Nearly Lost but Dearly Won Part 6

Then came a tremendous blow; then a foot was seen forcing its way over the doorsill, another moment, and the barrier to the entrance of the invaders gave way with a rattling crash.

CHAPTER SEVEN.

BITTER FRUIT.

No sooner was the door burst open, than in rushed several stout men, who proceeded to seize and handcuff the four strangers, who made but the faintest show of resistance. John Gubbins shook with abject terror, as he tried in vain to double up his fat person into a small compa.s.s in a corner. Jim Forbes stood speechless for a moment, and then darted out through the open doorway. As for Mark Rothwell, what with shame and dismay, and semi-intoxication from whisky punch, his position and appearance were anything but enviable. He recovered himself, however, in a few minutes, and turned fiercely on the intruders.

"By what right, and by whose authority," he cried, "do you dare to break into my coachman's house, and to lay violent hands on these gentlemen?"

"By this warrant, young sir," said the chief of the invading party, producing a parchment. "I'm a detective; I've been looking after these _gentlemen_ a long time; they are part of a regular gang of pickpockets and swindlers, and we've a case or two against 'em as 'll keep 'em at home, under lock and key, for a bit. I'm sorry we've been so rough, but I was afraid of losing 'em. I didn't think to find 'em in such company, and I hope, young gent, if you'll let me give you a word of advice, that you'll keep clear of such as these for the future for your own sake."

Alas! Poor Mark! Crestfallen and wretched, he slunk away home.

And what had become of Jim Forbes? n.o.body knew at "The Firs." He was missing that night and the next day. Mr Rothwell asked for him at breakfast, and was told that he had not slept in the house the night before, and was nowhere to be found. The day pa.s.sed away, but Jim did not make his appearance.

It was a dark November evening: a dim light twinkled through the cas.e.m.e.nt of Mrs Forbes' cottage: the wind was whistling and sighing mournfully, sometimes lulling for a while, and then rising and rushing through crack and crevice with a wild complaining moan. Inside that little dwelling were weeping eyes and aching hearts. Upstairs all was peace; four little children lay fast asleep in the inner chamber, twined in each other's ruddy arms, their regular breathing contrasting, in its deep peace, with the fitful sighings of the wind; yet on the long eyelashes of one of the little sleepers there stood a glistening tear, and from the parted lips there came, now and again, the words, "Brother Jim."

But ah! No blessed sleep stilled the throbbing hearts of those who cowered over the scanty fire in the kitchen below; Jim's mother and crippled sister. Was it poverty that made them sad? No. Poverty was there, but it was very neat and cleanly poverty. No, it was not poverty that wrung the bitter tears from the eyes of those heart-sick watchers; they were rich in faith; they could trust G.o.d; they could afford to wait. It wasn't _that_. Jim! Poor Jim! Poor erring Jim! How changed he had been of late; none of his old brightness; none of his old love.

It wasn't so much that he brought his mother no welcome help now; it was hard to miss it, but she could battle on without. It wasn't that crippled Sally's cheek grew paler because she was forced to do without the little comforts supplied so long by a brother's thoughtful love, though it was harder still to miss these. No, but it was that mother and daughter both saw, too plainly, that Jim was going down-hill, and that too with quickening steps. They saw that he was getting the slave of the drink, and they feared that there was worse behind; and, of course, there was: for when did ever the drink-fiend get an immortal being into his grasp without bringing a companion demon along with him?

And now, this very day, Jim was reported to them as being missing from "The Firs," and dark suspicions and terrible rumours were afloat, and John Gubbins' name and the young master's name were mixed up with them.

Mother and daughter sat there together by the dying embers, and shuddered closer to one another at each moaning of the blast.

"Oh, mother! I'm heartbroke," at last burst out from the poor girl's lips: "to think of our Jim, so kind, so good, 'ticed away by that miserable drink, and gone n.o.body knows where."

"Hush! Hush! Child, ye mustn't fret; I've faith to believe as the Lord 'll not forsake us: He'll bring our Jim back again: He'll hear a mother's prayer: He'll--"

But here a sudden sound of uneven footsteps made the poor widow start to her feet, and Sally to cry out. The next moment the door was rudely shaken, and then Jim staggered into the room, haggard, blear-eyed, muttering to himself savagely. The sight of his mother and sister seemed partially to sober him, for the spirit within him bowed instinctively before the beauty of holiness, which neither poverty nor terror could obliterate from the face of those whom he used to love so dearly. But the spell was soon broken.

"I say," he exclaimed, "what's to do here? I want my supper; I haven't scarce tasted to-day, and n.o.body cares for me no more nor a dog. I say, mother, stir yourself, and get me my supper." He flung himself into a chair, with an oath, as he almost lost his balance.

Oh! Misery! Misery! Every word was a separate stab, but Mrs Forbes restrained herself.

"Jim, dear," she said, soothingly, "we've nothing in the house for supper: we didn't expect you: we hoped you'd gone back to your master's."

