Chapter II: Its Results (3)

"That's what I intend him to do as soon as he is fit, Roland," answered his wife in the quiet, firm tone with which she always addressed her husband; usually he outwardly submitted to the controlling power that her voice and eye exerted upon him; but this night he was in no mood to be controlled or reasoned with.

"Hold your tongue, you saucy jade! What right have you to be bringing up my boy to know more than his father, and teaching him your own fine airs and graces. I'll have no more of it. Here, boy, fetch me a pint of ale!"

"Roland," said his wife, "Allan shall not go into that place of cursing and drunkenness; I'll go myself rather."

"Oh," said the man, inwardly quailing before her flashing eyes, "is that it, my high and mighty dame? either you or Allan shall go, then."

Seizing a jug, in a moment his wife had disappeared, returning shortly with her face crimson, and the foaming vessel in her hand.

"Well, madam, you've had your way, now I'll have mine," said her husband, and filling a glass, he called his son downstairs. "Here, Allan," he said, "drain that, or I'll thrash you soundly."

"Father, you forget, I belong to the Band of Hope," said the boy appealingly.

"Drink it, I say," and the infuriated man seized the child's arm.

"Roland, will you blight your boy's life as you have your own?" interposed the mother. Down came the cruel hand on wife and child, and, while a volley of oaths rained from the man's lips, Allan lifted the glass and drained the contents.

"Now, go to bed, and remember that when your father speaks you are to obey. I'll make a man of you yet, you young milksop!"

Sobbing bitterly, Allan crept to his bed, and his anguish found vent in the pitiful question: "What else can I be but a drunkard when my father makes me drink?"

What, indeed, could be the future of the child, who from that time was compelled to fetch, and then partake of his brutal father's cup? What marvel that with early acquired taste for strong drink, he impatiently cast aside the restraint of a tender mother, and followed with rapid footsteps his father to a premature dishonoured end!

Another scene, the closing one, and all that is needful for reproof and warning will have been drawn from the life-history of Roland West.

* * * * *

"He's worse to-day, mum," said the nurse of a workhouse infirmary to a woman closely veiled, who was bending over a bed upon which lay stretched the form of an old man. What a face for any woman to gaze upon, and know that once it had been the joy of her life to mark the light of intellect and the tenderness of devotion sparkling and kindling in the eyes that now only turned in their sunken sockets with dim, vague unrest from side to side.

"Do you know me, Roland?" asked the visitor; but no reply was made, nor sign of any kind given.

"Bless you, no, mum; he doesn't know me as allus feeds him, and hasn't for months. He jest lays there and rolls his eyes about, and cries sometimes like a babby," said the nurse who stood by. "You see, mum," she continued, "it's more often like this with them as drinks, when they can't get at their drops, they jest get lower and lower, and you can't do nothing for them. My old man went off like this one, and he'd been a frightful drinker."

"How do you know when he's worse?" asked Mrs. West, for it was she.

"He won't swaller his food, mum, and you can't get no heat into him; jest feel his hands." Mrs. West took the icy hand into her own, and started at its chill dampness.

"This is no ordinary coldness," she said, with a nurse's quick perception; for many years had passed since, obeying her husband's mandate, she had found occupation for herself, and food for her children, at the bedside of the sick and dying.

"He is dying," she said, touching the clammy forehead; "Oh, Roland, say one word to your wife before you go." As if in answer to her appeal there flashed a gleam of intelligence from the glazing eyes, and with a tremendous effort one word broke from the blue lips with terrible distinctness, and rang through the ward. It was the word "Forgive." Then the eyes grew fixed, and the face slowly settled down into the stillness of death. He who was once the pride of a fond father, and the joy of a doting mother, had made his mark and gone from a workhouse bed to answer before his Creator and Judge for the deeds done in the body.

HOW A HUSBAND WAS LOST AND FOUND.[B]

"WELL, my girl, this is a spanking place to call our own," said Richard Watson, as he surveyed with pride the two tiny rooms which formed the new home to which he had just brought the woman of his choice. His mother had left them together, after putting the last remaining touches to the place; and they had completed their short tour of investigation, discovering, at each step of their slow progress, some new trace of the thoughtful care that had been bestowed upon the arrangement of the goods and chattels with which the two young people had ventured to set up housekeeping.

Richard was a mason by trade, and although his wages were not high, they had enabled him to save something towards a rainy day, and to furnish the aforesaid rooms.

Jane, his wife, had been a domestic servant in a clergyman's family for many years, and had left, with mutual regrets, when Richard would no longer wait for the fulfilment of her promise to him. There was only one fault that her mistress ever had occasion to find with Jane; and, before her maid left, she very faithfully pointed it out; showing her that continued yielding to her failure would be likely to prove disastrous to her happiness as a wife. Jane listened attentively, and promised to remember the warning, and guard against what she knew to be her greatest besetment. And she fully intended to keep her promise. Richard had been so patient and good, and was so fond of her, that it would, indeed, be a shame if she did not do all in her power to make him happy. So strong was she in her own purpose, that she forgot that the habit which had grown with her years would be too powerful for merely a good resolution to overcome.

