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From Wealth to Poverty; Or, the Tricks of the Traffic. A Story of the Drink Curse

by Austin Potter · English · Gutenberg #6907 · 457,494 chars · public domain (US)

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Title: From Wealth to Poverty; Or, the Tricks of the Traffic. A Story of the Drink Curse

Author: Austin Potter


        
Release date: November 1, 2004 [eBook #6907]
                Most recently updated: October 31, 2014

Language: English

Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/6907

Credits: Produced by Andrea Ball, Juliet Sutherland, Charles Franks and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team. This file was produced from images generously made available by the Canadian Institute for Historical Microreproductions


*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK FROM WEALTH TO POVERTY; OR, THE TRICKS OF THE TRAFFIC. A STORY OF THE DRINK CURSE ***




Produced by Andrea Ball, Juliet Sutherland, Charles Franks
and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team. This file
was produced from images generously made available by the
Canadian Institute for Historical Microreproductions.










FROM WEALTH TO POVERTY;

OR,

THE TRICKS OF THE TRAFFIC.

A Story of the Drink Curse


BY THE REV. AUSTIN POTTER.


"I will ask him for my place again; he shall tell me I am a drunkard.
Had I as many mouths as Hydra, such an answer would stop them all.
To be now a sensible man, by-and-bye a fool, and presently a beast"
--Othello, Act II.


TO THE FRIENDS OF PROHIBITION THE WORLD OVER THIS BOOK IS
RESPECTFULLY DEDICATED

BY THE AUTHOR.



PREFACE

My reasons for writing this story were principally two. The first
was my undying hatred of the rum traffic, which, in the days of
the long ago, caused me and those dear to me to endure intense
hardship and suffering; and the second was my desire to expose the
unprincipled measures which were employed by the liquor party in
order to render the Dunkin Act non-effective, and thus bring it
into disrepute.

What I have written has been taken from personal experience and
observation; and as I have resided in three counties where the Act
was in force, and have since visited several others, the data,
which served as a foundation for what follows, was not gleaned
from any particular locality.

The picture I herein present of the plottings of the liquor party,
and the cruel treachery to which they resorted in order to bring
their conspiracy to defeat the law to a successful issue, is not
overdrawn; and, let me ask, can there be any doubt but there are
in existence at the present time plots similar to the one laid
bare in this book, which have for their object the obstruction of
the Scott Act in the counties where it has been or may be carried,
thus if possible to bring it into such contempt among the
unthoughtful, who will not examine back of the effect for the
cause, as to finally secure its repeal. Of one thing we may be
certain, if an unscrupulous use of money and the resorting to
"ways that are dark" will accomplish their purpose, these
conspirators will not fail of success.

It has been my aim in this book to help educate public sentiment,
so that if the same tactics are resorted to as were in the places
where the Dunkin Act was in force, my readers will not aid the
violators of the law by joining in the senseless cry, "the Scott
Act is a failure," but that they will, to the extent of their
ability, assist those who are determined that it, like every law
which has been placed on our statute books for the protection of
the subject, must and shall be respected, and that the violators
of its enactments shall be brought to summary and condign
punishment: for except it is backed by public sentiment it, though
much superior to the Dunkin Act, will fail just as signally.

In regard to the principal characters who appear in these pages,
they are not mere creations of my imagination; for Richard and
Ruth Ashton were real personages, with whom I was well acquainted,
as were all the prominent individuals of this story.

The descriptions given of the murders and suicides, also of Morris
throwing the tumbler at his son, and of the scene when Allie
Ashton was insulted by Joe Porter and the latter was knocked down
by Frank Congdon, are all taken from events which really occurred.

For what I have written I offer no apology, but will simply state
that I have only been animated with a sincere desire to do my
little all to sweep the drink curse from our country and the
world.

A. P.




CONTENTS.

CHAPTER I.       A Departure.

CHAPTER II.      Richard and Ruth Ashton.

CHAPTER III.     On the down grade.

CHAPTER IV.      Sail for America and meet a kindly welcome.

CHAPTER V.       Good resolution--A tempter and a fall.

CHAPTER VI.      Arrival in Canada--A friendly host--Applies for a
                 situation.

CHAPTER VII.     Mr. and Mrs. Gurney.

CHAPTER VIII.    Ashton meets with friends and secures a situation.

CHAPTER IX.      Ruth's misgivings and mental agony.

CHAPTER X.       All in Canada.

CHAPTER XI.      Aunt Debie and her friends.

CHAPTER XII.     A worthy Sheriff and Judge--Dr. Dalton.

CHAPTER XIII.    Ruth Ashton's introduction to Aunt Debie--Ruth's
                 dilemma.

CHAPTER XIV.     A happy home.

CHAPTER XV.      Mr. and Mrs. Gurney's satisfaction with Ashton--
                 Mutual congratulations.

CHAPTER XVI.     Ashton revisits old scenes.

CHAPTER XVII.    Mr. Howe gives his views in regard to Canada.

CHAPTER XVIII.   The banquet, and what followed.

CHAPTER XIX.     A startling newspaper item to Mr. and Mrs. Reid.

CHAPTER XX.      A base plot, and what it led to.

CHAPTER XXI.     Utterly broken--Blasted hopes.

CHAPTER XXII.    The Dunkin Act--A discussion in which strong
                 language is used.

CHAPTER XXIII.   The conspirators formulating their scheme.

CHAPTER XXIV.    Alderman Toper's flattering opinion of the "Dodger".

CHAPTER XXV.     The friends of temperance rejoicing over their
                 victory.

CHAPTER XXVI.    In which the reader listens to a _tete-a-tete_
                 between mother and daughter.

CHAPTER XXVII.   Barton's despair, and what it led to.

CHAPTER XXVIII.  The conspirators perfecting the details of their
                 conspiracy.

CHAPTER XXIX.    Mr. Brown's opinion of the trial, and the presiding
                 magistrates.

CHAPTER XXX.     The insult to Allie Ashton--Her gallant defender.

CHAPTER XXXI.    Richard Ashton and little Mamie--Mamie's dream.

CHAPTER XXXII.   A bar-room settlement of a misunderstanding.

CHAPTER XXXIII.  The home and family of Morris--He nearly kills
                 little Harry.

CHAPTER XXXIV.   Tom Flatt's hut--A description of the scene in
                 which he murders his wife.

CHAPTER XXXV.    John, jun.'s wedding--Barton's murder--Luella
                 Sealy's suicide and Ginsling's tragical death.

CHAPTER XXXVI.   Some of the characters who helped the repeal--
                 A  hoodlum's victory.

CHAPTER XXXVII.  Death of little Mamie--A promise.

CHAPTER XXXVIII. Richard Ashton murderously attacked--His death.

CHAPTER XXXIX.   Mr. Gurney speaks his mind--Death of Dr. Dalton
                 And Aunt Debie.

CHAPTER XL.      Conclusion.




CHAPTER I.

A DEPARTURE.


"Richard, you will keep from drink, will you not, dear?" and the
speaker, in order to make her pleading irresistible, kissed the
one to whom these words were addressed again and again; and, as
with a hand upon each shoulder, she looked lovingly into his eyes,
there was an added pathos which, to a man of Richard Ashton's
sympathetic and sensitive nature, was all powerful.

"Well, Ruth, dear, God helping me, I will again be a man, and when
I am tempted I will think of my dear little wife and my darling
children at home; and remembering how they love me, though I have
been such an indifferent husband and father to them, I will not
touch nor taste the cursed stuff."

The tears gleamed in his eyes as he thus spoke, but feeling his
manhood was being compromised he endeavored to suppress them, the
effort, however, was in vain, for the deepest depths of a noble,
sensitive nature had been wrought upon by the loving appeal of his
wife and the pent-up feeling, gathering force by the very effort
which he had made to suppress it, manifested itself in a series of
short, choking sobs. He returned the kisses of his wife, clasped
her convulsively to him, and, as he looked down into the upturned
face, his eyes manifested an affection which found no expression
in speech. He stooped down and fondly kissed his children and then
opening the door, with satchel in hand, he darted out, only
looking back when his wife called to him, as she stood with her
three little ones on the threshold--

"Remember, Richard, your wife and children will pray for you, that
our Father in heaven may preserve you from danger, give you
strength to resist temptation, and bring you back in safety to
those who love you better than their own lives."

He stood looking back for a moment, and as he saw his wife and
children still gazing intently after him, he murmured, "God bless
you, my darlings;" and turning again, walked rapidly on until he
was lost to view.




CHAPTER II.

RICHARD AND RUTH ASHTON.


Richard Ashton was a native of the town of G----, in the county
of B----, England. His father, who was a draper in good
circumstances, had given his son a liberal education and had
brought him up to his own calling. The son, a young man of quick
parts, took advantage of the opportunities so generously offered
to him and prosecuted his studies with commendable success, and by
the time he was a stripling of sixteen was possessed of knowledge
that few of his years could boast.

Richard was also an omniverous reader, and, as his father
possessed a good library, he, from a very early period had
literally devoured the contents of the books which lined its
shelves, and thus became well versed in history, both ancient and
modern, in the biographies of most of the celebrated men of all
ages, and was also well acquainted with the most eminent poets,
from Chaucer to Tennyson, ever having an apt quotation at his
command to fasten home a maxim or make more pungent a witticism.
In fact he had further developed a mind naturally broad by making
his own the best thoughts of the ages, and his sensitive nature
could not, knowingly, have given pain to a worm--no one that was
worthy appealed in vain to his generosity, and it seemed to be the
endeavor of his life to gain happiness by making those with whom
he associated happy. With his genial disposition, sparkling wit,
skill at repartee, and brilliant conversational powers, it was not
at all surprising, with such a nature and such accomplishments,
joined to an exceedingly handsome person he should have been voted
a good fellow by the men and a "catch" by the young ladies who had
entered that interesting period when they are considered eligible
candidates for matrimony. And as he had, over and above his
accomplishments, good prospects for the future, the mammas of the
aforementioned young ladies should not receive severe censure if
they did each exercise the utmost skill to secure for a son-in-law
the coveted prize. But these delicate manifestations were not
productive of the results which, it was whispered by the Mrs.
Grundies of the neighborhood, would have been most agreeable to
the parties interested, for his heart had long been given to one
who was in all respects worthy of its best affections. It afforded
him, however, no little amusement to find himself the object of so
much attention, and he quietly enjoyed the situation, while the
parties in question endeavored to out-manoeuvre each other, as
they strove, as they supposed without appearing to strive, to
capture the object of their ambition. There was such subtle tact
exhibited and such powers of delicate blandishment displayed that
he was convinced women were born diplomatists, and he now had some
conception of how it was that in a broader field some of the sex
had wielded such an influence over kings and statesmen as to be
the powers behind the throne which ruled empires and kingdoms for
their benison or their bane. He certainly would have possessed
extraordinary attributes if his vanity had not been flattered, by
being conscious he was thought worthy of such flattering
attention; though his thoughts were tinged with cynicism when
exhibitions of selfishness were not wanting in his fair friends,
and as, sometimes, delicate hints were faintly outlined which
darkened character, and inuendoes were whispered to the detriment
of rivals, by lips that seemed moulded only to breathe blessings
or whisper love.

