CHAPTER II.

"THIS IS THE MALT THAT LAY IN THE HOUSE THAT JACK BUILT."

A WEEK had passed since Ratcliffe had been driven from his father's home, and his name had only once been mentioned between John and his elder son. This was on that first day when Tom had asked where his brother was, and had received the brief and not unwelcome reply, "He's gone, and he'll come back no more."

A week had passed, and now it was night—deep night. The house had been closed, and the miser had come up to his strong-room to count his gold. His gold was his life now; all natural tenderness and right feeling had been consumed out of his heart by this canker. For long enough the Bible, given him years ago by his wife, had remained unopened—unopened until that morning when, as he took it up to remove it to the bookshelves, it opened of its own accord, and his eye had caught the words, "The love of money is the root of all evil."

Down went the book on to the floor. Why had this silent messenger been sent thus to touch him where he felt it most? Yet he saw no warning in the solemn words; he tried not to feel the pricking of the conscience that was not yet quite dead, but had leaped up for a moment into the light of the great and awful truth as it flashed upon the man's unwilling intelligence.

"Well," said he, suddenly recovering himself, "this is the last time that I shall ever see anything in this book."

So saying, he raised the Bible once more (for he had dropped it in the first surprise that the reading of the text had occasioned him), looked at its cover, from which the silver clasp was gone, coldly estimated its money value as simply nothing; then, opening a window, he flung the volume out on to the dust-heap below.

"There," he had said, sullenly, as he closed the window, "that's the last I shall see of you, you printed lie! Catch me ever having another Bible in the house!"

But somehow, after he had left the room, and all through the day, the words had haunted him; and now again, when the shadows of night were about him, the brief sentence rang in his ears like the death knell of all faith and hope, "The love of money is the root of all evil;" and again other words that came to him like an avenging spirit out of the long ago, "How hardly shall they that have riches enter into the kingdom of God!"

But John Drinkrow would not yield to these memories. With the resolution of a stubborn nature, he strove against them. He did not think of the time when death must overtake him, swift, and silent, and unrelenting; of a future state where he must reap as he had sown; of that eternity whither we can carry nothing, but where the poor and the rich in this world's goods will be as though they were alike.

"No one can reproach me with dishonesty or drunkenness," said John, as he lighted the one meagre candle which he allowed himself, and buttoned his coat that he might not feel the damp chill of the fireless room. "I am better than most of my neighbours; I adulterate the beer less than many men would in my position, and I've never let my place get a bad name. Now that young scamp Ratcliffe is off, the house will be more respectable than ever. Tom will never ruin himself or me. He and I are of one mind in the matter of saving, and a very good mind it is."

Thus, like the Pharisee of our Lord's parable, this hard old man prided himself upon his supposed virtues, and grew yet harder in their contemplation, forgetting that it was the poor publican—broken-hearted, humble, contrite—who went down to his house justified.

Then the miser unlocked his safe and took out his bags of gold and laid them on the table, while into one less full than the rest, he poured the week's gains from a large leathern purse that he had brought up with him. And now his cold eyes began to kindle and to glitter; the unholy passion of avarice—of greed in its meanest form—flushed his wrinkled cheeks, and nerved his hands, and he fingered and counted the yellow heaps before him, whispering, "Mine! All mine!"

And upstairs, in his own room, Tom—true son of a miser—was following his father's example. Stingy as John Drinkrow was, he was obliged to pay Tom a salary for his services, and even a small share of the profits; and Tom's only pleasure consisted in escaping to his room and drawing out of his cashbox the bank-notes and sovereigns he had earned, and to which he was steadily adding.

"Now Ratcliffe is gone," said he to himself, "if anything happens to the old man, all that he leaves will be mine. I don't believe father will ever wish to see him again, but if he should seem as if he wanted him back, I will tell him what I have lately found out; and when he hears that Ratcliffe has been married on the sly, for ever so long, to a girl with no money, or next to none, and that this is what he has been doing with himself—let alone his gay life—the old gent will never forgive him, I'll be bound. And I shall mind it the less telling him all this, because of my having had a fancy for that girl myself once upon a time, and she wouldn't have anything to say to me. Ah! She waited for something better; and now she's got a treasure, and I wish her joy of him. But I owe them both a grudge for this, and I'll pay it some day."

These thoughts, and thoughts like these, were passing through Tom's mind when a loud knock came at his door. Hastily he swept his money into the box, and hid it under the bed; then he went to the door, and, drawing aside the bolt, opened it. To his surprise and horror there stood Ratcliffe, his face pale and haggard, and softened a little with what looked like penitence.