But that evening, as they lingered over their meal, there was no suspicion of future trouble. The atmosphere was one of love and calm enjoyment. Would that upon every married life there always rested the warm sunshine of that mutual love and trust with which most young people commence their journey together. Too often the love grows cold, faith in each other is lost, and the only change that comes to many from the sore misery of living divided lives is the darkness of death, and an unknown, unprepared for, eternity.

"O, Richard, I never thought you'd have had everything so nice and ready for me. I quite expected plenty of work for a few days," said Jane.

"'Twasn't likely, my dear, as I'd have brought you to that at first, I'd sooner have paid a woman; but mother, she'd have been quite hurt if I hadn't have let her set to work; and I'm sure not even you would have made the place look prettier and brighter," replied Richard.

"No, you're right, Richard. Dear old soul! It's very likely that I shouldn't have fixed the rooms half so nicely; but I shall do my very best to keep them just as they are for many a day. Missis always said I was careless about my work; but it seems to me as if doing for one's own home must be a very different thing to slaving for any one else."

"I've no fear of you, my dear, none at all," replied Richard; "but I don't want you to be slaving and toiling away all your time. You'll get plenty of that by and bye, like my poor mother."

"I can do all my own work, and perhaps lend her a helping hand, for she'll be sure to miss you; and 'tisn't fair that I should take her son, and not make her some kind of a return."

"Bless you, my girl! I'd thought of that before, but didn't like to say anything to you about it, because some women might have been jealous if their husbands had thought anything about their old mothers, who nursed 'em and brought 'em up. I'm real glad you're not that sort."

"I should think it downright mean to be jealous of my own mother-in-law, so you never need fear for me, my dear," returned Jane.

Thus they chatted on through the evening, the first of many such pleasant times; and for weeks Richard never returned from his daily toil without being gladdened by the sight of a figure in clean print dress standing in the doorway to greet him.

But one evening, although Jane met her husband as usual, there was something about her which puzzled Richard.

"What's the matter with you, missis?" he inquired at length, examining her critically, as she took her seat opposite him at the table and began to pour out his tea.

Jane flushed and hesitated, and finally said: "What eyes you men have! Can't you see?"

"I declare you've never changed your morning gown, and it wasn't extra clean to start with; so said I to myself this morning: 'I suppose Jane's going to have a cleaning day; but there's one comfort, she'll be as neat and clean when I get back as she was the first day she stepped foot in the house.'"

"That's just how it is, Richard. I've had a good hard day's work; and I was so tired, I thought for once it didn't matter about changing my dress, as my hands and face were clean."

"Humph," said Richard. He was evidently not quite of his wife's opinion; and, all that evening, whenever he happened to look across at Jane, he experienced a disagreeable sensation at the unaccustomed sight of a dirty dress, and hair that was anything but smooth.

Richard was certainly very particular; and the next morning, on returning from closing the street door behind him, after listening to his last charge to meet him that evening in her usual spotless attire, Jane uttered the ejaculation: "Fussy!"

At that juncture, her landlady, Mrs. Jones, stepped in, asking for the loan of some kitchen utensil, and Jane, with little work on hand, fell into gossip.

"Yes," she said, in answer to her neighbour's comments on the appearance of the room, "it does look nice. I spent the best part of yesterday over it. My good man is very particular, and so am I, for the matter of that, and I like a clean place to sit in."

"Ah, well, wait till you've a batch of children, like me, and you won't be able to have your regular cleaning times, and get done to sit with your husband of evenings. Not that mine's ever at home, if I had the chance of sitting down a spell," said Mrs. Jones.

"My husband always stays at home, and I should fret if he took to leaving me alone," replied Jane.

"Don't you make too much fuss over him at first, my dear. He'll be spoiled, and always expect you to keep it up. Just you take my advice, Mrs. Watson, and live a little easy the next few months, while you've got the chance. Life'll be hard enough for you, depend upon it; and I'd just save my strength if I was you, for you'll need it all."

With these parting words the woman went away, leaving her suggestions and advice to work as they might in Jane's mind. It was so different to anything her husband's mother had ever said to her on the matter. "Spare no pains," she had said, "during the first year of your married life, to make home the happiest place in all the world for your husband, and you will never regret it."

Hitherto Jane had listened to her words and acted upon them, thereby securing her own and her husband's happiness. Now she sat down, somewhat listlessly, to think over what Mrs. Jones had just said.

"Who's likely to be right, I wonder, mother or Mrs. Jones? 'Tisn't likely that his own mother would think her son could be spoiled; and yet, I don't know but what I'm doing that, and I'm sure I can't keep it up always. I never have an idle moment," mused she; "what with keeping my own place as clean as a new pin, and running round to mother's. I wonder what Mrs. Jones would have said if I'd told her that he didn't like my dirty dress yesterday evening, and scarcely said a word to me, after slaving all day to please him! Men do want a lot from a woman, I must say!"

But just at that point Jane started to her feet, and resolutely put away the new thought which had come upon her quite unawares. But Jane's habit had asserted itself again, and, little by little, she yielded to it; until one day Richard let himself into his home with the latch-key, and, walking into the little kitchen, found an untidy place, and a dirty wife stooping before a fireless grate.

"Come, come, missis, do you know the time?" he said.

"How should I, when the clock's stopped?"