As we have previously stated, Richard Ashton had met his fate
years before, when, as a young man of eighteen, he attended a
social party given by a Mrs. Edmunds, whose husband was a great
friend of his father's, and a member of the same guild. He was
there introduced to a modest, unpretentious, but yet cultivated
and refined country maiden, Ruth Hamilton by name, who was a niece
of his host. We will not say it was a case of love at first sight,
though they certainly were, from the first, mutually attracted
each to the other, for, when he entered into conversation, he
found her so modest and unaffected, yet with a mind so well
furnished--seeming to have an intelligent conception of every
topic upon which they touched, as they ranged at will in their
conversation, evincing such acumen of intellect and such practical
comprehension of subjects of which many of her sex, who made much
greater pretentious, were entirely ignorant, that Ashton,
concluded she was a treasure, indeed, which he would make his own,
if possible.

She might not by some be called a beauty, for she could not boast
of classic regularity of feature; but no one could be long in her
presence without yielding the tribute which, at first sight, he
was chary of giving. She was fair of complexion--not of a pallid
hue, but tenderly tinted, like a peach blossom, and so transparent
that the blue veins could be plainly discerned as they made their
delicate tracery across her low, broad brow. Her mouth was small,
but expressive, and her lips red and fresh as a rosebud. She had
glorious gray eyes, large and expressive, luminous and deep, which
in repose spoke of peace and calm, but which, when excited by
mirth or by a witticism, glowed and scintillated like wavelets in
the golden light of the sun.

Two such spirits, so alike in taste and yet so opposite in
temperament and complexion, could scarcely fail to be mutually
attractive; for he was dark and she fair; his temper was as the
forked lightning's flash, quick and sometimes destructive, while
she was ever calm, gentle, and self-possessed. In fact, they were
the complement each of the other, and it was not long ere he had
wooed and won her, and obtained the consent of her guardians to
make her his wife.

They were married one beautiful day in the bright Spring-time,
when nature had donned her loveliest dress, and the air was
fragrant with the breath of flowers and vocal with the songs of
birds. As they stood together at the altar--he with his wavy raven
locks swept back from his broad brow, with his dark eyes flashing
with intelligence; she with a face that rivalled in fairness the
wreath of orange blossoms that crowned her luxuriant tresses of
gold--they presented a picture of manly strength and sweet,
womanly beauty that is seldom equalled and scarcely ever excelled.

As the guests congratulated them upon the happy consummation of
their ardent desires, and expressed the hope that life would be to
them as a summer's day with few clouds, they had every reason to
believe their most sanguine hopes would be realized. Alas! many a
day that has had a rosy morn, sweet with the breath of flowers and
jocund with the voice of birds, has been dark with clouds and
flashing angry lightnings ere noon. What a blessing it is that God
in His mercy allows us to revel in the sunshine of the present,
and does not darken our clear sky with the clouds of coming woe.




CHAPTER III.

ON THE DOWN GRADE.


A short time after their marriage Richard inherited the business
and property of his father, whose health had been failing for
years, and who died quite unexpectedly. His mother never recovered
from the shock, but in a short time followed her loved husband to
the grave. So the son was left with a good business and ample
means, seeming to be on the road to opulence.

As the years rolled on business prospered, and the prattle of
children's voices gladdened their home. First a boy came, with the
fair hair and large dreamy eyes of the mother; then, two years
later, a girl with the dark eyes and the raven black hair of the
father, and their cup of bliss seemed full to overflowing.

Circumstances, however, had already occurred which caused Ruth
very much uneasiness of mind, and sometimes when a friend called
she had to absent herself for a short time until she had removed
the traces of her tears.

Richard had joined the "Liberal Club," and as he threw his whole
soul into anything which he deemed worthy of his attention, his
wife soon had grave fears that it absorbed too much of his time.
Hours which should have been devoted to business were spent in
discussing the political issues of the day, and she felt they
suffered serious loss, for there were left to his employees
important transactions which should have had his undivided
attention; and the course he had pursued had alienated some of his
best customers. The Liberal Club of which he was a member was
composed of the most ultra of the Radicals in that section of
country--in fact a great many of its members had been participants
in the Chartist agitation, and, a short time after Ashton joined,
they invited Henry Vincent, the celebrated agitator, to deliver an
address, he, while he remained in town, being the guest of Ashton.
This gave great offence to many of his best customers--not only to
those who were ultratories, but also to the whigs, and, as a
consequence, many of them left him and gave their patronage to
rival establishments.

This, however, was not the worst feature of the case; there was
another and a stronger motive power to accelerate his already
rapid descent. He, with many more of the prominent members of the
"Liberal Club," was also among those who are called liberals in
their religious views. This could not be tolerated for a moment by
those among his customers who were decided in their religious
convictions, for they were fully convinced that a person who held
such opinions was a dangerous man in any community. They therefore
withdrew their patronage, which completed the ruin of his formerly
prosperous business, for it did not afterwards pay running
expenses.

This state of things greatly alarmed Ruth, and was the source of
much sorrow. But there were greater sorrows to follow.

When we are struggling with difficulties and environed by
circumstances which have a tendency to make us miserable, we must
not imagine that we have sounded the deepest depths of the abyss
of woe, for if we do we may discover there are depths we have not
yet fathomed. This Ruth Ashton soon bitterly realized, for her
husband had of late frequently returned from the Club so much
under the influence of liquor as to be thick in his speech and
wild, extravagant and foolish in his actions, which caused her
many hours of unutterable anguish.

When he first began to drink she was not seriously alarmed, it
being the custom in England, at their convivial parties, to pledge
each other in wine; and since on such occasions it frequently
happened that they imbibed, enough, not only to make them a little
exuberant but also quite intoxicated, she thought she must not
expect her husband to be different from other men in this respect,
as it was at most only a venial offence. But now when his troubles
thickened, and his friends one after another left him, and he
began to drink more deeply to drown his cares and to stimulate him
to meet his difficulties, her partial anxiety deepened into agony,
strong and intense. She made loving remonstrance, appealing to him
if he loved wife and children to leave the "Club," and not destroy
his business and thus involve them all in ruin. Also, frequently,
when the children were fast asleep in their little cot, as she
looked with a mother's tenderness and pride upon them, thinking
what a picture of innocence and beauty they presented as their
heads nestled lovingly together on the pillow--the raven-black and
gold mingling in beautiful confusion--she would kneel beside them,
and as the deepest, holiest feelings of her heart were stirred,
she would pray that the one who was so dear to them all might be
redeemed from evil and become again a loving husband, a kind
father, and a child of God.

Richard at first received her gentle remonstrance with good-natured
banter, and generally turned it off with a playful witticism. He asked
her if she had not enough confidence in him to believe he was
sufficiently master of himself to take a glass with a friend without
degenerating into a sot, and he used very strong expletives when
speaking of those who were so weak as not to be able to take a glass
without making fools of themselves.

But he would not allow even Ruth to influence him in regard to his
political predilections, for, when she tried to persuade him to
take a more moderate course, he sternly replied he would not
desist from exercising what he believed to be his right, not even
for her, much as he loved her. He said it was his proud boast that
he was a Briton, and as such he would be free--free not only to
hold his opinions, but to act upon his convictions, and any man
who would withdraw his support from him because he would not be a
slave was a petty tyrant, and if such an one was not a Nero it was
because he lacked the power, not the spirit.

So matters went from bad to worse with Richard Ashton, not only in
regard to the moral, but, also, in the financial aspect of the
case. In fact he had soon to draw so largely on his banker that
the money his father had left him, outside of the business, began
to be seriously diminished. Josh Billings says, "When a man begins
to slide down hill he finds it greased for the occasion." And
certainly the case of Richard Ashton illustrated the truth of the
aphorism, for when he once began to go down hill his descent was
so rapid that he soon reached the bottom; and became bankrupt in
capital and character. He now began to talk of selling out and
going to America: "There," he said, with much emphasis, "I shall
be free."




CHAPTER IV.

SAILS FOR AMERICA, AND MEETS A KINDLY WELCOME.


Ruth was now suffering keenly. She loved her husband with such an
intense passion that even his folly did not cool its ardor, and
when others denounced him in the harshest terms she spoke only in
tenderness. And when many of her friends went so far as to advise
her to leave him, and so save to herself and children some remnant
of her fortune, she indignantly protested against their giving her
any such advice. She said she would remain faithful to her
marriage vow, no matter what suffering and obloquy it might
involve. Not but her idol had fallen very low. She had been so
proud of him, proud of his manly bearing, his strength of
character. Proud of his ability, which, to her, seemed to enter
the regions of genius. "Oh!" she said, as she mourned over her
blasted hopes, her vanished dream of bliss, "I never expected
this." She suffered as only such a sensitive, noble, cultured
woman could suffer, and suffered the more because she would give
voice to no complaint. The heart was at high pressure, and the
valve was close shut.

But she did not give up her endeavors to save him. She tried by
gentle endearing tenderness to win him from destruction; and when
she found this did not avail she passionately appealed to him to
stop ere he had involved them all in ruin.

"Oh Richard!" she would say, "Why do you drink? You know your
business is now nearly ruined. Your friends have nearly all
deserted you. You are fast losing your self-respect, wrecking your
health, and dragging your wife and children down with you.
Consider, my darling, what you are sacrificing, and don't be
tempted to drink again!"

She might have reminded him of how he formerly boasted of his
strength, and denounced the weakness of the habitual drunkard, but
she refrained from so doing. She determined, no matter what she
suffered, never to madden him by a taunt or unkind word, but to
save him if possible by love and gentleness. He as yet, though
harsh and peevish to others, had never spoken an unkind word to
her. He had once or twice been unnecessarily severe to the
children, which caused pain to her mother's heart, but she had by
a quiet word thrown oil upon the troubled waters of her husband's
soul, and applied a balm to the wounded hearts of her children.

Sometimes, when she with tears in her eyes appealed to him, he
would promise not to drink again. There is no doubt but it was his
intention to keep his word, but yet it was invariably broken. The
fact was he had become a slave to drink, such a slave that neither
what he owed to wife, nor children, nor man, nor God, could
restrain him. His word was broken; his honor stained, his wife and
children ruined, his God sinned against, and he had become that
thing which formerly he so despised--a poor, miserable drunkard.

His friends had seen this for some time, and now he himself could
not fail to recognize his awful situation; for his thirst for
spirituous liquor had become so strong that he would sacrifice
everything he held dear on earth to obtain it--in fact, it had
become a raging, burning fever, which nothing but rum could allay.

