Chapter VIII: "Deliver us from evil."

"THE very sight of his handwriting makes me feel uneasy," thought Goldie, as the postman placed in his hand a letter, bearing the London post-mark. He walked into his parlour, and broke open the seal, and with many an expression of annoyance, and even anger, read the contents of the letter.

"Why, this is worse than I even feared! Evil tidings indeed! That boy seems to have been born to be the torment of my life! What a world this is—full of vexations and troubles! Here am I, who have been labouring all my life for my children, doing all, sparing nothing, making every effort; and just when I hoped that I should have some comfort at last, one of them is taken away, and the other—worse! Well," continued he, violently ringing the bell, "something must be done, and at once. Aleck is prosperous and rich, that is one good thing, he will do something; I must see him directly. There is no use in showing this letter to my wife, she is fretting herself to death already."

The servant-girl hurriedly answered the bell.

"Bring my boots and great-coat," said Goldie, "and tell your mistress that I'm called away on business, and may not be back till to-night or to-morrow morning. I think I'll sleep at Aleck's," he continued, speaking to himself. "The nights are so bitterly cold at this season, and I've no mind to get an attack of rheumatism."

With a heavy heart the fruiterer took his place in the railway train that was about to start for Brighton. It was a bleak November day, and the dull prospect and the chill biting wind seemed quite in harmony with his feelings. When the Christian suffers, he can look to Heaven, and comfort himself with the thought that his portion is not here; but when the worldly man loses earthly joy, he is losing his all, his only treasure, he has nothing to hope for beyond! The only comfort to Goldie's mind in his distress was the prosperity of Aleck, his favourite son; and even in the midst of his sorrow for the two others, it was a proud feeling to the father that he was going for the first time to see him settled in a home of his own, a wealthy man, a distinguished man, one who could help to raise the whole family.

Goldie took a conveyance from the station, he had never yet been to his son's house in Brighton, and, indeed, was a stranger to the whole place, as he had rarely quitted his shop in E—. As he stopped at the door of a comfortable-looking dwelling, a carriage containing a lady drove off; he had but a glimpse of her face in a fine bonnet, whose crape flowers and shining bugles seemed expressly designed to make mourning look as lively as possible; he knew her to be the wife of his son, and not a little proud the fruiterer felt to be able to call such a fine lady his daughter.

Goldie's loud knock at the door was answered by a servant in livery. Even the painful errand upon which the father had come could not prevent his exulting in the idea of grandeur so new to him! He would have passed in at once, as into his own shop, but the footman stood in the doorway, eyeing him saucily from head to foot.

"Is your master at home?" said Goldie, trying to push forwards into the hall.

"Not at home," replied the man, half-closing the door.

"Then I'll wait till he comes in. I must see him. Where has he gone?"

"You can't see him; he sees no one, he's expecting his hairdresser."

"His hairdresser!" exclaimed Goldie. "But I am his father!" And pushing the astonished footman aside, he entered the house, and was at once guided by the sound of a well-known whistled air to the room in which Aleck was seated.

"Is that you, de la Rue? Why—how—can it be!" exclaimed the young man, rising in surprise on the sudden entrance of his father. He had not been him since the death of poor Ned, and scarcely knew in what manner to meet him.

"You did not think to see me here," said Goldie, grasping his hand; "but I have come upon business, urgent business, Aleck. Sit down, my dear boy, I will let you know all. I could not rest till I had consulted with you."

Aleck throw himself down again on his luxurious arm-chair, with an uncomfortable persuasion that something disagreeable was coming, us his father drew from the pocket of his coat a letter, which he knew to be in the handwriting of his brother.

"That will tell its own tale," said Goldie, handing it with a sigh to his son.

Frowning and biting his lip, Aleck read the letter to himself "This is bad indeed—very bad," he said, as he handed it back to his father. "What an unreasonable sum he requires—he shows very little consideration for you."

"And I have not the money!" cried Goldie, earnestly. "I really have not the money, were it to save him from the gallows. My house did not let well this year—the season is over—I have had heavy expenses—poor Ned's funeral—your mother's constant illness—everything seems to go wrong with me now! Your brother's ruined—positively ruined, if he cannot command this large sum, and I've no one to look to—but you."

"Me!" exclaimed Aleck, raising his eyebrows, and pushing back his chair a little. "It is impossible that I can help you, quite impossible; you had better understand that clearly at once; I have a wife to think of, you know."

"He is your only brother now—"

"An extravagant, unprincipled fellow! Are those who have gone on steadily through life to pay for the follies of such!"

"If you would but assist me—"

"I tell you, it's impossible!" cried Aleck, raising his voice.

"You will live in luxury," said Goldie, glancing reproachfully round at the elegant, luxurious apartment of his son, "and leave your brother to be ruined, disgraced—"

"That is his own fault, not mine," replied Aleck.

"If not for his sake," cried Goldie more earnestly, "for mine—for your mother's—your poor afflicted mother's! She is almost broken-hearted already with her loss; a blow like this would bring her to her grave."

"All this is very unpleasant," said Aleck, rising impatiently. "I tell you it's not to be done."

"You forget," said his father, his face flushing with anger, "you forget all the sacrifices made for yourself. How I scraped every pound, every sixpence together to place you at an expensive school, to give you an education without which you could never have risen as you have done; how I was in debt for years to raise the sum required to set you out in life to such advantage; how I—"

"There's the hairdresser!" cried Aleck, with a look of relief. "I'm sorry that I shall be engaged this evening. Won't you take a glass of wine before you go? Shall I order my servant to call a fly? I really am afraid of your delaying your return, for at this time of year, it is dangerous for persons of your age to be out in the cold night-air."

Goldie could not for a minute speak—he was actually choking with mingled passion and grief. Then recovering himself, he went up close to his son, and said in a low, thrilling tone, "If no other motive will touch you, think of yourself. The disgrace of your family must be shared by you; remember that you bear the same name!"

"That decides me upon doing what I have thought of before—changing it for that of my wife."

Goldie rushed from the house, as from the den of a serpent, with a determination never to enter it again. The reed on which he had leaned had pierced him to the heart, all that he had hoped for once had been attained only to make him more wretched. Vanity of vanities was written upon what he had most loved! And yet what right had the worldly man to complain! He had taught his children to break the Fourth Commandment, could he wonder that they disregarded the Fifth: he had lived all his life in rebellion and disobedience to his Heavenly Father and dare he hope to find affection in his own children!

Evils were thickening upon him—troubles unsanctified, and therefore intolerable. The ruin of Mat gave the finishing stroke to the misery of his unhappy mother. She lay on her death-bed, broken-hearted, desponding! Goldie had seen one son cut off in the flower of his days, another was dragging him down to poverty and shame, the third, his darling, the pride of his soul, had inflicted on the heart of his parent perhaps the deepest wound of all.

Sickness, bereavement, and far sharper poverty had visited the home of Viner; but to him every evil had brought forth good, every evil was certain to end in joy. In the words of the suffering apostle, he could say, "Our light affliction, which is but for a moment, worketh for us a far more exceeding and eternal weight of glory!" But oh! The bitterness of spirit of him who has lived for the world, and sought nothing beyond, when he finds at last that his idol is but dust and ashes? With regret for the past, disappointment in the present, and no hope to brighten the future—only age, and the grave, and the judgment before him—he, indeed, is tasting of the dregs of life—is reaping a harvest of woe! Poverty may rouse industry, sickness show forth patience, sorrow increase submission—death lead to glory—Sin is the one great evil to be feared. O Lord!—

"DELIVER US FROM EVIL."