"Why didn't you wind it then, my dear? But don't flurry yourself," he added kindly; "I'll get cleaned, and then maybe tea'll be ready." And passing into the outer kitchen, Richard began to wash away the traces of his day's work. Half ashamed of herself, Jane bustled about, and soon had tea waiting. When Richard came in he glanced at his slatternly-looking wife, and said: "I don't mind waiting while you're making yourself tidy, Jane."

"It doesn't matter, Richard. We're late to-night, and the evening will be gone directly."

"Well, Jane, I don't like my wife to sit down in such a dirty state as you're in. I don't see the need of it, when I can be clean enough."

"Oh, no! I dare say not; you men think we women folk can do the dirtiest work and never soil our fingers and be always ready to dance attendance on you whenever you choose to come home," said Jane, using her perverse woman's tongue as she had never before ventured to do in her husband's presence.

Richard opened his lips to utter a sharp retort, but, being a man of peace, thought better of it; and, rising from his seat, took down his hat from its peg, remarking that there was one woman at least who he knew would be very glad to dance attendance upon him, and as he thought he had rather neglected her of late, he would go and spend the evening with her. The moment he had gone, Jane rushed into the street, calling: "Come back, Richard, do come back!" but Richard had gone too far to hear, or did not choose to heed her cry.

"He's never left me before," she cried, as she returned to her desolate room; and conscience, with many a sting, told her that it was all her own doing.

Richard rapidly made his way to his mother's cottage; but when he reached it, all was darkness, and there was no answer to his repeated knocks. "Out nursing again, I suppose," he muttered, and not knowing whither to turn his steps for the evening, for he was determined not to return home till late, he stood hesitating.

"Well, Dick, my boy, what brings you away from your home and your wife to-night? It's a strange thing to clap eyes on you these days," said a voice at his side; and turning, he saw a man with whom he had formerly worked.

"You're right; I don't often turn out of nights; but I wanted to see my mother, and I find she's out."

"The very ticket! your wife won't be expecting you back just yet; and we want a sociable, sensible fellow like you at our workmen's club. You've promised me many a time to come and see us; now's your chance!" said the man, clapping him on the shoulder.

"I don't care if I do look in," said Richard after a moment's deliberation; "but I mustn't be late."

"Come along, then," answered the man, well pleased with the chance of introducing a manly fellow like Richard to his companions in the neighbouring tavern, where the meetings of the club were nightly held. Suffice it to say, that late that evening Richard was helped to the door of his home by some of its members, with the understanding that he was to be enrolled among their number on the following evening. It would take too long to picture Jane's distress when she met him after her long waiting and remorse. Her husband in such a condition, and none to blame but herself! She did not sleep that night, and in those dark hours she determined that the past should be retrieved. She watched him anxiously the next morning, but he never spoke, except to answer her questions in monosyllables. Long before his time for returning from work had arrived, the kitchen was spotlessly clean, the kettle singing on the shining grate, and Jane herself arrayed in a clean gown and new ribbon.

"Surely, he'll want to stay at home to-night, when he sees how pleasant everything looks again," said she to herself. When he came in, he took no apparent heed of his surroundings, but drank his tea in moody silence. When he had finished, he rose and took his hat, but Jane started up, crying:

"Oh, Richard, pray don't leave me again to-night! See how nice everything is, and I promise you it shall always be so."

"Don't take on so, lass," he said, touched by the sight of her tears; "I won't be long away, but I've made a promise, and must stick to it," and with that Jane had to be content. But though she watched until she grew weary he came not to cheer her loneliness. She had carelessly permitted him to leave her side, and now other influences were around him, and she must reap the consequences of her folly. From that time Jane's evenings were spent in solitude and tears. In vain she sought to keep her husband under the safe shelter of his own roof. When he would have yielded to her entreaties, his companions came and carried him away in triumph. Eventually, Jane grew resentful and careless, and when her first little one was born she had settled down to habitual neglect of her home and her own person. The responsibility of motherhood roused her to fresh efforts, which, if she had persevered in them, might have proved successful, but she soon relapsed into her slatternly ways, and was content to spend her days listlessly nursing her baby, and musing upon the wretchedness of her lot. At first Richard had taken considerable pride in the tiny atom of humanity which had found its way into the home; but baby came in for her share of neglect, and after a while her father took little notice of her.

"Poor little baby! your father doesn't care for you or me! He loves the drink and his public-house mates a deal better than the pair of us," sighed Jane many a time. Well, Jane, who sent him to the public-house to find friends and amusements, in the first place? You have no one to thank but yourself you know, or you might know, if you would care to think. But Jane seldom did think, and the gulf in the cottage home between husband and wife grew wider and deeper as the months and years rolled away. Children were born to their lot of misery and neglect, and Jane had hard work to fill their hungry mouths and cover their nakedness. Pitifully small grew the weekly sum which Richard brought home to meet the growing need of those who belonged to him. How else could it be when so large a portion of his hard-earned money went to support the wife and children of the thriving publican whose house Richard patronised every evening of the week?

"I don't know how you expect me to get bread and pay rent with that pittance," said Jane one Saturday evening as he threw a few shillings into her lap.

"If it isn't enough, why don't you go out, then, and earn for yourself, like many a better woman than you is doing?" he growled.

How low Richard had sunk! But he had only gone down one step at a time.