"Ah! There it is! Didn't expect me! No supper! This is all I'm to get after spending all my wages on them as don't care to give me a mouthful of meat and a drop of drink when I want 'em!"

"Jim! Jim! Don't," exclaimed his poor sister, "oh! Don't! For the Lord's sake! You'll repent it bitterly by-and-by! Oh! It can't be our dear, kind Jim, as G.o.d sent to help and comfort us! We'd give you meat and drink, if we had them, but the last crumb's gone, and mother's never bitten to-day!"

"Nonsense! Don't tell _me_! None of your humbug and cant with me! If I can't get supper where I ought, I'll get it where I can! I'll not darken this door again as sure as my name's Jim Forbes!"

With a scowl, and a curse, and a slam of the door that startled the little ones from their sleep, the miserable son flung himself out of his home. The next day he enlisted; the day following he was gone altogether.

Weep! Weep! Ye holy angels! Howl with savage glee, ye mocking fiends!

See what the drink can do! And yet, O wondrous strange! There are thinking men, loving men, Christian men, who tell us we are wrong, we are mad in trying to pluck the intoxicating cup away from men and women, and to keep it wholly out of the hands of little children and upgrowing boys and girls. Mad are we? Be it so; but there's method, there's holy love, there's heavenly wisdom in our madness.

A month had pa.s.sed away, but no tidings of Jim Forbes; no letter telling of penitence or love. Oh! If he would only write: only just a word: only to say, "Mother, sister, I love you still." But no; hearts must wither, hearts must break, as the idol car of intemperance holds on its way, crushing out life temporal and eternal from thousands and tens of thousands who throw themselves madly under its wheels. But must it be so for ever?--No! It cannot, it shall not be, G.o.d helping us; for their rises up a cry to heaven against the unholy traffic in strong drink; a cry that _must_ be heard.

The snow was falling fast, but not faster nor more softly than the tears of the widowed mother and the crippled daughter, as they bowed themselves down before the cold bars, which ought to have enclosed a ma.s.s of glowing coals on that pitiless December day; but only a dull red spark or two, amid a heap of dust, just twinkled in the grate, and seemed to mock their wretchedness. Cold! Cold! Everything was cold there but faith and love. Food there was none! But on the little table lay the open Bible; and just beneath those weary, swollen _eyes_, were the words, "They shall hunger no more, neither thirst any more, neither shall the sun light on them nor any heat; for the Lamb which is in the midst of the throne shall feed them, and lead them to living fountains of waters, and G.o.d shall wipe away all tears from their eyes." But what were those voices? Were they the voices of angels? Poor, shivering, weary watchers! They might almost seem so to you. Anyhow, they were very gentle, loving voices; and now they ask admittance. Mrs Franklin and Mary entered; and, though not angels, they were come to do angels'

work, as messengers of love and mercy. Tea, and bread and b.u.t.ter, and eggs, and divers other comforts came suddenly to light from under the wide folds of the ladies' cloaks, and then the visitors sat down, and stopped the outburst of tearful thanks by bright loving words of pity and interest.

"Oh, ma'am! It is true, but I never knowed afore how true it was that G.o.d will never forsake His own. I'd well nigh given up all for lost."

"Nay, mother," said Sally; "it wasn't you, it was me; _your_ faith held out still."

"I was very, very sorry to hear of your troubles," said Mrs Franklin after a pause; "but you mustn't despair; G.o.d will bring your poor son back again."

"Oh! I believe it, ma'am, but it is hard not to doubt when one's cold and hunger-bitten; he was such a good lad to us afore he took to that miserable drink."

"Well, we must pray for him, and I daresay Mr and Mrs Rothwell will stand your friends."

"Friends! Ma'am," cried the poor woman; "oh! You don't know, ma'am; look, ma'am, at yon empty cupboard; there ought to be meat and drink there, ma'am, and earned by honest labour. It is not an hour, ma'am, since I was up at 'The Firs,' taking back some work as my poor Sally did for the young ladies (she's a beautiful sewer, is our Sally, there's none to match her in all Hopeworth), and I'd a fortnight's charing as I was owed for. I'd left the little ones with a kind neighbour, so I went up to the house and asked to see the missus: she couldn't see me, but I begged hard; and they showed me up into the drawing-room. Mrs Rothwell was lying on a 'sofy,' and there was wine on a table close by, and the young ladies was all crowding round the fire, contradicting their mother, and quarrelling with one another. 'Oh! For goodness' sake don't interrupt us,' says one of the young ladies, and their mamma bids me sit down; and there I sat for a long time, till Miss Jane had finished a fairy tale; something about a young lady as was shut up in a castle to be eaten by a giant; and how a young gentleman fell in love with her, and got a fairy to turn her into a bird, and get her out of the castle: and they all cried over the story as if their hearts would break, and when it was over they all had some wine; and Mrs Rothwell, who had been crying very much too, asked me what I wanted. So I told her as I'd come to my last penny, and I should be very thankful if she'd be so good as to pay me for my work, and for what our Sally had been doing for the young ladies. Then she fired up at once, and told me she thought it very impertinent in me coming and teasing her in that way, as she meant to pay me as soon as it was convenient; and oh! Ma'am! Then she asked me what I wanted for Sally's work; and when I told her, she said I charged too much, though I didn't ask above half as they'd ask for it in Hopeworth; and then she nearly cut my heart in two by saying (Oh, ma'am! I can't scarce bear to repeat it), that I shouldn't have come to pester her if it hadn't been for my idle vagabond of a son (them was the very words she used, ma'am), as had run away and left his place.