Reader, do not be too strong in your words of scorn and
condemnation. You may never have been tried. People who boast of
their purity and strength may never have been environed by
temptation. "Let him that is without fault cast the first stone."

A few weeks after he had expressed to his wife his determination
to sell out and go to America, two men, who were mutual friends of
his, and who were members of the "Liberal Club," casually met on
the street. After the usual compliments, one said to the other:
"By-the-bye, Saunders, did you hear that Ashton had sold out to
Adams and was going to sail for America next week?"

"No; is that so? Well, I expected something would happen. The
poor fellow has been going to the bad very rapidly of late. Who
would have thought he was so weak? I take it that a man who
cannot drink a social glass with a friend without degenerating
into a sot has very little original strength of character."

"It is all very well to talk, Bell; I have frequently heard Ashton
express himself in the same manner, and yet you see what he is
to-day. There was not a member of the Club his equal when it was
first formed. In fact, he was the master spirit of the society.
Not one of all the members could approach him in culture, in
brilliancy, or in legislative ability. You remember that in a
former conversation we thought it strange he should associate with
us, when he would be welcomed as a peer by those who, at least,
consider themselves our betters; and you expressed it as your
opinion that he, like Milton's Satan, would rather reign in hell
than serve in heaven."

"But, Charley, is he completely bankrupt?"

"Well, I guess I might almost say so, for it is reported he has
used up all the capital which was left him by his father and has
drawn heavily on his wife's means. From what I hear, I would
conclude he has but a few hundred pounds left to take him to
America. I pity his wife. She was a charming girl, so beautiful,
so clever, and yet so modest. Many a man envied Ashton his prize.
And you know that many an eligible girl would like to have stood
in her shoes and been the bride of Richard Ashton, for he was
considered one of the best catches in the matrimonial market. Such
is life; then it was high noon with him, and all smiled upon him;
now, none so poor as to do him reverence."

This conversation gives a true outline of the actual state of
affairs. Richard Ashton, at the date of which we are speaking,
found absolute ruin staring him in the face, and he now knew he
must either sell or be sold out. He wisely chose the former
alternative, while there was some chance of saving a little for
himself.

Poor Ruth, it almost broke her heart. Her guardian had died before
her husband had so utterly fallen, and his wife had preceded him
to the grave. She had now lost every near relative, with the
exception of her husband and children. But every one who had been
at all intimate with her was her friend, and ready to give
sympathy and help. She felt grateful for the many expressions of
kindness she had received, and it was a severe trial to sever the
cords which bound her to those whom she had known so long, and to
leave her dear native land and old home to go among strangers who
were thousands of miles away. But though it was hard to part, she
thought it would be for the best--it could scarcely be for the
worse. She was rashly advised by some not to go, as they said,
"there was no knowing how utterly he might fall, and then, if she
were among strangers, she and her children might be brought down
to the deepest depths of poverty and woe." But she nobly replied,
"he is my husband and the father of my children, and no matter how
he is despised by others he is inexpressibly dear to me, and I
will never forsake him 'till death do us part,' no matter what may
befall."

Soon after the conversation I have just narrated ensued, Richard
Ashton settled up his business gathered the small remnant of his
fortune together, and he and his family set sail for that land of
promise--America. It was with sad forebodings that Ruth bade her
friends a long, and, as it proved to be, a final farewell.

She stood upon the deck of the gallant vessel that bore them away,
and as she saw the land she loved so well slowly fade from view
and grow dimmer and dimmer as the distance lengthened, until it
seemed as a haze upon the dreary waste of waters, there was a
feeling of inexpressible sadness took possession of her. She
involuntarily drew closer to her husband, and gave expression to
the emotions of her soul by sobbing as though her heart would
break. He lovingly threw his arm around her waist and drew her
closely to him, soothing her sorrow by loving caresses. As the old
look shone in his eye, he gently whispered, "God helping me, my
darling, I will be a better man, and, as far as I can, I will
redeem the past."

After landing in New York he remained there a short time to visit
some old friends, and then pushed through to the beautiful city of
Rochester, where a relative of his resided. Here he purchased an
unpretentious but cozy little cottage, situated not far from Mt.
Hope. It had a latticed porch, which was in summer-time covered
with honeysuckles; and the cottage was embosed in flowering trees
and morning glories. It had at the back a very fine garden, which
also contained numerous peach trees and a delightful snuggery of a
summer-house, whose sides were covered with lattice-work, over
which clambered the vine, and through whose interstices, in their
season, hung bunches of luscious grapes. In the front there was a
nice lawn, with circular flower beds; in attending to which Ruth
and her two children (Eddie and Allie) spent many happy hours.

After a short delay, he, through the influence of his friends,
obtained employment as book-keeper for a large dry goods firm in
the city. When he first began his engagement, his salary was
comparatively small; but when his capabilities were recognized,
his employer, who was a man of gentlemanly instincts, and was also
generous in his dealings with those of his employees who were
capable and industrious, raised his salary to an amount which not
only enabled them to live respectably, but also to deposit
something in the savings-bank each week, preparatory for a rainy
day.

Ruth's face began to wear the old radiant look of calm peace, if
not exuberant joy, which shone in her eye in the days of yore, and
she, for two years, was able to send home to her friends in the
old home land "glad tidings of great joy." But, alas! the dream
was short as it was blissful. He met one day an old companion of
his, with whom he had associated in his native town, and was
induced by him, after much persuasion, to join in a friendly glass
for the sake of "Auld Lang Syne." He met Ruth when she ran to the
gate to welcome him that night with what seemed to her loving
heart a cold repulse, for he was drunk--yes, my dear reader--crazily,
brutally drunk. His poor wife was as much stunned as if
he had been brought home dead. She stood pale as death, with lips
tightly pressed, with wide open eyes staring wildly. Poor little
Eddie and Allie ran to their mother and nestled close to her for
protection, as birdlings run to the cover of the mother in seasons
of danger. And even poor little Mamie, for they had been blessed
by a little girl, whom they had thus named, shortly after they
arrived in Rochester, cuddled her head more closely to her
mother's bosom, and clung to her as if in mortal terror of one
whom she usually greeted with the fondest tokens of welcome.

From that time forward his descent to Avernus was very rapid. He
soon lost his situation and was unable to secure another. He also
became dissatisfied with the country. It is generally men who are
their own worst enemies, who become agitators against the existing
order of things.

The time of which I am writing was immediately after the American
War, and, at that period, there was a great deal of dissatisfaction
felt and expressed against England, because there were so many
of her citizens who sympathized with the Southern cause. And if any
of the more ignorant discovered a man to be an Englishman, he was
almost certain to seize the opportunity to rail against his country.
Ashton had to endure a great deal of this; for, in the hotels he met
a great many returned soldiers, among whom there was a large
percentage of the Fenian element; for the majority of the rank and
file of these miscreants were tavern loafers. Their denunciation of
England was not only strong, but blatant and couched in language both
blasphemous and obscene. This Ashton felt he could not endure,
this land of freedom was far too free for him. He said he loved
liberty, but not license, and, therefore, stimulated by the spirit of
patriotism, and by another spirit, which in his case was far the more
potent, he resolved to move to Canada, to shelter again under the
protecting folds of the "Union Jack." I have already given the reader
to understand, in another chapter, that he acted upon that
resolution.




CHAPTER V.

GOOD RESOLUTIONS; A TEMPTER, AND A FALL.


On the morning we introduced him to the reader he took the train
to Charlotte and secured a berth on the steamer _Corinthian_
for a port on the Canadian side, and as it would not start for an
hour after he arrived, he thought he would endeavor to compose his
perturbed mind by a quiet walk up the river. For in his sober
moments he suffered intensely from the "pricks of an outraged
conscience," and more than once he had been tempted to take his
own life, but the thought of wife and children had restrained him
from the rash and cowardly act. It may be, there was intermingled
with that the thought, as Shakespeare says--

  "Which makes cowards of us all,
   And makes us rather bear those ills we have
   Than fly to others that we know not of."

He now resolved, God helping him, he would never drink again, but
he would establish a home in the strange land whither he was
journeying, and live a sober, industrious life. But even as he
made these resolves his craving, burning appetite came tempting
him; and as he strove against it, he shut his teeth and knit his
brow, and involuntarily clenched his hand as if about to struggle
with a mortal foe, and stamped his foot as he hissed through his
clenched teeth, "I will be free." Ah, Richard! don't begin to
boast before you have gained the victory, depend more upon God
than self, you surely need his aid, for here comes a tempter.

"Hallo, Ashton, is that you? What is the matter with you? Why, one
would suppose you had an attack of the blues. At what were you
glaring so fiercely? You look as if you had a live Fenian before
you and was striking for the Old Land with a determination to give
no quarter. How came you here, and whither are you bound?" And the
speaker, with a quizzical smile upon his face, which half
concealed and half revealed an underplay of devilish mockery, put
his hand familiarly upon the shoulder of Ashton, and then grasped
him by the hand and gave it a hearty shake. But if a good judge of
human nature had been by, he would have concluded his manner was
assumed for the occasion--that he was simply acting, and was a
failure at the role he had assumed.

I have not given to the reader the expletives with which he
adorned his conversation, nor do I intend to do so, for though he,
like others who indulge in the habit of swearing, may have thought
it was both ornamental and emphatic, I don't think so. Besides, I
have hopes that these pages may be read by the young, and I do not
wish to give, even in the conversations which I may transcribe,
anything that is profane or impure; for if I did I might inoculate
their young minds with an evil virus, which I would not knowingly
do.

This person, who now accosted Ashton, was the one who acted imp to
his satanic majesty in leading him to his last fall, and here he
was again to tempt him. Well would it be for you, Richard Ashton,
if you would contemptuously spurn him as you would kick a rabid
dog from your path.

I have noticed this person before in these pages but I will now
give him a more elaborate introduction to the reader; but as he is
an unsavory subject I will make the introduction as brief as
possible.

His name was Stanley Ginsling, he was the youngest son of an
English gentleman, of considerable property, and of more pride,
whose estate lay in the vicinity of Ashton's native town. His
father intended him for the Church, not because there were any
manifestations that he was peculiarly qualified for holy orders,
either by mental or moral endowments, but because he did not know
what else to do with him, he concluded he would make him a parson.

So, after he had gone through a certain course by private tuition
he was sent to Eton, preparatory to going to Oxford.

He then got through his studies in some manner, though it was
generally understood by his mates that he was better acquainted
with the brands of his favorite liquors and cigars than he was
with the works of the authors which filled up the list of his
college curriculum.

But when he entered Oxford he threw off all restraint and gave
himself up to a life of utter dissipation, and before long his
father received a polite note from the college authorities,
intimating that to save further disgrace he had better call his
worthy son home.

After this he became a dissipated tavern lounger, a barnacle on
the good ship of society, a miserable sponge.