"And who'd look after your children, I'd like to know, while their mother's away slaving?" retorted his wife.

"Precious little looking after such dirty brats want. Something to eat once or twice a day, and mud to make pies of, and they're enough like their dirty mother to be satisfied," said Richard, scowling in disgust at his miserable-looking wife, who replied:

"I'm a good match for you, whatever you may say, although I should be sorry to have your red nose and bleared eyes." Richard muttered an oath, and his wife disappeared, having gone as far as she deemed prudent.

"I've a good mind to go out cleaning after all. It's a new idea. I can't sit in the house, and fold my arms in idleness while the children want bread," said Jane to herself that evening. "It's true enough that the children don't want much looking after. I dare say Mrs. Jones would take baby and give the others their food for a few pence, if I could get work."

"I declare I'll do it!" she presently decided.

There was little difficulty in getting work, and for her children's sake Jane worked as she had never done before. With the continual strain on body and mind she grew prematurely old and worn; but there was no help for it. She must work now until all strength failed, for Richard's money ceased altogether, and the children were wholly dependent upon her exertions.

One day she went to a new place to which she had been recommended by one of her constant employers. Whilst she was cleaning a window in the room where the mistress of the house was seated at work, the lady commenced a conversation. Usually reticent about her own affairs, Mrs. Martyn's gentleness touched Jane's desolate spirit, and the story of her wretchedness was soon told.

"Were you happy when you were first married?" Mrs. Martyn inquired, and was startled by the vehement answer:

"Oh, yes, ma'am, as happy as the day was long! My husband was so good, and always spent his evenings at home. Ah, we were happy!"

"What made the difference, my poor woman?" was the next question, and Jane hung her head. She had long ceased to blame herself for her share in the wrong which had blighted her life. It all came back to her now; conscience spoke, and would not be silenced, and told her that but for her wrong-doing, hers might still have been a happy home.

"It was my fault, ma'am," she faltered. "I was careless and neglectful of his comforts, and spoke sharply to him for no earthly reason, and he's that changed, I don't know him, and he gets worse. Look here, ma'am," and opening her dress she revealed a bruise, inflicted by a cruel hand, "that's the first time he's ever given me a real blow; but he'll not stop at that."

"Poor thing," said Mrs. Martyn, shuddering at the revelation of a sister's woe.

"Couldn't you try and win him back?"

"I tried years ago, and it was no use, and now he isn't worth it, ma'am," answered Jane.

"But suppose he could be drawn from his evil companions, and strong drink! Don't you think it would be worth while to have an affectionate father for your children, and a tender husband for yourself, Mrs. Watson?"

"Yes, ma'am, if it could be done; but I don't believe it could," replied Jane, despondingly.

"Will you promise me to make one more effort if I help you, and ask Mr. Martyn to look after your husband? He wouldn't be the first man whom my husband has helped out of the mire."

A flash of hope lit up Jane's face, and she said: "You're very kind to take any interest in a stranger, ma'am, I'm sure, and if it will please you, I'll try once more."

"That's right; now go on with your work as quickly as possible, and I'll do my best to arrange some plan for you."

Jane's fingers fled over her work, as she looked into a possible future of brightness for herself and her children. "Hoping against hope," she called it, and yet she continued to hope.

At four o'clock that afternoon, Mrs. Martyn came to her and bade her lay aside her work, and prepare to go home.

"Never mind finishing, Mrs. Watson; the servant can manage very well now, and it is of the utmost importance that you should be home early to carry out my plan," said the lady. "Your husband comes home, you tell me, soon after six for his tea. Now you must have your kitchen as neat and clean as you can get it in the time. The fire must be bright, and the tea laid, and everything as much like it used to be as possible. In this parcel you will find a little good tea, and a chop for your husband, also a few other things which you may find useful. You may take the old carpeting you shook to-day; it will do to lay down before your fire-place. But, above all, you must be perfectly clean and fresh yourself, your best dress on, and a bright ribbon, if you have it, and your children to match. Don't forget anything, and Mr. Martyn will look in during the evening and see if he cannot persuade your husband to come with him to the Gospel Temperance Room and sign the pledge. Remember, I shall be asking God to bless your effort, and I believe He will."

"Oh, ma'am," cried Jane, with streaming eyes, "how can I ever thank you for your goodness?"

"Don't wait to try, but run off, or you will not have time to prepare for your husband's return."

With hurried footsteps Jane sped home. Arrived there, she begged Mrs. Jones to keep her baby until she was ready for her, while the other little ones were dismissed into the back yard. It was years since the grate had received such a polishing, or the floor such a scrubbing. When it was finished, Jane surveyed the work of her hands with satisfaction. "Now for myself," she said. Opening the bag Mrs. Martyn had given her, she discovered a white apron, two or three clean pinafores for the children, besides the things Mrs. Martyn had specified.

"I'll put on one of those print dresses I used to wear. It's faded and old-fashioned now; but it's clean, and that's more than the rags I've got are, and maybe Richard'll think I look something like I did years ago," said Jane; and, although there were lines of care on her forehead, and hollows in her cheeks, there was such an unwonted sparkle in her eyes as she tried the effect, that she scarcely recognised herself as the same forlorn-looking creature who had left the house that morning.

"Come, children, I want you." Three ragged, unkempt little ones came running in.