Oh, Mrs Franklin! You're a mother; you know how I must feel for my poor wanderer, for he's my own flesh and blood still. I dursn't speak; I couldn't stay; and I've come back penniless as I went: but the Lord has sent you to help me, and I'll never doubt Him again."

"Never do," said her visitor; "I'll find you and Sally work for the present, and try and think charitably of Mrs Rothwell; she may mean more kindly than she has spoken."

"Mean kindly! Oh! Dear Mrs Franklin! The drink has washed out all kindness: there's ruin hanging over that house, not as I wishes it to them, but it is so. The children's been brought up to think of just nothing but themselves; their eating and drinking, and dressing, and playing: there's sipping in the parlour all day long; drinking in the dining-room; swilling in the kitchen. Our poor Jim's seen his betters there living as if men, women, and children had nothing to do in this world but to drown the thoughts of the next in drink and pleasure, and he's learnt his lesson too well; but I trust the Lord 'll take the book out of his hand, and teach him the better way again."

"I'm afraid what you say is too true," remarked Mrs Franklin, sadly; "if our young people continue to be brought up in such self-indulgent habits, we may well expect to hear G.o.d crying aloud by His judgments, 'Woe to the drunkards of England,' as He once cried, 'Woe to the drunkards of Ephraim.'"

CHAPTER EIGHT.

A DOUBLE PERIL.

"I'll tell you what it is, Mark, I _must_ have a stop put to this: my patience is quite worn out. Do you think I'm made of money? Do you think I can coin money as fast as you choose to spend it? You'll ruin me with your thoughtless, selfish extravagance, and break your mother's heart and mine by your drunkenness and folly, that you will."

These words, uttered in a tone of pa.s.sionate bitterness, were spoken by Mr Rothwell to his son in the hall at "The Firs," as the young man was urging his father to grant him a considerable sum to pay some pressing debts. At the same moment Mr John Randolph came out of the drawing- room, and could not help overhearing what was being said.

Mr Rothwell turned fiercely upon him:

"What right have _you_, sir, to be intruding on my privacy?" he cried, nettled at his rebuke having been overheard by a stranger.

"I am not conscious of being guilty of any intrusion," said the other quietly.

"You _are_ intruding," cried Mark, glad to vent his exasperation at his father's reproaches on somebody, and specially glad of an opportunity of doing so on the music-master.

"You shall not need to make the complaint again then," said Mr Randolph, calmly, "my lessons to your sisters will cease from to-day;"

and with a stiff bow he closed the door behind him.

Rather more than two years had elapsed since Jim Forbes' enlistment when the scene just described took place. Mark had been sinking deeper and deeper in the mire; he was scarcely ever sober except when visiting the Franklins, on which occasions he was always on his guard, though his excited manner, and the eagerness with which he tossed down the few gla.s.ses of wine to which he, evidently with difficulty, restricted himself, made a most painful impression not only _on_ Mrs Franklin, but also on her daughter.

Mary was now nineteen, and shone with the brightness which the gentle light of holiness casts on every word and feature. She was full of innocent cheerfulness, and was the joy of all who knew her. Mark loved her as much as he could love anything that was not himself, and tried to make himself acceptable to her. Mary _hoped_ the best about him, but that hope had begun to droop for some time past. He had never yet ventured to declare his affection to her; somehow or other he could not.

A little spark of n.o.bleness still remained in him unquenched by the drink, and it lighted him to see that to bind Mary to himself for life would be to tie her to a living firebrand that would scorch and shrivel up beauty, health and peace. He dared not speak: before her unsullied loveliness his drink-envenomed lips were closed: he could rattle on in wild exuberance of spirits, but he could not yet venture to ask her to be his. And she? She pitied him deeply, and her heart's affections hovered over him; would they settle there? If so, lost! Lost! All peace would be lost: how great her peril!

Another visit from Mr Tankardew: the old man had been a frequent caller, and was ever welcome. That he cherished a fatherly love for Mary was evident; indeed his heart seemed divided between herself and the young musician, Mr John Randolph, who, though he had ceased to give lessons at "The Firs," was most scrupulously punctual in his attendance at "The Shrubbery."