CHAPTER XII.

A RETURN.

WE must pass over five years of Reuben Roy's life—years marked by steady toil and earnest purpose. The toil was not unrewarded, nor the purpose vain. It is by no means the rule in this life that merit meets with its just recompense. There are good men and true, who toil all their lives with unwearying industry, and yet, and apparently through no fault of their own, never win more than a bare subsistence. And there are cunning, base, guileful souls who by crooked ways seem with ease to gain success.

It is not by its outward results that the worth of a man's life can be estimated. Yet the Divine justice will not fail. God will surely crown the victor who, fighting the good fight of faith, overcomes the world and its manifold temptations, though it may be that in this life his brows will wear no crown save such as his Master wore—a crown of thorns. Yet is it better to share the shame and want and suffering of the Son of man, than the triumph of those who gain the whole world, it may be at the cost of the life that is life indeed.

But with Reuben Roy it was otherwise. He had not to withstand the temptations of failure and poverty, but those that attend success. His fellow-workers wondered to see how quickly he rose from one responsible position to another. Some few grumbled and sneered, and various attempts were made to explain the marvel, none perhaps perceiving that with Reuben, as with Joseph of old, the "Lord was with him, and made all that he did to prosper." Grand secret of a blessed life, whether or not it be crowned with outward prosperity!

The years had passed happily with others besides Reuben Roy. They were the happiest years Kate Barnaby had ever known, for she had spent them all at peaceful, pretty Ashworth. To such a length had the projected visit of a week or two been spun out!

Kate was now like one of the family at Reuben's home, for his mother had not failed to make good his promise that she would love the poor friendless, ill-trained girl, who appealed so powerfully to her motherly sympathies. And Kate, rather to the astonishment of the good country-woman, had proved so eager to learn, and so quick to imitate her "ways," that it was quite a pleasure to Mrs. Roy to initiate her into the mysteries of household management. Kate developed such skill in the laundry work that Mrs. Roy felt that it would be no charity, but a positive gain to herself, if she could persuade Kate to share her home and her toil for the future.

The offered home was gladly accepted by the girl. She felt strongly drawn to the happy home life, which was so far removed from all her former experience. The children took to her, and she to them. An atmosphere of love seemed to pervade the cottage home. The fair scenes, the sweet calm of rural life, delighted her. No one would have expected that the charms of quiet, perhaps sleepy, Ashworth could have long attracted a rough factory girl, accustomed to the noisy bustling life of town. But again the unexpected happened. Kate made her decision without the least hesitation, and it was one she never regretted.

Reuben was surprised at the change he discerned in Kate at each visit he made to his home. The girl was rapidly losing her rough, coarse ways. Her movements, her look, her voice, were all more gentle than they had been. She had abandoned the frizzled, untidy mop in which she had delighted, and wore her hair brushed smoothly from her forehead, a change which Reuben thought a wonderful improvement to her appearance.

The fresh pure air was making her strong, and the hue of health glowed in her cheek. A womanly comeliness distinguished her now which she had lacked before. But her bright and kind expression was her chief attraction, and the secret of that Reuben knew. For Kate had "got religion," or, in other words, she had heard the Saviour's "Come unto Me," and was learning of the meek and lowly One.

David Grant's old house had stood empty ever since his death. It had been bought with the land, but the purchaser did not wish to live there, and he could not let it. There was talk of its being pulled down and a modern house erected on the spot. But after five years had passed, it still stood there.

It had not lost its picturesque appearance. The ivy hung in thick clusters from its walls; the untrained clematis festooned the old porch, strangling the branches of the rose tree; but the garden was a wilderness, and a nearer inspection of the house showed it to be sadly dilapidated. Nothing had been done to secure it from the ravages of time, and it was now little better than a ruin, a melancholy symbol of the desolation sin had brought upon the home life once so full of gladness.

Mrs. Grant still dwelt in the tiny cottage to which she had removed. From year to year she grew more feeble and infirm, till it seemed as if only the constant hope of her son's return kept her in life. But it was a hope long deferred. Reuben Roy never failed to visit the old woman when he came to Ashworth, but he grew to dread meeting the wistful, longing gaze which he was unable to satisfy. For he could bring her no tidings of Owen. Reuben was ever on the watch for him, but without result. Owen had taken himself out of the way of all his old associates.

A time came when Reuben was sent to London to transact some business for Mr. Akenside. He was pleased to go. It was a fresh proof of the confidence his master reposed in him, and he was glad to know that he was so trusted. Besides, he had never before been in London, and he had a young man's eager curiosity to see the great city. His business transacted, he had leisure for sight-seeing.

It was late autumn, and the nights were raw and cold. As he was crossing one of the bridges late in the evening on his return to his lodging, Reuben was struck by the forlorn appearance of a man who stood leaning over the parapet, gazing with an air of melancholy fascination at the dark river below. He looked so gaunt and haggard, his attitude was so hopeless, his clothes so shabby, whilst yet there was a certain air of respectability about him, that Reuben, having passed him, halted and looked back.