"Oh, mother, what a nice fire!" "Oh, mother, what a lovely cake!" and "Oh, mother, how grand you look, and what a clean floor you've made!" were the exclamations that burst from the astonished trio, as they entered the room.

"Yes, it's a clean floor, and you must try to keep it so; and if you're good you'll get some cake when father comes home. Listen, children! perhaps if you're very quiet and behave yourselves, father'll stay at home to-night and every night, and then I needn't go out to work any more, and leave you alone all day long."

"Oh, mother, that would be jolly!" they cried.

Jane had scarcely imagined what a little attention would do for her neglected children, and she exulted in the thought that their father would scarcely know them. Baby's turn came last of all; and finally Jane sat down, with all preparations made, in no little trepidation, to await her husband's arrival. His heavy step was heard at last, and she rose as he entered the room, while her children clustered round her.

"Beg pardon, missis," stammered Richard, after a moment's stupified pause; "I've made a mistake somehow."

"Oh, Richard, Richard, you've made no mistake! This is your home, I am your wife, and these are your children."

"Jane," he exclaimed, "what's come to you all? who's coming, and what's this cleaning up for?"

"Richard, my dear, there's no one but you coming, and this cleaning up is all for you; and if you'll only make up your mind to stay at home always, you'll never find any worse place to come to; but a great deal better in time, I promise you faithfully," and Jane sank down in her chair, unable to stand any longer.

"Well, my girl, I will say as it's the pleasantest sight I've set eyes on for many a long day. Put the baby down, and let's look at you again. I declare you look like the Jane I brought home years ago. I thought I'd lost her for good, I did; but here she is again," and he put his hands upon her shoulders and kissed her; the first kiss that his lips had left upon hers for years, and Jane melted into floods of tears.

"Oh, Richard," she said, laying her head upon his breast, "if you'll only forgive me and love me again, I'll make up for the past by being the best wife that ever a man had!"

"Nay, my dear, you've got no call to talk like that. I've been a wretched husband, and a bad father, and it's me as needs to ask forgiveness. Don't cry, lass, now don't, it hurts me," and Jane restrained her tears as quickly as possible, and with womanly tact seated the baby on his knee, and sent the other children to crowd round him while she made the tea; so that when they took their places at the table the strangeness of the scene had well-nigh disappeared. The children partook freely of the good things which Mrs. Martyn's care had provided; but Richard and Jane found it hard work to touch anything, for the tide of recollections that swept across them and threatened at times to destroy their outward composure. After tea Jane anxiously watched her husband's movements, and in terror saw him rise from his seat.

"You're not going out, Richard?" she pleaded.

"Nay, lass, don't be afraid," he said, kindly, "I'm only going to wash, and make myself fit for the clean place and the clean wife."

Overjoyed, Jane bustled about, and quickly put the children to bed; and when Richard entered the kitchen again, she was sitting with needle in hand and a pile of ragged garments by her side.

"This looks like old times, Jane," he said.

"It's my fault that there's ever been any change, Richard," she answered, humbly; "but if you'll only help me, we'll have our happy home back again."

"I don't know what to say, Jane, to always staying at home with you. You see, there's the club, and I'm almost bound to attend the meetings sometimes, and they're held in the 'Green Dragon,' and when once a fellow's there, he can't get away in a hurry."

"Oh, Richard, let the club go. It'll never do you any good, and unless you break away altogether, it'll be the ruin of you."

Richard looked thoughtful, but said nothing.

Just then there was a knock at the door, and he started up, saying:

"That's some of my mates. I'll send them off to-night, Jane, anyhow."

"Oh, that it may be the kind gentleman who has promised to come!" thought Jane.

It proved to be Mr. Martyn, and Richard waited with the door in his hand, in doubt as to the stranger's errand.

"Are you Mr. Watson?" asked the gentleman. It was so long since Richard had heard himself addressed in such a manner, that at first it did not strike him that he was the man who bore that name.

"That's me, sir. Will you come in?"

Mr. Martyn walked into the kitchen, glanced round in pleased surprise, and took the chair that Jane proffered.

"Now, Mr. Watson, I have only heard of you this afternoon, but I believe you're just the man we want."

"Glad to help you in any way I can, sir," answered Richard, in much surprise.

"Well, we have taken a hall down the road, here, and we want to fill it with working-men whose evenings are free; make it a comfortable, homely place, you know, with books, and papers, and harmless amusements, and an occasional lecture or address, with, perhaps, a little speechifying among the men, as some of them know how to talk sensibly. We only commenced last week, but we are getting on nicely, and intend, on Sunday evenings, holding a lively service, with plenty of singing. Will you join us?" asked Mr. Martyn.

"I should like to, sir; but don't talk of me being the one to help you, for I want helping myself. Perhaps you don't know; but I've been going down, down, these six years and more, and I'm fairly sick when I think what a fool I've made of myself," said Richard, with drooping head.

"Come, my friend," answered Mr. Martyn, with his hand on Richard's shoulder: "that's the first step towards becoming a wiser man. The second is, to make up your mind that the past shall be retrieved as far as that is possible, and that for your wife and children's sake you'll turn over a new leaf."

"It's easy to talk, sir, excuse me; but you don't know what that means for a poor man like me," said Richard.