He soon found, as he sententiously expressed it, that it was not
agreeable for him to remain under the kindly shelter of the
paternal mansion; so he, prodigal like, took the portion his
father gave him and spent it in riotous living. But he was
determined not to feed on husks, if unmitigated cheek and
unblushing effrontery could bring him better fare.

It was while he was a gentleman lounger about town he first met
Richard Ashton, who, at that time, had become too much demoralized
to be very choice in the selection of his associates. And Ginsling
was rather intelligent--had a fine person and pleasing address,
and had it not been for his moral depravity and lack of every
noble instinct, he might have made his mark in society.

So Ashton, the ultra radical, and Ginsling, the young scion of
extreme toryism, used to fraternize in their drinking bouts, and
though they would, when sufficiently stimulated, boozily wrangle
over their cups, there was in their common dissipation a ground
for mutual understanding. But in his sober moments the radical had
the most supreme contempt for his tory associate, and, sometimes,
could not suppress its manifestation. The other, however, was too
great a toady to be too thin skinned. It was not convenient for
him to be over-sensitive. In fact he was willing to swallow such
insults _ad infinitum_ if their donors would only furnish the
wherewithall to wash them down.

After Ashton left England he felt somewhat lonely, and then his
father had become so utterly estranged from him because of his
conduct, that his situation became unpleasant even for him; so he
determined to sail for America. Learning that Ashton had settled
in Rochester, he made his way to that city. He arrived there at
the latter part of the year 1864, towards the close of the
American War; and shortly after his arrival, meeting with his old
comrade, as we have informed the reader, the latter, strange to
say, had power enough over him to seduce him to his fall. And now,
when Ashton was leaving Rochester in order to get away from his
old associates, and was making resolutions of reform, here he was
again as his tempter to lead him astray.

At his salute Ashton looked up with a dazed, faraway look upon his
face, and then, as he slowly realized his position, he thought how
foolish he must have appeared to another who had witnessed his
fierce gesticulations and heard his wild and incoherent
murmurings. The thought covered him with confusion, and he did not
for a moment gain sufficient control of his faculties to answer
his interlocutor in a rational manner.

The other, however, relieved his embarrassment by continuing in a
bantering tone: "Why, Ashton, one would suppose by your actions
you were the principal of some terrible tragedy, and that just now
you were suffering from the "pricks of an outraged conscience." I
declare you have mistaken your calling; you would have made your
fortune on the stage. Why, your looks just now would have done for
either Hamlet in the crazy scene, or Macbeth when talking to
Banquo's ghost. But if you are suffering I have something which
will reach the seat of the ailment; as the Scripture puts it, it
is "A balm for all our woes, and a cordial for our fears." Here
it is, Ashton. I have just been up to Charley's to have this dear
little friend of mine replenished. How do you like the looks of
it?" And suiting the action to the word he held up before him a
beautiful little brandy flask. Then detaching the silver cup from
the bottle it partially covered, he filled it full to the brim.
"Here, Ashton, take this potheen," he said, "it will settle your
perturbed spirits, comfort your soul, and drive dull care away."

Ashton's hand shot forward mechanically to take the proffered
glass, and then he drew it hastily back.

"No, Quisling," he said, "I will not touch it. Curse the stuff;
it has wrought enough ruin with mine and me. I was just swearing I
would never drink again, and I was in earnest. I know I must have
appeared to you as some gibbering maniac, but I was fighting my
craven appetite for strong drink. Oh how hard the struggle has
been; its fierceness is only known to God and myself. It comes
upon me when I am least prepared to defend myself, and tortures me
with the cruel malignity of a devil. And then I beat it back, and
it comes upon me again. But I must triumph or go under; for if it
is not liberty with me it will soon be death."

He then turned fiercely upon Ginsling, and said--

"Why do you dog my footsteps like a shadow? Have you not wrought
ruin enough? Curse you; it was an evil day for me when you crossed
the Atlantic, for had you not done so, I would have been a
respectable and happy man to-day. It was you who urged me to
drink, and, listening to you, brought me down from the happy and
prosperous man that you found, to the miserable wreck you now look
upon! A thing for angels and good men to pity, and for devils and
evil men to despise. Leave me, if you have any pity, and do not
tempt me more."

If there had been the slightest instinct of honor in the creature
to whom these words were addressed, the appeal would not have been
in vain. But his original stock of this attribute had been
limited, and he had long since disposed of the little he once
possessed. Such an attribute as honor or pity was viewed by him as
a useless incumbrance, for he was a miserable, heartless wretch,
seeking the gratification of his own depraved appetite, and
careless of who might suffer.

He laughed with a seeming bluff heartiness when Ashton had
finished speaking, but the laugh sounded hollow and insincere.

Novelists are ever introducing upon their pages, as the villain of
the story, the smooth, oily rogue: as if they considered such ones
were alone capable of cunning roguery and subtle diabolism. But
there is many a mean soul disguised by a bluff, hearty exterior,
and the mask is much the more difficult to penetrate. It is said
of such an one--"He says hard things, but you always see the
worst of him, for he puts his worst side out." Shakespeare's
rogue, honest Jack Falstaff, was brusk and blunt, but he carried a
rascal's heart, and there are many now living who are just as
great blusterers, and are equally as cowardly and as base.

"Ha, ha! Ashton! this is too good to last! You know you have
assumed the role of the Prodigal Son before, but you have come
back to the riotous living again." Come, old fellow, take a
little; it will do you good. I believe you used to be an orthodox
Methodist, and, therefore, must be considerably versed in
Scripture, and you know that Paul advised Timothy to "take a
little wine for his stomach's sake, and for his oft infirmities."

When Ginsling had finished speaking, a look of unutterable scorn
passed over the face of Ashton, and he glared at the former with
fierce contempt, and once or twice he seemed as if about to reply,
but, though his quivering lips and the contortions of his face
showed violent emotion, he for a time uttered no response, as if
he could not find words adequate to express his burning thoughts,
till suddenly starting he said--"Pshaw! you miserable rascal, it
was an evil day for me when I first met you. Have you not wrought
ruin enough? Why do you come again to tempt me? Leave me or I will
not be responsible for the consequences." And, turning upon his
heel, he abruptly left him.

"Whew--but that's cool," whispered Ginsling, "but old fellow you
are not going to escape me that easily. I have come down here for
a purpose, and I am going to succeed in my undertaking, or my name
is not Stanley Ginsling."

And I might here give the reader to understand that it was not
mere accident which brought Ginsling to Charlotte that day, he had
come with a fixed purpose of meeting Ashton, enticing him to
drink, and then accompanying him upon his journey and getting as
much out of him as possible. He had heard Ashton say it was his
intention to start for Canada, and he concluded that he was too
good a quarry for an old hunter like himself to lose. And as it
did not matter to him whether he spent the instalments, which were
regularly forwarded from home, in the United States or in Canada;
he resolved to meet Ashton at Charlotte, and be the companion of
his voyage. This accounts for his coming upon the latter as we
have just narrated.

He did not allow Ashton, who was walking rapidly away after he had
done speaking, to proceed far before he called after him, "Stop!"

The latter turned to learn what he wanted, for he began to have a
little compunction of conscience, because he had treated him so
rudely, and under the impulse of the new change of feeling waited
until Ginsling had caught up.

"Now Ashton," he said, "I think you have treated me in a manner
which is very hard for a gentleman of spirit to endure." As he
said this he saw the faint outline of a sneer curling the lip of
his companion. But taking no notice he hastily continued, "But I
have known you too long to be over-sensitive at what you say or
do, I would endure more from you, old fellow, than from any man on
earth. Let us be friends, Ashton, for the sake of our friendship
in 'Merry England.'"

"I am sure, Ginsling, I don't want to part with you in anger, and
if I have wounded your feelings you must remember it was under
strong provocation. Drink has been my ruin, and the ruin of those
I love best on earth. It has certainly been 'Our Curse,' and
through it I have been most cruel to those I love best and for
whom, when I am myself, I would sacrifice my life to defend from
evil or danger. This morning I promised my wife, as I have at
least a score of times before, that I would keep sober, and, while
struggling against my appetite, and determined to conquer, no
matter how much suffering the struggle might entail, you came up,
as my evil genius, to tempt me to my ruin, I could scarcely endure
your solicitations, but your rough banter drove me wild."

"Well, old fellow, let it all pass, I was not aware of the mood
you were in, or I would have been more careful how I addressed
you. I am sure I would be the last man in the world who would
knowingly cause you pain. And to lead you astray, I can assure
you, is far from my purpose. I would rather do what I could to
help you. And, in my opinion, if I can prevail upon you to take a
few spoonfuls of brandy I will do this most effectively; why, man,
a glass is just what you want. A little, under certain circumstances,
will benefit any one who takes it; especially is this the case with
one who is as you are now. Why, you are all unnerved--see how your
hands tremble, and your whole system seems as if it wanted toning
up. Now if you break off too suddenly it may be serious for you,
while if you take a little, to brace you up, such disagreeable
consequences will not follow. I hate a man to drink too much, for,
if he does, he is sure to make a fool of himself, but a little will
do any man good."

The tone and manner of Ginsling when he thus addressed Ashton was
subdued and gentlemanly, for he had not so far degenerated as to
have lost altogether the grace and polish which the refined
associations of his youth had given to him. His language, also,
sounded reasonable to the one to whom it was addressed, for,
though Ashton had become an awful example of the ultimate issue of
moderate drinking, at least in some cases, he would still argue in
its favor, and when the advocates of prohibition would point to
those who had fallen victims to the pernicious habit, he would
answer that it was the abuse and not the use of intoxicating
liquor which produces the evil.

So Ginsling, who had frequently heard him thus argue, adroitly
stole an arrow out of his own quiver, and addressed him as he had
frequently heard him address others. And there was just enough
truth mixed with the sophistry of his argument to carry conviction
to the mind of one as unstable as Ashton; for he did feel all
unnerved. He had broken off suddenly from a long-continued drunken
spree, and was beginning to have premonitions of something which
he dreaded only second to death. He had already twice suffered the
horrors of delirium tremens, and he now had good cause for fearing
another attack. It was to this Ginsling referred when he said if
he broke off suddenly it might lead to serious consequences. So,
after what seemed to be a desperate struggle--the better instincts
of his nature endeavoring to overcome the craving of his appetite
and the sophistry of his tempter--he concluded he would just take
a little now to help him over this one trouble, and then he would
give it up forever. He argued to himself, "I could not live
through another attack, for I am sure the dreadful suffering is
akin to the horrors of the host."

"Well, Ginsling," he said, "I think I will take your advice." He
was half ashamed thus to speak, because he was about to do
something for which his conscience strongly condemned him, and
also because he felt he was manifesting weakness and vacillation
in the presence of one whom he, in his heart, despised, and who,
after this, would hold similar sentiments in regard to himself.
"I do feel a little unlike myself this morning, and as the wind is
rather squally, and the captain says when we shoot out beyond the
point the lake will be wild, I need a little something to settle
my stomach; I have a fearful dread of sea-sickness." He said this
partly to justify his conduct to his companion, but more to
convince himself he was about to take a step which was not only
perfectly justifiable, but, under the circumstances, a manifestation
of wisdom.