"Some poor fellow," he thought, "in the grasp of despair. Is he tempted, I wonder, to end his misery by a plunge in the river?"

As he watched him, the idea that the man harboured such an intention took possession of Reuben's mind so forcibly that he felt it impossible to pass on and leave him to his fate.

"At least I will speak to him," he said to himself, "and see if I can do anything. He shall not perish for want of a helping hand if it is in my power to aid him."

He turned back. The bridge was almost deserted at that hour. The man suddenly raised his head, and looked furtively round, then, seeing Reuben, he slunk back into his former attitude.

That instant's glance caused Reuben a shock of surprise. Could it be, or was he deceived by a fancied resemblance? He strode forward and grasped the man by the arm.

He started violently and turned upon Reuben a frightened face.

"Owen Grant!"

"Reuben Roy!"

For a few moments each gazed at the other ere another word was said. Then Owen tried to wrench himself from Reuben's grasp.

"Let me go, Reuben Roy. Leave me to myself. I have nothing to do with you now."

"But I have with you." Reuben's tone was kind, but firm. "Owen, we were friends as boys, and you must let me be your friend now. Tell me, where are you going to sleep to-night?"

"Sleep? I? Anywhere, nowhere; there, perhaps." He pointed to the dark, shining surface of the water flowing beneath the bridge.

"You must share my room to-night, and to-morrow I will take you home to your mother."

"Home! To Ashworth!" his voice rose almost to a scream. "Never! I would rather die than face the old people."

"You can never again face your father in this life, Owen, and your mother lives only in the hope of seeing you," said Reuben gravely.

The news of his father's death quieted Owen. He struggled no more, but suffered Reuben to lead him where he would.

And on the following day, after long, earnest talk, he accompanied Reuben back to Birmingham.

Reuben had many sad thoughts as he watched him, and mentally contrasted him with the gay, smart young fellow who had left Ashworth some years ago to seek his fortune in town. Owen had now a crushed, hopeless air, a furtive, shrinking gaze which told of inward shame; he looked many years older than he was, and all his buoyancy and brightness were gone.

Reuben had far more hope for him than he had for himself. It was difficult to persuade him that there was yet a chance for him in life, a chance of regaining self-respect and the esteem of others, a chance—nay, more than a chance, a blessed certainty—that a new life was possible for him through faith in Christ Jesus.

Owen said little as they sat together in the railway carriage. But once he looked across at his friend, and said half bitterly,—

"There is no need to ask the question, Reuben. You've done well for yourself during these years, I can see."

"Yes, I've got on better than I could have expected," said Reuben simply; "I've much to be thankful for. But I had my trials at first, though. Real temptations some of them were, too."

"You're still at Akenside's works?"

"Yes; I hope I may never serve another master. I'm very happy in my life at Birmingham now."

"You're not married?"

"No, but I hope soon to be. I'm just arranging a little home of my own," replied Reuben, his face breaking into a smile.

"Ah! Is it one of the Ashworth girls?"

"Not exactly; but she has lived with my mother at Ashworth for the last five years."

"Well, I hope you'll be happy," said Owen, not over cordially.

Then a heavy sigh escaped him. He was thinking of his own youth, and how superior his prospects had seemed to those of Reuben, who had appeared dull and slow as a lad, and little likely to rise in the world. His bitter experience was teaching Owen the truth, so often forgotten, that we reap as we sow.

The next day, Owen yielded to Reuben's persuasions, and went on to Ashworth. Reuben would fain have gone with him, but he could not spare the time, work having accumulated for him during his absence.

So Owen alighted alone at the little station, and passed up the village street with a dreary sense that none of the old neighbours recognised him, and that some were even regarding him with suspicion. Scarce consciously, he took the familiar path across the fields to his old home. He reached the gate. Some mischievous hand had torn it from its hinges, and it lay back against the hedge. At a glance he saw all the desolation which had come upon the spot once so fair—the grass-grown path, the tall, flaunting weeds that were choking the few flowers that yet remained, the rotten thatch, the broken windows of the old house.

And he had caused it all! He had brought this ruin upon the home which had been his father's pride! He had brought shame and sorrow upon his father's grey hairs, and hurried him to his grave! The thought smote him with a bitter pang. He leaned against the hedge, and a sob escaped him.

The next moment a hand was laid upon his arm, and a voice said in tender, broken accents,—

"My son! My own dear son come back to me again!"

It was his mother. She stood beside him, a woman prematurely aged, leaning upon a stick, but her wan, worn features radiant with joy.

"Thank God you are come!" she said again—for he could not speak—whilst she clasped him about the neck and kissed him with a mother's fervent love.

"Yes, I've come," he said brokenly at last; "but—it is too late."

"Nay, lad," she said, the tears rolling down her cheeks, "it is never too late with God. By His grace, you'll win back your good name yet. And the money's paid, every penny of it. Your father would have it so before he died. But now, come home."

Thank God, there is ever an open door for the returning sinner. Thank God for Him who has paid the debt we have incurred through sin, and through faith in whom alone, by the influence of His Spirit, our souls can be set free from the crushing load of guilt.

[Illustration: THE END.]