CHAPTER X.

A SON THAT CAUSETH SHAME.

REUBEN felt like a new creature when he started for Ashworth, and, leaving the smoky town behind, saw again the green fields and the clear blue sky. The trees were still bare, but here and there were tokens of spring's approach, the yellow catkins drooping from the willows, a touch of vivid green amidst the brown twigs, a shy primrose or two-peeping from beneath a hedge.

But if spring did not yet possess the outer world, it was full springtide in the heart of Reuben Roy. Not till now that it was lifted from his spirit had he fully realized what a crushing burden was the sense of unmerited disgrace. It was delightful to feel that he was free from it at last, that his character was cleared from every imputation, and that no one now could point to him in scorn as one who should be in prison if he had his deserts.

And as he rejoiced with a glad sense of freedom and renewed life, it struck Reuben what a dreadful thing, since the mere shadow of such evil was so hard to bear, must the sense of actual guilt be. It was bad enough to know that others regarded you as a wrong-doer, but how much sorer shame must he feel who knew himself to be a criminal, and who could never again look his fellow-man frankly in the face, feeling himself worthy of respect.

"There is therefore no condemnation to them that are in Christ Jesus."

The words flashed suddenly upon Reuben's mind with a new vivid revelation of their truth. He had known before that all men are sinners, and that Jesus Christ is the Saviour from sin, but now his recent experience gave him a keen sense of the misery that sin works.

He saw sin as the most appalling fact in human life, the universal shadow clouding the beauty and joy of earth; saw how unforgiven sin inevitably involves a sense of guilt and separation from God, and how the gospel, with its glad proclamation of no condemnation through faith in the Divine Atonement, absolves the conscience of the sinner and sets his spirit free.

And Reuben knew that even the best of men can be kept from sin only by the grace of God. If his long trial of unjust suspicion and undeserved scorn had bred any self-righteousness in the heart of Reuben Roy, it was all swept away now, and he knew himself a weak, sinful lad, needing every moment that Divine grace which God has promised to all who seek it, and in the strength of which alone can temptations be successfully resisted.

Reuben's mother was dismayed to see her son looking so white and thin. And she questioned him so closely as to the cause of his altered looks that he soon had to tell her the whole history of the trial he had undergone. She listened with deep interest, and an emotion she could not conceal.

"I was sure there was something wrong," she said; "I could tell it by your letters, lad. But you should have told your mother. I would rather have known all about it, even if it should worry me. It wouldn't have given me the worst trouble. You'd have had no word of reproach from me, Reuben. I know my lad, and if all the folks in Birmingham had called you a thief, it would have made no difference to me; I should know that you were not."

Reuben was very pleased to hear his mother say that.

"I am glad you can trust me, mother," he said.

"I should hope I could trust my own son," she said proudly; "you've never deceived me and your father yet, and I know you never will. Ah, how I pity those parents whose children deceive them, and who find out when it is too late what their real character is."

"Mother," said Reuben quickly, "have you heard anything of Owen Grant? Is he at home now?"

"Yes, alas! I have heard of Owen," said Mrs. Roy gravely, "but it's no good news, Reuben."

"What is wrong?" he asked. "I know that Owen has left the business he was in."

"He was dismissed for a shameful reason, Reuben. It was discovered that he had been stealing his employer's money."

"Mother!" exclaimed Reuben. Then he added quickly, "Perhaps there is some mistake. He may have been falsely accused, as I was."

"No, it is not so, unhappily," said Mrs. Roy. "His crime was brought home to him in such a way that he could not deny it. They say he managed it very cleverly—he was always so sharp, poor Owen! He kept the accounts, I believe, and for weeks he managed to take considerable sums of money, and yet, according to the books, all seemed right. But it was found out at last, of course. It seems that he had fallen into bad company, and he wanted the money for gambling debts and the like."

"Ah," said Reuben, "I was afraid from what I saw of him that he was going wrong, but I never dreamed of anything so bad as this. Oh, his poor old parents, how will they bear it? It's enough to break their hearts."

"Their hearts are just broken, I believe. The poor old man looks as if he'd never lift up his head again. They say that when he'd read the letter that brought the ill news, he opened the old family Bible and took a pen and scored out Owen's name and all he had written about him."

"Did he really? Poor old man! He was always so proud of Owen."

"To tell the truth they were both almost foolish about him. It was just as if they thought he could not do wrong, like everybody else's child."

"Did Owen write himself?" asked Reuben.

"No. It would have been better if he had," said Mrs. Roy. "His employer wrote. He has behaved very kindly. He had such a respect for Owen's parents that he would not prosecute him. He advised Owen to come home, but he has not done so, and they do not know where he is, which is an added grief to his mother, though his father does not seem to care. Poor old David has always been proud of his good name, and he feels the disgrace sorely. He is determined to pay back every penny which Owen took, and is going to sell his house and land in order to do so."

"Oh, what a pity! That dear old house, where he has lived all his life! Ah, mother, that is real trouble. Mine was nothing compared with it. How can Owen bear to think of the sorrow he has brought upon his father and mother?"