If a man is about to perform an action of doubtful propriety, he
is never at a loss to find arguments to defend the course he is
about to pursue, and though he may not be able to satisfy his
conscience, he can, at least to some extent, deaden the acuteness
of its pangs. Richard Ashton endeavored to justify his present
action to himself, in the moment which intervened between his
new-formed resolution and its consummation. The reader is no doubt
aware, from experience, that a great deal will pass through the
mind in the space of a single moment, and that sometimes a man's
weal or woe, for time, yea, and for eternity, depends upon a
decision which has to be thus hastily given. It was one of these
crucial moments which Ashton was now passing through. Alas! his
decision was far from being a wise one, and he could not deceive
himself so completely as not to partially feel this; for, try how
he would, he could not banish the thought that yielding to the
tempter might entail a train of misery horrible to contemplate.
Then Ruth's pale, pleading face, all suffused with tears, came up
vividly before him, as he last saw her, and as he remembered the
promise given, for a moment he hesitated, but finally he subdued
every better feeling, and reaching forth his hand, took the glass
which Ginsling temptingly offered, and drained it to the dregs.

One glass such as he had thus taken was sufficient to make Ashton
regardless of consequences, and, therefore, it was not long before
it was followed by another and more copious one. In short, in half
an hour after he had met Ginsling he was wild and reckless, and
the latter had accomplished his purpose, for Ashton was spending
his money as freely as though he had the coffers of a Rothschild
or an Astor. In short, ere the steamboat had started he had to be
helped on board, for he was utterly helpless.




CHAPTER VI.

ARRIVAL IN CANADA: A FRIENDLY HOST APPLIES FOR A SITUATION.


It was a beautiful morning when the boat landed at the picturesque
little Canadian town of L----. The first that Ashton knew of the
arrival was when he was awakened from his drunken stupor by being
violently shaken by Ginsling; and, as he gained consciousness, he
heard that worthy saying, with a subdued voice: "Come, wake up,
Ashton, for we are again on British soil. Why, is not that strain
enough to cause any true Briton to rise from the dead?"

He was at last aroused, and his first sensation was that he had a
terrible pain in his head, a horrible thirst, and a certain vague
realization that he heard the strains of "Rule Britannia." He
staggered out to the bar, for he felt he must soon have a drink,
or he could not live. Ginsling also stepped up without being
invited; for that worthy could not righteously be charged with too
much modesty, as he never was backward in helping himself at a
friend's expense.

They immediately, after securing their luggage, stepped out upon
the wharf, where there was a large crowd gathered, listening to
the music of a band--each member of which was dressed in the garb
of a British soldier--as it played patriotic airs, such as "Rule
Britannia," "God Save the Queen," etc. The reason of this
manifestation of patriotism will be readily understood when we
inform the reader that it was the Queen's Birthday.

Ashton, for a moment or two, almost thought he was back in Old
England again, and he was so carried away by the grand old airs
that if a recruiting sergeant had presented himself just then he
might have taken a step in haste of which he would have repented
at leisure.

"Come, Ashton, don't stand there in that daft fashion, or the
Canucks will imagine you are one of the irresponsibles who lately
arrived in New York from Europe, and that the cute Yankees have
quietly shipped you over to John Bull's domains."

He was aroused by the voice of Ginsling out of his day-dream to
realize that several cabbies were exerting the utmost of their
lung power in crying up the merits of their respective hotels.

"British American, sir--the best house in town. Won't cost you a
cent to ride there, sir."

"Don't you believe that fellow," shouted another. "Come to the
Tarlton; it is the only house in town which is fit to kape a
gentleman like you, sir." And then several others shouted out in
full chorus, each endeavoring to say something more witty than the
other; and if push, rough bantering wit, and imperturbable good
nature could secure success, certainly each would have had a bus
full.

But Ashton had caught the name "British American," and as he, just
then, was feeling intensely loyal, he determined to put up there,
and he intimated to the runner his resolution. Ginsling, who was
waiting for him to decide, jumped aboard also, and they were soon
quartered at the aforementioned hotel, which they found, if not of
the very highest grade, at least eminently respectable. The
charges, also, were exceedingly moderate.

The room he had given to him looked out upon the blue waters of
noble Ontario, which swept far away to the south, until it laved
the shores he had left but a few hours before--a land now
associated in his mind with so much of happiness and of misery,
and which yet contained those who were inexpressibly dear to him.

He had no sooner secured a room than he sat down to write a note
to Ruth; for, demoralized as he was, he did not forget his
promise. He found, however, that his head was in a perfect whirl,
and that his hand was so unsteady as to make the accomplishment of
the task almost an impossibility; but he managed, in an almost
illegible scrawl, to inform her of his safe arrival. He asked her
to excuse the brevity of his communication, as he was still
suffering from the effects of his stormy voyage across the lake,
which had shattered, for the time being, his nervous system. He
ended by sending his love to her and the children, and asking her
to write immediately, as he was anxious to hear from his darlings
at home.

The next two weeks were passed in continuous drunkenness. He would
awaken each morning feeling, as those who have passed through the
ordeal say has to be experienced in order to have the faintest
idea of what it is; his lips and throat were as dry as withered
leaves; his brain seemed on fire, and his bloodshot eyes, gleaming
out from his pale, emaciated face, appeared as though they might
have belonged to one of Canada's dark-visaged aborigines in the
savage state rather than to their present intellectual, though
dissipated, owner.

In his sober moments he would think of his wife and children, and
there was in the thought a mingling of shame and agony which
almost drove him wild; then he would remember the purport of his
journey, for which he had not yet made the slightest endeavor; and
when, on examination, he found his stock of money was almost gone,
and that he would soon have either to secure a situation or be a
penniless vagrant in a strange land, it added to his despair.

"I say, Mr. Ashton," said the polite landlord of the hotel one
morning, as he was about to take his first drink, "did you not
give me to understand you were looking for a situation in some dry
goods or clothing establishment?"

"Yes, Mr. Rumsey, that is what I am after; but God knows how I
will succeed; for I have done nothing, nor am I, as I am now, in a
fit state to do anything; for who would engage such a wretch as I
am?"

Rumsey pitied him; for he was a man who was too good for the
business in which he was engaged.

"I will give you a light glass, Ashton," he said; "but you must
sober off. I like you, and therefore will not let you kill
yourself with drink at this establishment; so for your sake, and
also to keep up the reputation of my house, I must limit you to-day
to two more glasses. And if you will excuse me for presuming
to interfere with your business, I would advise you to cut the
acquaintance of that precious companion of yours. I gave him a bit
of my mind last night, and told him pretty emphatically what I
thought of him. Why, man, have you entirely lost possession of
your senses, to let a leech like that loafer drain you dry? I will
give you this drink now, one after breakfast, and one after
dinner; then you must eat something, for I do not believe that
during the last three days you have taken enough to keep a pigeon
alive. If you find that in trying to sober off you are likely to
be sick, I will send for the doctor, and he will help you through.
You told me you were a married man; for the sake of your wife and
children you must get over this spree."

Ashton took the proffered glass with his hand shaking as if he had
the ague, and with the eagerness of one who was perishing for want
of a drink.

"Oh, landlord," he said, "that was only a taste; I must have more.
Do, please, give me more."

"No, sir, not a drop," said Mr. Rumsey, with considerable
sternness. "If you must have it, you will have to go to some other
house to get it. I am not willing to be in any way responsible for
what is sure to follow. Come, now, and have some breakfast--a bit
of toast, a poached egg--and be yourself; for I want to become
acquainted with the _bona fide_ Mr. Ashton. I have not met
him yet; you have not been sober since you came here."

"Well, sir, I will take your advice; and there is one who, when I
tell her, will thank you, as I cannot. She has not a very high
opinion of your guild, and she has strong reason not to have. God
help me--how am I to get over this?"

"Well, Mr. Ashton, if others would stop selling liquor, I would
willingly never sell another glass, for I could live comfortably
here on the income I derive from the travelling public and my
summer guests; for, to tell you the truth, I don't like the
business, especially when I see its effects as exhibited in cases
like your own; but while others sell I must, or I would lose my
business. It is a case of self-preservation, and you know that
'self-preservation is the first law of nature.'"

"Or, in other words," said Ashton, "'every man for himself, and
Satan take the hindmost.'"

Ashton made the trial, and, though he had to pass through the
fiery ordeal of intense suffering, yet, aided by the judicious
treatment of his host, he was brought safely through.

He had, in the meantime, received a letter from his wife, and each
of his children, breathing out love to him. Each one expressing
the deepest anxiety as to the nature and result of his illness,
and praying that he would soon be back with those who loved him so
truly.

"Ashton," said Mr. Rumsey, his host, one morning, "this is the
thing which will just suit you, if you can secure it," and he
handed a copy of the _Daily Globe_ to Ashton, at the same
time pointing to an advertisement which read as follows: "A good
managing clerk wanted for a dry goods and clothing establishment
in the town of Bayton. He must be a man of matured experience.
Apply Box 152, Post Office."

"That will just suit me," said Ashton. "What is the distance to
Bayton?"

"About ninety miles. I suppose you think of applying personally? I
should advise you by all means to do so."

Ashton immediately set about making the necessary preparation, and
next morning started for the above-mentioned town, upon which
journey we will leave him for the present.




CHAPTER VII.

MR. AND MRS. GURNEY.


Mr. and Mrs. Gurney sat in their cosy sitting-room, which was
plainly but tastefully furnished; but though quiet, one could not
fail to realize that it was the home of people of more than
ordinary intelligence and culture. They both had passed life's
meridian, and were, at the time we introduce them to our readers,
verging upon three score years. They were dressed in deep
mourning, and the look of subdued sadness which overcast their
thoughtful faces told they had lately "passed under the rod." But
suffering had not made them hard and cynical, but richer in grace
and goodness, riper, sweeter, mellower. Each had learned to say
with Asaph, "My flesh and my heart faileth, but God is the
strength of my heart and my portion for ever."

They certainly had reason to mourn. God had blessed them with four
children; children of whom they had just cause to be proud, for
they early displayed talents which marked them as above
mediocrity, but one after another, just after they had reached
manhood and womanhood, they had fallen victims to that insidious
disease, consumption, and the aged couple were left in their
declining years, sad and lonely, like two aged trunks stript of
their foliage, bare and alone.

Mr. Gurney had been for years engaged in the dry goods and
clothing trade, and had intended his last surviving son should
take the business, but Providence had ordered otherwise, taking
him away just at the time when the father was about to carry out
his long cherished scheme.

After they had laid in the grave the body of their beloved, for a
while a cloud of intense sorrow hung over their home, though they
had faith to believe it was lined with the silver of their
Father's love.

