Chapter II: 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.