"I do know something about it," replied Mr. Martyn; "it means, every day, facing, like a man, the taunts and jeers of your fellow-workmen. It means fighting with all the power you have left, and all the power that God can give you, against the terrible cravings of the appetite for strong drink which you have created for yourself. It means giving up any pleasure which you have found in the excitement of the tap-room, and the company of your so-called friends. But let me tell you what else it means. It means holding up your head, like a being created in God's image, as you go through life. It means retaining the love of your wife and children, and once more rejoicing in home comforts and fireside joys; and, above all, it means putting away from you the greatest and most effectual hindrance to your walking in the narrow way, which leads to the heavenly home and eternal life, in the presence of God."

Richard was much stirred by Mr. Martyn's words. He buried his head in his hands, and when he looked up again, there were traces of deep emotion on his face.

"Sir," he said, "I thank you from my heart; it's all true, and a deal more than you've said, but I never heard it put so plain before. I've a mind to come round to your place to-night; leastways, if my poor wife'll spare me," added Richard, with unaccustomed consideration.

"I shall be delighted, Richard, if you'll go; and thank you, a thousand times, for your kindness, sir," said Jane, her face beaming.

"You can come, too, if you like, Mrs. Watson," said Mr. Martyn.

"Me, sir! Do you mean it?"

"Why of course. You don't think we give invitations to married men without including their wives?"

"That's a new idea," said Richard, "but I don't know but what it's a good one. We shouldn't get into half so much trouble as we do if our wives went about with us more. I'm glad to have you, Jane; it's a long spell since you and me went anywhere together."

Satisfied with the success of his errand, Mr. Martyn led the way, chatting to his companions, until they entered the hall. There were many working-men already there, some lounging in chairs, or on forms, with their papers or books; others deeply interested in the game of chess, or draughts. A few were smoking, with glasses of refreshing, but certainly not intoxicating, beverage before them. Richard was wonderstruck at the novel scene, and its air of thorough homeliness.

"This'll be the place for me, Jane," he whispered.

An address had been announced for that evening, and Mr. Martyn was expected to speak. After leading Richard and his wife to seats, he mounted the platform at the end of the room, and in a friendly, familiar style, commenced to talk with the company. Most of them laid aside their occupations, well pleased to listen to one who was known to be the friend of working-men, and ever ready to help them in the difficulties and temptations of their daily life. Like dew on thirsty ground fell his wise suggestions, his timely warnings, his earnest counsels, upon the ears and hearts of the new-comers.

Responding to the invitation with which he closed, they, with two or three others, stepped forward and asked to sign the pledge, tremblingly venturing to hope that even for them the future might hold a new life.

We may take the liberty of raising the curtain which conceals it from their view, and assuring our readers that their hopes were realised, for the old brightness and love found its way back into the home in which sin and misery had reigned for years. Trusting no longer in their own strength to keep the good resolutions with which they commenced the new life, they found that He, whom they had slighted and forgotten, was not only ready to forgive their past sin and folly, but was mighty to save and keep them to the end of life's journey.

FOOTNOTE:

[B] Reprinted by permission from "The Opposite House," published by T. Woolmer, 2 Castle Street, E.C.

DOWNWARD STEPS.

"MAY the Holy Vargin an' all the blissid saints purtect us! Here's yer father comin' up the coort as dhrunk as a pig. Get along inter hidin' wid yer, childer!" So saying, Mrs. Ryan, who had been standing with her baby in the doorway of her wretched home, gossiping with the neighbours, stepped into her kitchen, and awaited the arrival of her drunken husband with trepidation. "Maybe he'll tumble upsthairs an' slape off his dhrops, bad cess to him for a nasthy silfish brute," she muttered.

But no, Donovan Ryan staggered into the kitchen, and greeted his wife with an inane smile, which in no wise deceived her, taught by many an experience, how more than likely it was that the next moment his tipsy amiability might be exchanged for the utmost fury.

"An' what will I be gettin' for yer tay? Shure ye're home airly the night," she tremblingly said.

"It's yersilf that's mighty oblagin' intoirely, an' hasn't Donovan Ryan, at yer service, ma'am,"--making a low bow which nearly lost him his unsteady balance,--"a right to kem to his own home whiniver it may plaze him, widout askin' yer lave, ye miserable, dirthy, scoldin' broth uv a wumman?"

Donovan had raised his voice from low, mocking accents to stentorian tones, which shook the little room.

Poor Mrs. Ryan shrank further and further away.

"Shure, Donovan, I meant no harm at all, at all. Be aisy now; an' I'll git ye a cup uv tay in a jiffy," she said, coaxingly.

But, according to his ideas, Donovan had received a grievous insult, and there was only one way in which the said insult could be avenged; and, being made of that stern, courageous stuff of which some few of our British workmen are composed, he proceeded to teach Mrs. Ryan, in a very practical manner, that she really must not venture to offend the perfectly justifiable ideas which he held of his own importance and dignity. In all wifely submission, as in duty bound, and according to long-established custom, she made no demur to the very ordinary proceeding which occupied Donovan's attention for the next few minutes.

"See what ye'll git for venturin' to interfare wid yer husban'," he said, as he paused for want of breath.