They were too intelligent, and their grief was too intense for
much outward manifestation, but each knew the pregnancy of the
other's sorrow from their individual experiences; and by gentle
ministrations of love each endeavored to soothe and ease the
burdened heart of the other.

Mrs. Gurney found some relief in attending to her household
duties--to the plants and flowers in the conservatory--for they
had one of considerable size. This latter had been the special
duty of her daughter who had preceded her brother by a few weeks
to the grave. And as the mother now engaged in this "labor of
love," each plant and flower that received her gentle attention
would suggest some tender recollection of the loved and lost. As
she trained them to their supports and trellises she would
remember that the white fingers which had so frequently and
lovingly performed the task were now cold in death.

But there was one--a night blooming cereus--which was a particular
favorite of Grace's, and which, even after she knew she had not
long to live, she hoped she would be spared to see bloom. But when
she perceived she was failing so rapidly--quietly, peacefully,
sinking to rest--she said--

"Mamma, darling, I have looked forward with a great deal of
expectancy to the time when my cereus should bloom, I now know my
hope in this respect will not be realized, but I want you, mother,
when it opens out its pure white petals and its fragrance perfumes
the midnight air to remember I shall be in heaven--among fairer
flowers, with sweeter perfume; for they have not been cursed by
sin. And while you mourn at my absence remember I am with
Jesus--'Absent from the body, present with the Lord.'"

And now as the mother tended these flowers, and lovingly lingered
near this special favorite, around which such tender memories
lingered, the flood-gates of her soul were mercifully lifted up
and she "eased her poor heart with tears."

Thus the mother, who was constitutionally the frailer of the two,
and was the one from whom the children had inherited the tendency
to the disease which had carried them off so prematurely, seemed
to come back to herself, so to speak, and she soon manifested a
subdued cheerfulness as she set about managing the domestic
economy of her home.

But Mr. Gurney did not recover so rapidly; there seemed to be no
outlet to his feelings--nothing to ease his burdened heart.

He had given his business into the hands of his clerks, and had
concluded to sell out and permanently retire from active life. He
went with his wife on a journey to the seaside, to a quiet
watering-place, hoping that change of scene might divert his
attention from his sorrows and enable him, at least to some
extent, to recover his wonted health and spirits. But he returned
unbenefited, and his wife and friends began to have grave fears
for his life. They consulted an eminent physician, who advised him
not to give up his business, but to devote to it as much of his
attention as his strength would permit; and this advice coinciding
with his own judgment, he concluded to act upon it; but as none of
his employees hardly came up to his ideal of what a managing clerk
should be, he thought he had better advertise for a responsible
man, who thoroughly understood the business, and who could keep
the books, while he could do the buying and attend to the outlying
duties of the firm.

It was in accordance with this idea that he inserted the
advertisement in the _Globe_ which brought Richard Ashton to
answer in person.




CHAPTER VIII.

ASHTON MEETS WITH FRIENDS AND SECURES A SITUATION.


"Have you received any answer to your advertisement, dear?" asked
Mrs. Gurney of her husband.

"Yes, dear, I received a telegram this morning from a man who
lives in L----, who said he thought he would suit me. He stated he
could give first-class references, and that he had been in the
business from a boy. He also stated he would make personal
application, and would take the next train for this place: so I am
expecting him on the 7 o'clock. I left word with Johnson to drive
him here, and he may arrive at any moment."

"But, my dear," said his wife, "is it not rather risky for him to
come? You may not like his appearance, and if even in this respect
everything is satisfactory, his credentials may not be so."

"I am sure I cannot help that," replied Mr. Gurney. "I did not
state in the advertisement that parties who wished to engage
should make personal application, and I have no doubt but I shall
receive applications by letter. If individuals come from a
distance to apply, it must be at their own risk."

Their conversation was here interrupted by the ringing of the
door-bell, and in a moment after the servant reported that a Mr.
Ashton wished to see Mr. Gurney.

"That is the name of the person in question," Mr. Gurney remarked.
"Show him in, Sarah;" and in a moment after Ashton was ushered
into their presence.

"Mr. Gurney, I presume," he said, with that ease and grace that
good breeding and familiarity with good society alone gives to a
man.

"I sent you a telegram," Ashton continued, "making application for
the situation, in answer to your advertisement; and I have now
come in person, as I stated I would."

Mr. Gurney, who had risen, extended to him his hand--then
introduced him to his wife, and in a few moments, by his cordial
reception, made him completely at his ease.

His appearance, and, still more, his manner, impressed Mr. and
Mrs. Gurney favorably, and they both concluded he was a very
intelligent person.

He produced his credentials, which were highly satisfactory; but
Mr. and Mrs. Gurney were too keen observers not to notice the
marks of dissipation which his two weeks' debauch had stamped upon
his face. The former, however, possessed too much of the courtesy
which distinguishes the true gentleman to give utterance to a word
which would wound even the most sensitive person, if he could do
his duty and avoid it. Though, if it lay in the way of his duty,
he immediately entered into its performance, but in the least
offensive manner possible.

He said to Richard Ashton, in his most kindly tone: "You will
pardon me, I am sure, for asking you another question. I would not
do so only it is necessary that I should exercise the utmost
caution in order that I may secure a person who has not only
ability and experience, but who also is a man of good character
and temperate habits--who, in short, would be every way reliable.
Pardon me if I ask, in all kindness, would you in every respect till
up my requirements?"

This was a plain question, put with the most gentle courtesy, but
yet in a straightforward manner; and if Ashton had wished in any
way to equivocate, he felt he could not do so without utterly
destroying his chances of employment. To do him justice, however,
let us state he never, even for a moment, entertained a thought of
so doing. He felt he was being weighed in the balance, and would
probably be found wanting, but he resolved he would not endeavor
to bring down the scale in his favor, either by equivocation or
dealing in untruths. In fact, he immediately concluded to make a
clean breast of it, and give him, in as few words as possible, a
history of his life, and then leave him to deal with his case.
Acting upon this thought, he in a few moments graphically and
pathetically told his sad story.

"I will not ask you to decide to-night," he said after he had
finished, "but if it is agreeable to you I will call in the
morning. I would like you would give me a decided answer by that
time if possible, and," he added, "if you conclude to engage me I
will endeavor so to devote myself to your interest as never to
give you cause to regret it."

Mr. Gurney immediately agreed to this arrangement, as he thought
it would be better to have a few hours to carefully consider the
matter, and to talk it over with his wife. In fact, he had been so
much wrought upon by the sad recital, as to entirely unfit him for
a calm and judicious consideration of the business in hand. So,
making an appointment for the next day at 9 a.m., he saw Ashton to
the door, and bade him good night.

Ashton, as he walked rapidly away, was very despondent. He had but
slight hope of securing the situation; for, he reasoned to
himself, had a person of similar character come to him seeking a
position, when he was in business, no matter how much he might
sympathise with him he never would have thought of engaging him.

He wisely determined, however, to hope for the best. He was sure
he would like the situation, for he had formed a very high opinion
of Mr. Gurney. He considered him a very superior person--cultured,
but plain, and practical, and it was because he knew he possessed
the latter attribute he had no hopes of being engaged.

But had he been capable of reading Mrs. Gurney's mind, and could
he also have known the influence she possessed over her husband,
he would not have been so despondent. His story had not been half
told before she had been so affected by its touching pathos as to
be unable to repress her tears, and before he had finished she had
resolved she would exert all the influence she possessed over her
husband to persuade him to take Ashton on trial; for she felt it
would be a noble thing to aim at the redemption of this man from
evil, and to give help, hope, and joy to his wife and children, of
whom he had spoken so tenderly.

"Well, Martha," said Mr. Gurney, after Ashton had departed, "would
it be safe for us to employ him?"

He asked this in all sincerity; for he was a man who consulted his
wife in relation to all his business affairs. He said, "he looked
upon marriage as a partnership, the wife being an interested
member of the firm." And as he firmly believed this, he made it a
rule never to enter into any business transaction without seeking
her counsel, in regard to it, and he boasted that some of the best
hits he had made in business had been the outcome of acting upon
her advice.

"Well, my dear," she said in answer to his question, "I am
strongly in favor of giving him a chance. He is certainly a man of
more than ordinary intelligence, and he could not have that ease
and grace of manner which he possesses in so eminent a degree had
he not associated with the best society. It is certainly a great
pity he has become a victim of strong drink, but, then, if he had
not he would never have applied for the situation."

"But, Martha," interjected Mr. Gurney, "do you think it would be
in conformity with sound wisdom to engage him after the confession
he has made?"

"Yes, James, I really do, and one of the strongest reasons for my
thinking so is because of that confession. If he had protested he
had not been drinking, as most men in his circumstances would have
done, then I should have opposed your engaging him, but he was so
straightforward that he has certainly enlisted my sympathy in his
favor; and then I really think God guided him here. We have always
been advocates of temperance, and if there is one thing more than
any other for which I feel like praising Him, it is because he has
enabled us to deliver some of our fellow-mortals from lives of
intemperance, and it may be, some from drunkard's graves. But this
has been done without any great sacrifice upon our parts--that is,
we have not had to run any great risk. Now we are placed in
different circumstances, and we have an opportunity of possibly
saving one of our fellow-creatures if we are only willing to risk
a little trouble and loss in order to accomplish our object. Now,
don't you think, James, the Lord has sent him here just to try
us?"

"It has not thus occurred to me," he answered; but he did not make
any further remark, wishing to hear all his wife had to say before
doing so.

"I think, James," she continued, "the reason that the cause of
temperance has not gained greater triumphs, has been because its
advocates have not been willing to make sacrifices enough: let us
not fail in this respect. There is no doubt but you would employ
Mr. Ashton if you had no fear he would again fall, for he seems to
me in every way suited for the position--if we had any doubt in
this respect his credentials should remove it. But, unfortunately,
he has been a great drinker, and, therefore, if you employ him, it
may involve you in trouble, and in the end it may result in loss;
but if you do not employ him it will be because you are afraid of
these things, that is, it will be a matter of selfishness, and you
will practically say you are a friend of temperance until it
becomes a matter which may affect your interest, but when it
touches you there you will draw back and go no further, though by
being willing to risk a little you may be the means of saving this
man, and of giving succor to his wife and helpless children. I
think, James, looking at it in this light, you should give him a
trial for a month or two if you can agree as to terms."

She had grown quite eloquent, ere she was through, for her heart
was enlisted, and she was determined, if possible, to save this
man. And, as she had listened to his description of his wife and
children, she felt as if she almost knew Mrs. Ashton, and was
certain she should esteem her very highly. So, she brought all her
powers of persuasion to bear upon her husband, that she might
persuade him to her way of thinking.

