed from his post, and Messrs. Hopper and Mason refused
to employ him again even as a clerk: he just got a quarter's salary
instead of a quarter's warning, and one week in which to pack up and
turn out of the Gatehouse. And he had to go home—home! It was that no
longer—and tell Janet, who knew as little about the impending misery
as did poor little Frank and Fred. The children were playing in the
parlour when their father rushed in, haggard and wretched.
"Where's your mother, Frank?"
"In grandma's room, I think."
"Run and tell her to come here to me. Take Fred with you, and go to the
nursery, and stay there. Do you understand? Stay there."
For Frank, all unused to be spoken to thus by his good-tempered,
pleasant father, was staring at him in silence.
"Yes, father; but, oh, you do look so! What ails you, father?"
"Go, child, and send muddie here. I want her. I have no time to talk to
you."
Frank took the other little fellow by the hand, and they trotted off
together. He knocked at the door of Mrs. Rayburn's room with a soft
little hand. Janet knew the sound, and came to him.
"Muddie, father's in the parlour, and you must go to him; he wants you.
Oh, muddie, he does look so!"
"What does he look like?" Janet asked, smiling.
"Well, like the p'orligal son in my picture-book," answered Frank,
after considering the matter.
Janet laughed, closed the bedroom door gently, and went to the parlour.
She was still laughing when she entered it. Poor Janet!
It was a cruel business, a horrible task for Fred Rayburn. It was so
hard to awaken Janet's fears, so hard to make her believe that he was
in earnest. But at last it was done; and then he was surprised to see
how bravely she bore the tidings, and how full of practical help she
was.
"Fred dear, the worst of it is your chance of being arrested. I don't
think Mr. Henley has any right to threaten that, for the fault is his
as much as yours. Have you any money, dear?"
"My quarter's salary."
"And I have twenty pounds—my little savings. I meant to surprise you;
but, never mind that. Dear Fred, you must get away at once. The sooner
you do so, the sooner you can begin life again, and we must earn enough
to pay this debt. I will go at once and beg Mr. Henley to wait—not to
have you searched for."
"You misunderstood me, dear. There is no danger of my being arrested at
once. The danger is if Henley took proceedings against me, I might be
imprisoned for—fraudulent dealing."
"Well, if you are not here, he is less likely to do that, don't you
think? And, in any case, you must get away; you will suffer less so."
"How can I leave you, Janet? And yet, indeed, there is no use in my
staying. As soon as ever it is known that I am dismissed, Henley will
begin proceedings; but I won't go without you and the boys. Let us get
away to-night; we'll go to America. I may get employment there. I must
pay that money. Poor father, if he only knew! But the great thing is to
get away."
"I wonder, Fred, would Mrs. Rayburn lend you money enough to pay
Henley? Then you could stay here, where you are known, and—"
"Janet, Janet, do you not yet understand that to go where I am not
known is my only chance? But certainly if I could quiet Henley, it
would be a great thing, and I know she has money. I'll go and ask her;
she is very good-natured."
"And I will pack your things. You will go to-night, and leave me to
sell the furniture and follow you with the children."
"You forget—the greater part of the furniture belongs to the house. My
father bought a few things after his second marriage, and there is your
piano. But we'll settle all that when I have spoken to grandma. I'll
go to her now. It is partly her doing, so she may well help me," he
muttered as he left the room.
"What a good girl Janet is!" he thought. "Half the women I know would
have cried and scolded; not one word of reproach from her! Oh, I have
been a fool! And we were so happy."
It was easier to make his confession to Mrs. Rayburn than to Janet; but
Fred little knew how near he was to learning more of dear, good-natured
grandma's true character than he had learned in all these years! Her
one consolation had been, that she still had her comfortable home;
now, in a moment, she learned that she must look out for some means of
earning her bread. In her sudden anger, she sat up in her bed and began—
"You don't mean to tell me that you—"
But she was very weak, having been seriously ill, and here the
words died away on her lips, and she fell back, buried her face in
the pillow, and burst into tears. And before she could speak again
reflection had come to her aid. Fred was a young man still, and might
yet be a useful friend again. So she told him sadly how things stood
with herself, and that she regretted it more for his sake than for her
own. For she had long thought that she would have money enough to help
him to educate the darling boys, and put them into good professions.
Now, alas! that would never be, for she had lost every penny; she was
literally a beggar!
Fred, quite touched by her kindness, told her that they were all in the
same boat, and must stick together. He looked upon her just as if she
were his mother. She must come out to him with Janet.
"I couldn't think of it, Fred. You have your wife and children to care
for; I must work for my own bread. I shall write to Lord Beaucourt; he
had a great liking for my mother, and may help me to a situation. You
have mouths enough to fill without me."
And when he had left her, she said to herself, "Ay, mouths enough, and
very little to put into them! A tolerably good clerk is all you are,
my boy, and now you have not even an unblemished character. I should
have to work all the same, and maybe for them as well as for myself.
No, thank you, Mr. Fred; it is not playing the flute that will help
you now, and if my lord will get me a snug place, as he offered to do
when poor mother died, I don't want to have you on my hands. I think I
was a fool not to take the offer then. What great good has my marriage
done me? By the way, Janet has a brother somewhere, doing well, if I
remember right. But no, Fred is not likely to do well after all this;
I'll keep to my resolution."
Fred, of course, had to tell Janet that there was no hope of help from
grandma.
"And I think you are right, dear, and that I had better get away at
once. I will take just what will pay travelling expenses, and keep me
for a few days. I will write and tell you where to join me. You must
settle everything here, and come as soon as I send for you. I could not
stand the—the disgrace, Janet. Every one will know to-morrow that I am
dismissed, and Henley won't be silent."
Poor, selfish Fred! He desired nothing so much as to get away before
his disgrace was known, and poor Janet, in her unselfish love, was as
anxious about it as he could be. Fred had always held his head high,
and whatever private discontent he felt with his situation, he had
always been considered a very fortunate young man, much better off than
others of his years. To meet those who had always admired and looked
up to him, in his new character, as a dismissed man and a defaulting
speculator, he felt would drive him mad. So, having kissed his two boys
as they slept sweetly in their little beds, he bade farewell to Janet,
telling her to come to Liverpool, to the Ship Hotel, Guelph Street,
where he would write to her; he could not say where he would be, as
that would depend upon the boats he might be in time for. And then he
was gone; and poor Janet crept off to bed, cold and stunned, and almost
heartbroken.
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