With a well-directed kick at the prostrate form before him, and a few genial imprecations on womankind in general and his own wife in particular, he shuffled out of the house.

"He's been up to his tricks again; a beatin' of his poor wife. It's well he ain't my husband. I'd never stand it as she does, poor creature," said one of the women who were standing about.

"I don't see how you'd prevent it; but I'm going in to see whether poor Mrs. Ryan is quite done for."

Mrs. Fisher, the last speaker, left the group and entered her neighbour's house. In response to a feeble "Come in," she opened the kitchen door, which Donovan had slammed behind him. Mrs. Ryan was sitting on the floor crying bitterly.

"I'm kilt intoirely, Mrs. Fisher, an' me poor babby's frighted to death. Shure her father's a murtherin', battherin' wretch. I'll take him afore the magisthrate, I will."

"Poor thing, let me see what I can do for you," said Mrs. Fisher.

A few womanly ministrations, a cup of tea and kindly words, and Mrs. Ryan was comforted.

"Don't be thinkin' hardly uv Donovan. He's civil spoken an' kind enough whin the dhrink's out uv him; an' I'll have to put up wid his cross worruds an' his batin's, for he's me husban' an' the father uv me childer," were her parting words to her neighbour.

It was easy to be seen that Mrs. Ryan had proved no dull scholar, but had readily learned the manly logic that might is right almost as perfectly as her husband had intended that she should.

"I'll keep your children to tea, Mrs. Ryan; and, if you like, they can go with my Jimmie and Alice to some children's affair they're holding in the school-room round the corner this evening."

"Shure ye're the bist uv neighbours an' I'm grateful to ye for riddin' me uv the worrit uv of the childer for a spell. But will ye jist sind Meg in afore she's off to the matin'? Me head's crazy, an' she must git me a dhrop uv the craythur to put a bit uv spirit inter me."

Mrs. Fisher promised, and then left the house.

After tea, little Meg, a forlorn, wiry child of eight years, came in and fetched the stimulant which her mother craved, and with which Mrs. Ryan comforted herself over her trying lot.

About eight o'clock the little ones returned. Three unkempt, ragged urchins, full of excitement about all they had witnessed.

"Oh, mother, sich pritty picthures, an' sich fine singin'. An' sich nice spoken jintlemen an' ladies."

"An' sich swate cards wid ribbon to hang 'em up."

"An' what was it all about, thin?" asked the weary mother, roused to interest.

Meg answered: "The jintlemen tould us that the dhrink was a curse an' a shame, an' he said it made folks cruel an' bad--"

"Thrue for him!" interjected the mother.

"An' he said," continued Meg, "that it wad be betther for no wan niver to touch it at all, at all, an' thin they wad niver git dhrunk. An' he wanted all the childer in the room to sign a promise niver to put it to their lips; an' heaps uv 'em wint up an' signed, an' got a card wid their names on to hang up, an' Mrs. Fisher's Jimmie an' Alice signed. An' we said we'd ax you, mammy, an' maybe you'd say, 'Yes,' an' thin we could sign nixt week."

"Yes, an', mammy, we don't want to be like daddy whin we grow up, so we may sign, mayn't we?" eagerly put in Teddie, the youngest.

"Ye might be worse nor yer poor father, an' don't ye say a worrud against him; an' as for ye signin' the pledge, ye'll do no sich thing. A dhrap uv the craythur now an' thin won't hurt a livin' soul; an' I'll not have ye sit yersilves up to be betther nor yer own father an' mother." And poor deluded Mrs. Ryan finished her third glass of hot whiskey and water, and drained the sweet dregs into the open mouth of her wan-faced baby.

A few days after, his drinking bout being over for the time being, Donovan Ryan sat over the kitchen fire watching his wife's preparations for tea.

"Shure, Patty, have ye heard that Harry Fisher has turned teetotal?" he suddenly said.

"Niver, shurely, now; what's the likes uv him, as niver gits dhrunk more nor wance in a blue moon, nade to be jhinin' a wake-minded, wathery set like the teetotalers?" exclaimed Mrs. Ryan, in a tone of irritation.

Donovan stirred uneasily.

"Sorra am I the man to say he's made a misthake, for I'd jhine that same set mesilf if I thought I'd howld out whin the dhrink craze takes me."

"I'd be ashamed to own ye for me husban' if ye made such a fool uv yersilf, Donovan," cried his wife, with energy. "It's thrue enough ye overstips the bounds uv sobriety oftener nor Harry Fisher, more shame to ye; but to make out ye're afeard uv a dhrap uv the craythur, an' give yer worrud niver to touch it, wad be to confess yersilf a poor wake gossoon widout any sperrit in him at all, at all."

Mrs. Ryan was never afraid of her husband in his sober moments, as will be readily observed. Indeed, at such times, he stood somewhat in awe of her sharp tongue. On the present occasion she continued to rail against water-drinkers and their weakmindedness, till, as if ashamed of the moral cowardice he had evinced, Donovan said:

"Whist, wumman, hould yer tongue, ye've no nade to fear I'll jhine the teetotalers, so make yer mind aisy on that point."

After which assurance Mrs. Ryan cooled down, and allowed her husband to smoke his pipe in thoughtful silence.

"What on airth are ye thinkin' uv, Mrs. Fisher, to let yer husban' sign against a dhrap uv good beer?" she said the next morning to her neighbour.