Mr. Gurney had listened to his wife attentively until she waited
for an answer, and then he scarcely knew what to say in reply. He
had, in fact, as we have stated, been also touched by Ashton's
graphic story, and he felt he would be willing to sacrifice a
great deal to save him; he also felt the force of her logic when
she argued if he were a true temperance man he would be willing to
make great sacrifice in order to rescue one of the victims of the
rum traffic, but he thought he would be running almost too much
risk to employ him under the circumstances. It was under the
influence of these counter currents of thought he made his reply:

"Well, Martha," he said, "I should like to engage the man, and I
have concluded, if he did not drink, he would just suit me, but,
according to his own statement, he has not only fallen once, but
several times, and we have no guarantee that he will not fall
again. The fact is, judging from almost universal experience, he
is more likely to fall than not, and if I should employ him, and
after he had charge of the business he should give way to his
besetting sin, he would not only cause me serious loss, but care
and worry, which, in my delicate state of health, I should, if
possible, avoid. Really, dear, I am in a strait betwixt two; I
should like very much to help him, for, I will candidly confess,
that no stranger, in so short a period of time, ever took hold of
my feelings as he has done, and yet to put him in charge of my
business, after the confession he has made, seems so contrary to
the dictates of sound judgment as, in fact, to be actually
courting trouble. But, my dear, let us not say anything more about
it to-night; we will pray over it, and, in the morning, we will
decide what to do. God will guide us in this as He has in all our
past transactions, when we have gone to Him for guidance."

"I am perfectly content, dear, to leave it in His hands," said his
wife, "but I am nearly satisfied now that it is His will we should
employ Mr. Ashton. We will lay all the matter before him, and let
us also bring this poor victim of strong drink, and his wife and
children, before the Throne of Grace."

Mr. Gurney, after praying for Divine direction, and seriously
considering the matter, concluded he would give Ashton a trial. He
saw his wife would be seriously disappointed if he did not do so,
and he wished to gratify her as far as he possibly could. He also
thought if he took him for a comparatively limited period, on
trial, there would be no great risk in it. He, however, determined
to give him to understand the retaining of his position entirely
depended upon his good behavior.

Ashton, when he called in the morning, was agreeably surprised to
learn that Mr. Gurney had concluded to try him for a short period,
if they could agree as to salary, and as he was willing to accept
a very moderate one until he had satisfied his employer he was
worthy of something better, they were not long in coming to terms.

So the matter was settled, and Ashton was able to write home to
his wife that he had secured a situation.

"I think, my darling," he said, "I shall like the place very much.
Mr. and Mrs. Gurney (my employer and his wife) seem to be an
excellent couple. I should judge, from appearances, they are in
very easy circumstances, and very intelligent and cultured.

"Bayton is a beautiful, cosy, old-fashioned town, containing, I
should think, about three thousand inhabitants, and there is a
fine river running through the centre of it, nearly, if not quite,
as large as the Genesee. Its houses are, most of them, embowered
in trees; in fact, it appears like an English town Americanized,
and its inhabitants seem to have more the characteristics of
Americans than Canadians.

"The business of which I am to have the management is the best dry
goods and clothing establishment in the place. I am to remain on
trial for a month, and then, if I give satisfaction and like the
situation, I am to have a permanent engagement.

"I hope, my dear, at least for once, that old Father Time will fly
with rapid wings. I do so long to see you all again. Tell Eddie
that this is a famous river for fish, and will furnish him with
rare sport. Also tell Allie that Bayton is a famous place for
flower culture, almost every house having a flower garden in front
of it to beautify it and to fill the air with fragrant perfumes.

"I was glad to learn that papa's darling little Mamie was well;
and growing finely. You must not let her forget me. I hope Eddie
and Allie are paying strict attention to their studies; for if
they do, success is almost certain, and in after years they will
rejoice because of their present self-denial.

"And now, my darling, good-bye for the present. Kiss all the
children for their papa.

"Your affectionate husband,

"RICHARD ASHTON."




CHAPTER IX.

RUTH'S MISGIVINGS AND MENTAL AGONY.


It is now time that we should return to Ruth and her children.

After her husband had left her, as we narrated in the first
chapter, she was very sad, almost desolate, and she felt she must
retire to hold communion with Him who promised to give rest to the
weary soul who came to Him; so, leaving little Mamie in care of
Eddie and Allie, she retired to her room to weep and also to pray.
She was literally following the injunction of her Saviour--praying
to her Father in secret that He might reward her openly. The
reward she longed for was that He would protect her husband and
influence him to walk aright.

As she was thus alone--and yet not alone, for God was with her--her
memory took her back to the sunny days of her girlhood. How
bright those halcyon days appeared! She was in fancy again walking
amid the green fields and by the hedgerows of dear old England,
plucking the daisies from the meadows and listening to the sweet
strains of the lark as it carolled its lay to the morning. Sunny
visions of the past, with loved faces wandering in their golden light,
flitted before her; and her heart was filled with sadness as she
remembered the breaks that Time, with his relentless hand, had made
in that once happy number. She found herself unconsciously repeating--

  "Friend after friend departs--
    Who hath not lost a friend?
  There is no union here of hearts
    That hath not here an end."

Then the thoughts of the days when Richard Ashton came wooing,
of moonlight walks, of music and literature--these incidents of joyful
days flitted before her, each for a moment, and then vanished
away, like dissolving views. Some who sought her then were now
opulent, filling positions of honor and great responsibility; and some
of her associates who then envied her, because she was more
sought after than they, were now presiding over palatial homes.

As these visions of the happy days of yore passed like fairy
dreams before her she heaved an involuntary sigh as she
passionately exclaimed: "Oh drink, thou hast been our curse;
turning our happiness into misery; our Eden of bliss into a waste,
weary wilderness of poverty and woe!"

"Mamma, mamma, may I tum, I have such a petty flower to show oo."

It was the voice of little Mamie, and, as her mother opened the
door, she came in, an almost perfect picture of innocent beauty;
as with eyes sparkling with delight she held up to her mother a
large and beautiful pansy.

"Isn't that petty, mamma? and wasn't Eddie a dood boy to get it
for me? Now, mamma, I'm dust going to save it for papa. Will you
put it up for him?"

Mrs. Ashton hastily turned away her head, and wiped her eyes, so
that her child might not see traces of her recent tears. She then
turned, and taking Mamie in her arms brushed her golden curls,
which, young as she was, hung down her back, falling in rippling
waves of sunlight over her fair young form, and assured her she
would put away the flower for dear papa.

Little Mary, or as they called her Mamie, was born, as we have
already noticed, a short time after they came to Rochester. She
was a beautiful child, and in some respects seemed to resemble
each of her parents; for she had the complexion and large, dreamy
eyes of her mother and the features of her father. And in
disposition and mental characteristics she also inherited
qualities from both father and mother; for she possessed the
sprightly animation of the former which ever and anon bubbled over
in gentle, kindly mischief. While she, also, possessed the
guileless trustfulness of the latter, and seemed never so happy as
when she nestled peacefully in the arms of one she loved, and
listened to a simple story of the good in other days, or was
charmed by some beautiful song or hymn, which it was her delight
to help sing.

As one looked at her fair young face--her sunny curls and regular
classic features--either sparkling with animation or melting with
tenderness, they wondered not that she was the pet of home, and
generally beloved, for with such beauty and such gentle witcheries
she could not fail to win hearts.

"Mamma," she said, after her mother had kissed her, "Why has papa
don away? I 'ove my papa ever so much, and I asked him, before he
went away, if he 'oved oo and Eddie and Allie, and he taid he did,
and that he 'oved me, his 'ittle sunbeam, too, and ett he has don
and left us all. I am so sorry papa has don."

As Mamie said this the tears began to glisten in her eyes, and
then sparkling for a moment, in their blue settings, ran in pearly
drops down over her cheeks. Her mother snatched her closely to her
to quiet her sobbings; but, in a moment or two, was weeping in
sympathy with her child.

"My darling," she said, "papa has gone away to find another home
for us all, and after awhile he will come back for us, then my
little Mamie will be her papa's sunbeam again."

"But, mamma, I don't want to go, I dust want to 'top where we are
now, for Eddie was saying, yesterday, that papa was in Tanada, and
that he was coming over after us. And he taid, mamma that Tanada
was so cold we would not have any petty flowers there, and I don't
want to leave all my petty flowers. I dust want to stay here in
our nice home."

"Eddie should not talk so to his little sister," said her mother,
"and I do not think we will find Canada much colder than this
country. God will take care of us there, Mamie, if we are good and
pray to Him, and He will also take care of papa if we ask Him to
do so."

"Will He, mamma?" said Mamie, "den I will ask Him."

She knelt down, and clasping her tiny hands looked heavenward with
sweet trustfulness as she murmured: "Dod bless my papa, and take
care of him." And then she added--the thought seeming to come
intuitively to her mind. "O, Dod, don't let my papa drink, taus
den he is tross to my dear mamma and to Eddie and Allie; and he
don't 'ove mamma den. Dust let him come home nice.--Amen."

Her mother was strangely moved at her child's prayer and murmured,
Amen. And as the little innocent knelt there, a perfect picture of
seraphic beauty, purity, innocence and faith, the thought of the
poet came to her mind--

  "O man, could thou in spirit kneel beside that little child;
   As fondly pray, as purely feel, with heart as undefiled;
   That moment would encircle thee with light and love divine,
   Thy soul might rest on Deity, and heaven itself be thine."

And she prayed that God might ever keep her as innocent and pure.




CHAPTER X.

ALL IN CANADA.


Time seemed to creep along very slowly for the next two days to
Ruth Ashton. She sent Eddie to the Post Office, and when he came
without a letter she was terribly disappointed. She exclaimed:
"Oh, I am afraid he has broken his promise and is drinking again;
for he certainly would have written if he were not!"

If those Christians and respectable members of society, who favor
the drinking usages and oppose with all the power of their
intellect the passing of a law to do away with its sale, only
experienced for one short day the agony which wrung the heart of
that sensitive, loving woman, that experience would do what the
tongue of the most eloquent pleader would utterly fail to
accomplish; that is, turn them to hate the traffic as they hate
the father of evil.

Her mind was preyed upon by doubt, fear, terrible anxiety. "If he
were drinking, in a strange country, what would become of him? She
remembered he had considerable money with him; also, when he was
intoxicated he always became reckless, and would be almost certain
to display it, and thus, probably, tempt some hard character to
rob or murder him.

"Oh, my Father, protect him!" she exclaimed in her anguish, as she
knelt before Him who was her only help and consolation in such
times of trouble.

The next morning Eddie was again sent for a letter, and as he came
with one in his hand, the mother grasped it impulsively. But, a
moment after, thinking her action might appear strange to Eddie,
she kissed him affectionately, and said: "Excuse your mamma; my
boy, I was so anxious to read papa's letter that I forgot myself."

The reader has already been made acquainted with the contents of
that letter, and when Ruth had read it her worse fears were not
allayed--rather, confirmed.