"Oh, Tom!" he said. "I managed to get in with my latch-key because I wanted a word with you—because I felt I must speak to you to-night." Here he paused and repressed the lump in his throat.

But Tom said nothing, and Ratcliffe, mastering his emotion, went on: "Did you hear what passed between father and me, Tom, the other night? I'd been drinking—more fool I!—and emptied my pockets; and then I came to him and asked him for money, and, stupid ass that I was, I said something about the lots of tin he had got put away. I shouldn't have done it, Tom, if I'd been sober, but never was any saying truer than this, 'When the wine's in, the wit's out.' Well, he rose up like a black tempest, and he told me to go. I tried to speak, but he shut me up, and at last, seeing him like this, I did go. But that's a week ago, and I am hoping he may have softened down a bit and changed his mind; and I came to-night, Tom, to ask you whether you would say a good word for me to the governor. You're a child after his own heart (if he's got one to be after), and he'd do a deal for your asking. And think, Tom, we're brothers—you and I—and you're rich, and I'm nigh upon starving, and my poor girl at home the same. Help me a little, just this once, and to-morrow say a good word for me to the old man, and tell him you think, if he will only take me back, that I'll work and be steady. Will you do this for me, Tom, old boy?" And Ratcliffe's eyes moistened in his earnest pleading, and he laid his hand upon his brother's shoulder.

Tom shook it off; not roughly, but coldly. "Look here, Ratcliffe," said he, in that quiet voice of his, which, though so low-toned, had no sweetness or softness in it, "you must know you've brought this on yourself. Your own bad habits have done it all. Now, is it fair that you should come here and beg from me what I've saved by hard work for ever so long, when you've thrown away more than I've got to bless myself with?" And Tom's voice grew yet colder and more metallic as he hardened his heart against his brother's entreaties.

Ratcliffe made a sudden exclamation, then checked himself, and Tom went on,—

"As for speaking to father, you ought to know how little good that would do you; when he makes up his mind, he never changes, and I should only get into trouble myself if I tried to persuade him to take you back. Besides—think, Ratcliffe—it wouldn't be long before he found out about that marriage of yours, just as I did, and then you'd be as badly off as you are now. No, no; you'd better keep clear of this house—and, for the matter of that, of father and me too. Here's five shillings for your present necessities, but don't you come again."

And Tom, with a mighty effort of will, took two half-crowns out of his pocket, and laid them on the table before his brother. He did not look at him while he did this, or he would have seen the sudden change in Ratcliffe's face—a change from humble, sorrowful penitence to defiant pride and anger.

The prodigal took the two silver coins, drew himself up to his full height, and, with a passionate gesture, flung them into the farthest corner of the room.

"There!" said he, in a husky voice. "We're brothers no more. I came to you for help that one brother might well give another; but I'm not quite crushed yet, and I'd sooner starve—and so would my Nan—than take from your hand the bread that would keep body and soul together after the words you've said to me to-night. Now I'm going; but mark what I say—my mood is changed, and some day you'll repent this night's work. I came here sorry I'd done wrong, and wanting to mend my ways, but you've turned me to flint!"

Tom had risen too, and as the money rolled away against the wall, and, after spinning a moment, lay flat on the floor, he listened intently, as if fearing that the noise would be heard. Then he said, "A little more, Master Ratcliffe, and you'd have had the governor up to see what's the matter. I'm sure I hope the housekeeper hasn't heard the row. Now go, if you 'are' going, and remember that you and I cannot be friends again."

Ratcliffe needed no second injunction; he fixed one look on his brother—a gaze of defiance, resentment, and menace; then he was gone, and Tom breathed freely once more. Hastily he shot home the bolt of his door, picked up the despised half-crowns and returned to his seat—not to reproach himself, but to try to calculate his gains, and to form some idea of the advantages which would come to him from his brother being disinherited.

[Illustration: RATCLIFFE, THE PRODIGAL.]

Alas! That the interests of two immortal souls should be sacrificed to the love of gold! Alas! That the priceless jewel of eternal life, and the joy of Christ's free and blessed service, should be bartered for the tarnishing glitter—the metallic ring—of perishable money! In this one home were two men deliberately choosing the evil and throwing away the good, shutting their hearts against all right influences—love and charity, a forgiving spirit, pity, and sympathy, and bowing down, as it were, with an idolatrous homage, like the Israelites of old at the foot of Mount Horeb, to the golden calf of their hoarded wealth. And this was the "malt that lay in the house that Jack built."

[Illustration]