The news saddened Reuben greatly, and, despite the brightness of his home-coming, and the joyous welcome he had from every one, he could not soon shake off its sombre influence. It was another instance of the misery that sin works. Fair, peaceful, Ashworth had seemed to Reuben, when he thought of it amid the din and gloom of Birmingham, far removed from the evils of the city. But here, too, were homes darkened by sin, and innocent sufferers sharing the punishment of the guilty. The fact that the bitter consequences of sin are rarely confined to the sinner seemed to Reuben a fresh reason why every true man should gird himself for a lifelong resistance to temptation.

The sale of David Grant's house and land took place in the following week. He had hurried it on, impatient apparently to get it over. The picturesque old cottage, the oaken furniture, the rare china, the fine linen, all came to the hammer. He would let his wife retain only the barest necessaries to furnish the tiny one-roomed cottage which was now to shelter their grey heads.

"What does it matter about us?" he asked. "Let us but pay the money, let us clear our name of the disgrace 'he' has brought on it, and then the sooner the grave closes over us the better."

But his wife was of another mind. She was not ready to die until she had seen her child again. His sin, deeply as she grieved for it, did not make him less her son. Sometimes it seemed to her that she loved Owen more now than before he went astray.

Most of the neighbours came to the sale at David Grant's. It was their way of showing sympathy with the poor old people, upon whom such a heavy burden of shame and grief had fallen. Every one hoped that the sale would go off well and realize a good sum. It was a surprise to them that David Grant himself was present, seated near the auctioneer. The old man looked sadly bent and aged. He sat leaning forward, his hands clasped upon his stout walking-stick, and his eyes upon the ground. He gave neither word nor glance to any one. Nor did he betray any sign of emotion, as one after another his household goods and the relics of his ancestry, which he had prized so much, were put up for sale.

When all was over and the people were dispersing, his attitude remained unchanged. Few of the neighbours had the courage to go and shake him by the hand. There was that in the old man's heartbroken, hopeless air which inspired awe. Those who did venture to address him received no response to their words, only a vacant, scarce-conscious gaze.

At last the auctioneer, touched by the old man's helpless, dazed condition, offered to lock up the house and take him round to the cottage now his home. But David would not have it so.

"Nay, nay," he said; "I'm not ready yet. I'll lock the door by-and-by. But first I must bide here a while by myself. I shall never cross the threshold of my old house again."

So they left him. But as the evening wore on, his wife, who had not had the heart to show her face to the neighbours that day, but had busied herself with trying to make the little cottage look home-like, grew anxious, and went in search of him.

The sun had set, and it was twilight as she passed up the well-worn garden path. She could see the form of her husband seated beneath the porch about which the roses bloomed so plenteously in the summer. She went up to him and laid her hand upon his arm.

"Come, David," she said, striving to speak cheerfully; "come away now. It's of no use to sit in the gloom and fret. Come away, and let us pray God to have mercy on our poor lost lad."

But another voice had called David Grant away, and he would never respond to words of hers again. The desire of his heart was not disappointed. He had breathed his last in the old home of his family.

When the funeral was over and David Grant had been laid to rest with others of his name in the old churchyard at Ashworth, the widow sent for Reuben Roy. He obeyed the summons promptly, wondering what she could want with him. He found her quite calm; indeed, the way she was bearing up under her heavy sorrows was a marvel to every one. But the face she raised as Reuben entered the cottage seemed to him only the more mournful because it showed no trace of tears.

"Sit down, Reuben," she said gently; "I want to have a few words with you."

Reuben sat down.

She did not speak for some moments, and he had time to observe that on the table lay several things which he recognised as belonging to Owen. Amongst them was the handsome Bible which Owen had received as a prize in the Ashworth Sunday-school. How vividly the sight of it recalled to Reuben's mind the day when Owen had received it, and Mr. Howe's parting words to the scholars whom he loved! Poor Owen! If only he had heeded those words! As he thought of Owen's cleverness and the high opinion Mr. Howe and his teacher had formed of him, and the proud hopes for his future cherished by his fond parents, Reuben felt a choking sensation, and it was only by a strong effort that he could keep the tears from rising in his eyes.

"You are looking at that Bible," said Mrs. Grant, in low, quavering tones; "they have sent it to me with other things that Owen left behind at the place of business. Ah, my poor lad! If he had but made that Book his guide! And we were proud to think how well he knew it! But it was only head knowledge, and that will not save any one. There was our mistake. Ah, poor lad! It were better he had not been so clever."

"He'll come to himself some day, Mrs. Grant," said Reuben. "I can't help thinking he'll come to himself some day, like the Prodigal Son, and turn his face homeward."

"God grant he may," she said fervently. "Reuben, I've sent for you because you and Owen were boys together, and I believe you'd have been a good friend to him if he had been willing. God only knows where my boy is now. Sometimes I think he has gone a long way off; sometimes I fancy he may be still in Birmingham. I've had thoughts of going in search of him, for I've little heart to live on at Ashworth by myself now everything is changed. But as like as not I should miss him if I did that, so I think I had better bide here till he comes, as I pray God he may."

"I am sure that will be best," said Reuben earnestly. "You must not go away."

"Oh, as for that, all places are alike to me now. But, Reuben, I want you to promise me that if you come across my lad in town, as maybe you will, you will speak kindly to him, and tell him that his mother is here, waiting for him and longing for him to come. Send him home to me if you can, Reuben Roy."

"Ay, that I will," said Reuben; and having given this promise, he took his leave of her.

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