"I'm downright glad he has, and I mean to do the same. You see, the children's set the example, and were so earnest for their father to sign, that he made up his mind to do so. I wish you'd let your little ones do the same, and persuade your husband too."

"Bad cess to ye for settin' yerself up to be suparior to yer neighbours, and advasin' uv them to follow yer example. Faix, I'd rather me husban' git dhrunk ivery blissid day uv his life, an' bate me black and blue inter the bargain, nor sign the pledge." And in high dudgeon Mrs. Ryan went in, slamming her door behind her with great violence.

Weeks and months passed away, and still, in the dingy court where the Ryans and Fishers lived, the same sad scenes of sin and degradation were witnessed. One day it was rumoured that the Fishers were moving into a better neighbourhood, which rumour proved to be correct.

"An' didn't I say as her ladyship, wid her illigant slips uv childer, an' her jintleman husban' wad soon be too suparior intoirely to mix wid the likes uv us. Axin' yer kind lave, shure it's Peggy Ryan as wishes ye ivery blissin', an' has the honour uv givin' ye a partin' bit uv advace. Lave yer dacint neighbours alone, an' don't hould yer head up so high, me dear." Thus saying, Mrs. Ryan stood in front of Mrs. Fisher, who was about to follow her goods and chattels out of the court, and, to the amusement of the bystanders, spread out her scanty skirts, and made a sweeping curtesy. For some time past Mrs. Fisher had found it difficult to live peaceably among her neighbours, proving how advantageous to health and pocket her own and her husband's Temperance principles had been, they had both tried to secure adherents to the good cause. They had met with little success, and in some instances, notably that of Mrs. Ryan, had earned for themselves continual abuse and scorn.

Years passed and Donovan Ryan went down to a drunkard's grave unwept and unhonoured. With rapid footsteps his wife followed him, leaving to the children as her legacy, the craving for intoxicants which had been engendered in their infancy and ministered to with such assiduity in following years.

Is the story improbable, impossible? No, for thousands of lives cursed with the disease of drink attest its truth.

There was a ray of hope seen; there was help offered in earlier years; but some hand, perhaps that of the wife and mother, quenched the hope, and thrust aside the offered help, and forced those for whose salvation it was responsible into paths of ever-deepening darkness and rayless despair.

HOW JARVIS WAS SAVED.

"IT'S quite true, ma'am, I've been a drinker; but, indeed, I've given it up, and if you'll only give me a chance of redeeming my character, you shan't ever regret it."

The lady who was thus addressed looked up from the letter she had been reading, somewhat doubtfully, at the speaker who was a woman past her early youth, red-faced and coarse-featured, but with honest gray eyes and a set mouth that bore witness to the purpose indicated by her words.

"But you lost your last situation by giving way to drink," said Mrs. Reston.

"Yes, ma'am, I did. I had got into the habit, and nothing was kept locked up, and I couldn't help taking it when the longing came on me."

The woman was singularly frank the lady thought, and after further conversation, it was decided that she should enter Mrs. Reston's service as cook.

"You will find no temptation to drink here," said Mrs. Reston. "I keep all intoxicants under lock and key, and the housemaid does not take anything of the kind. So you see, if you really wish to reform you have a good chance, and, indeed, if I did not think you were sincere in your wish to turn over a new leaf, I would not engage you."

The woman's voice broke a little as she thanked her future mistress and left the house.

"Really, Edmund, I was so struck by her intense desire to begin a new life, and as in every other respect her character was unimpeachable, I thought here was a fine opportunity of putting the golden rule into practice," replied Mrs. Reston to her husband's remonstrances upon the rashness of her proceeding.

"What a woman you are! You know that such an argument is unanswerable, and I must retreat from the field vanquished," laughingly remonstrated the husband, and the matter dropped.

"Now, Jarvis," said Mrs. Reston, when a few mornings later she had given her orders to the new cook, "I dare say you will miss your usual stimulant for some time, and you are quite at liberty to make yourself coffee or cocoa whenever you wish, and if there is any other way in which you may be helped to fight against your besetment let me know, for I want you to look upon me as your friend."

Cook stammered something unintelligible, and, somewhat surprised at her agitation, Mrs. Reston left the kitchen.

"If this don't beat everything! Nothing but lectures and black looks have I ever had before, and now to think of a real lady speaking so kind, and saying she wanted to be my friend!" And, in her excess of astonishment and emotion, Jarvis stood and watched the milk for the pudding she was about to make boil over, and then mechanically emptied what remained into the coffee dregs which were yet standing on the breakfast table. Weeks passed away and Mr. Reston ceased to tease his wife about her latest philanthropic effort, and Mrs. Reston forgot to watch Jarvis with anxiety, and dismissed all misgivings as to the prudence of the step she had taken.

"Breakfast not ready yet! how's this?" asked Mr. Reston one morning, entering the dining-room at the usual time, to find the housemaid just commencing to lay the cloth, and his wife looking troubled.

"It can't be helped, dear. Symonds has been single-handed this morning, for Jarvis is not down yet," replied Mrs. Reston. Her husband raised his eyebrows and coughed significantly as he sat down and took up his newspaper.

"What's the matter with your paragon, my dear?" he presently said.