She wrote to him immediately--not expressing her fears, but filling
her letter with words of love and confidence, thinking that by
thus doing it would influence him, at least to some extent, to
endeavor to prove to her that her confidence had not been
misplaced.

She did not hear from him again for more than two weeks, though
either she or the children wrote him several letters in the
meantime. The agony she endured during that period I will allow
the reader to imagine.

At length Eddie brought home the letter, the contents of which I
have given in a former chapter. It relieved her heart of a great
burden. In fact, she felt some compunctions of conscience--she
thought she must have judged him wrongfully, for it hardly seemed
possible to her that a stranger to her husband would have engaged
him, if he had presented himself immediately after a long
continued debauch.

That night, as she knelt by her bedside, she thanked God for His
loving-kindness to her, in her hour of great trial. But, after she
had retired and began to think over what the letter contained, she
found that while, on the whole, its contents gave her great cause
for thankfulness, yet, that it made her feel inexpressibly
sad--sad, because she would have again to part with tried and true
friends and go among strangers.

Never in her life had she been the recipient of more gentle
attentions and delicate expressions of kindness than since she had
resided in Rochester. True, some of her neighbors were more
curious in regard to her affairs than she thought was consistent
with good breeding, and sometimes they made inquiries which she
did not wish to answer, but which she did not know how to evade
without giving offence. However, this trait of a certain class of
her American friends--and which, by-the-bye, has furnished a fund
for humorists the world over--was more than redeemed by their
genuine kindness and willingness to help upon every possible
occasion. And some, she thought, were noble examples of what men
and women are when in them natural goodness is joined with
intelligence and culture; for they seemed to divine her wants like
a quick-witted person will catch at a hint, and any service
rendered was so delicately tendered that it almost left the
impression upon the mind of the recipient that a favor had been
granted in its acceptance. In fact, she had been favorably
impressed with her acquaintances in Rochester from the first, and
now she was about to leave, their kindly attentions endeared them
to her so as to make it very hard for her to separate from them;
for, day after day, they vied with each other in doing everything
which kindness could suggest to prepare her for her anticipated
journey.

And Ruth herself was employing every moment, for she never doubted
her husband would have a permanent engagement. She had clothes to
provide for the children, and her own wardrobe to replenish, so
that all might be well prepared to go among strangers.

Eddie and Allie, also, had their own sorrows and trials. At first
they said they would not leave their old home. Child-like, they
thought Rochester was the only place in the wide, wide world where
they could live and find pleasure; and as they had but dim
recollections of England, and all the persons, objects, and scenes
which they loved, and around which their memories lingered, were
centred there, it is not surprising it was the dearest spot on
earth to them, nor that it seemed very hard to leave their school
and school-mates, their trees and flowers, and the many and varied
objects which had been familiar to them for so many years.

"I do wish mamma would coax father not to move among strangers,
especially when it is a cold country like Canada he is going to. I
declare, it is too bad to leave everything we like behind, and go
among those we won't care for, and who will not care for us."

As Eddie spoke, the tears began to glimmer in his eyes, for he
certainly thought their lot was a hard one.

Allie agreed to use all her powers of persuasion to prevail upon
their mother to influence their father not to take them from
Rochester.

It was at one of these little indignation meetings they had given
expression to the speeches which had been reported to their mother
by Mamie. This called forth a remonstrance from her, and she
pointed out to them how selfish and sinful it was to talk as they
had been doing. This had the desired effect, and they promised not
to murmur again, and the promise was kept; for they truly loved
their mother, and would not do anything which they thought would
grieve her.

"I tell you, Allie," said Eddie, one day, "it won't be so bad
after all; for if we are lonesome, when we are not helping father
and mother, you can be working in your flower garden, and I can
help you; and if the fishing is as good as father thinks it is,
won't I enjoy it? I tell you it will be jolly, and if I catch some
big ones I will be able to write back and tell Harry Wilson and
Jim Williams about it."

The eyes of Eddie sparkled with animation as he was looking
forward and by anticipation enjoying these pleasures--forgetting,
for the time being, the hardships which a short period before had
stirred up such rebellious feelings; and then they settled into a
more thoughtful expression as he continued: "Father says there is
a good high school there, and I will, if I can, be the best in my
class there, as I have been here."

"Well," said Allie, "I think we were naughty to speak as we did,
and we caused mamma to grieve. She says God knows what is best,
and that we should be satisfied to leave everything in His hands.
I am sure I shall enjoy myself helping mamma and attending to my
flower garden; for I know you will help me to make the beds, and
we will also make a nice tiny one for Mamie, too. O! won't that be
splendid?"

"I hope," continued Eddie, "that father will keep from drink
there. I am sure mamma thinks he has been drinking since he has
been away, and she is almost grieving herself to death about it.
Oh, I don't see how it is that he don't leave whiskey alone!"

"I do wish he would," said Allie; "for sometimes, when I see mamma
looking so sad, I go to my room and cry, and, Eddie, I often pray
to God to keep papa from drink. Do you think He will hear and
answer me, Eddie?"

"I guess He will," said Eddie. "Mamma says so, and she knows. I
always say my prayers, Allie, but I don't do much more praying. I
think you girls are better than we boys, anyway."

"I don't know," replied his sister; "I think I am bad enough, and
I pray to God to make me better. I think the girls quarrel just as
much the boys, and though they may not swear and talk so roughly,
yet I think they speak far more spitefully."

"I never thought so," said Eddie.

"Well, they do. Why, just yesterday, Sarah Stewart, because I got
ahead of her in our spelling class, twitted me about father's
drinking, and said 'a girl who had an old drunkard for a father
need not put on such airs.' And, Eddie, I did not say anything to
her to make her speak so, only teacher put me up because I knew my
lesson better."

"If a boy, had twitted me like that I would have knocked him
down." And he clenched his teeth and doubled up his fist as he
spoke, which left no doubt in the mind of his sister that he would
have tried his best to have done as he said.

"Well, Eddie, that would have been wicked; it would have grieved
mamma, and, besides, it would have brought you to the level of the
one who insulted you. I was very angry at first, and almost felt
like slapping her, but then I thought how low it would be. When I
cried, the other girls, who heard what she said, shamed her. I
stopped them, for I pitied her. I would pity any girl, Eddie, who
could do so low a thing, and every night since then I have prayed
for her."

"You are a good little puss," said Eddie, as he kissed her.

"Not very good," she answered, "for I am sometimes quick-tempered
and hateful, but I do try to be good."

Richard Ashton gave good satisfaction, and was hired for a year
with a salary that exceeded his expectations. He rented a suitable
house, filling up in every respect the promises made in his
letter. Then, getting leave of absence for a week, he came over
for his wife and family.

He found a purchaser for his property in his next door neighbor,
who paid half down and gave him his note for the remainder, which
would expire a year from date.

He could not, try how he would, keep from feeling sad at leaving
his American home and many friends: for Richard was himself again,
and now saw, in its true light, his former foolishness. In his
heart he sincerely liked the Americans, and left them with regret.

The hearts of Ruth and her children were almost too full for
utterance, and when the time of parting came they did not attempt
to give expression to their sorrow in words. They parted with many
regrets from the dear old home that had sheltered them so long,
and that would be hallowed in their memory forever more; and from
the many friends who had treated them so kindly, some of whom they
would never meet again. In a few days they were kindly welcomed
and settled in their new home.




CHAPTER XI.

AUNT DEBIE AND HER FRIENDS.


"Did I not tell thee, Phoebe, that I was sartan there was going to
be a death, and like enough more than one? Does thee not remember
I told thee that on the first day, just before William Gurney
died? And thee sees now that what I said has come troo, for both
William and Annie have died since."

"Yes," said the person addressed as Phoebe, "thee then said thee
had warning of death and knoo some one was going to die, and that
thee thought there was going to be more than one. I remember just
as plainly as if thee had said it not more'n a minute ago."

"I thought thee'd mind it," said the first speaker, and there was
an accent of triumph in the tone of her voice as she spoke.

"I have known thee to tell before of things that jest happened as
thee said they would. Why, thee told there was going to be a death
just before Martha Foxe's child died; and whenever thee has told
me that such was to be the case, I ain't never known it to fail.
Tell us, Aunt Debie, how thee is able to foretell things as thee
does."

"Well, Phoebe, there is more ways than one that I get warnings. If
in the night I hear three loud raps, one after the other, I am
then sartan there is goen to be a death; and if there is more than
three then I knows there is goen to be more'n one death. If the
raps are loud and sharp, then I know the death or deaths are to be
right away; but if they be kind of easy like, I then know it will
be quite a while. Now, I hearn three raps last night. I was
awakened about one o'clock. I knoo it was one, 'cause I had the
rheumatiz so bad I couldn't sleep, and so I got up and went to the
fire to keep warm. I thought I would put my horn to my ear, and I
jest caught the faintest sound of the roosters crowin'; so when I
hearn that I knoo what time it was. Jest a little after that I
went back to bed, and I hadn't been there more'n a minute of two
before I hearn a rap, and then, in a little, I hearn another, and
then another; they sounded far away like, and awfully solemn. Is
it not strange that I can hear these things, when I cannot hear
anything else?"

"Yes," said Phoebe, "it is strange; but God's ways are mysterious
to us, and past finding out."

"Well," continued Aunt Debie, "I am sartan there is goen to be
another death; for I never hear these things but some of our
friends die."

"Oh," said Phoebe, solemnly, "I wonder who will be called for this
time."

"God knows best," remarked Debie, "and he ain't going to do wrong;
we must larn to trust Him."

"And then," she continued, "I have another way of knowing when
there is to be trouble, sickness, and death. If I dream of a
person walking through a corn or wheat field, I am then sartan
there is going to be trouble or sickness; if they are cutting the
wheat, or plucking the ears of corn, it is then sure to be
followed by a death. I suppose God reveals these things to me by
figures, the same as He did to Simon Peter in the long ago; for
ain't we all jest like wheat waiting for the sickle, or like corn
waiting till the time comes to be plucked by the Death Angel? I
suppose my heavenly Father reveals more to me than He does to
others, 'cause He, in His wisdom, has taken so much from me. He
has left me here a poor old woman, deaf, blind, and lame. I can't
see the faces of my friends through these poor sightless eyes, nor
the beauties of the fields and sky, nor the blossoms and fruit of
the trees, nor the flowers in the garden; neither can I hear the
sweet music of the birds, nor even the prattle of the dear little
children who come and kiss me, and let me play with their curls,
save through this horn. He only knows"--and Aunt Debie looked up
as she spoke--"how I long sometimes to see them. But, Father, Thou
knowest what is best: 'Though Thou slayest me, yet will I trust in
Thee.'"

This conversation occurred in Mrs. Gurney's parlor; for both Mr.
and Mrs. Gurney were originally Quakers, but, settling in Bayton
in their early married life, they joined another body, though they
ever retained a profound respect for the Church of their
childhood. In fact a great many of their relatives, and a very
large circle of friends in the surrounding country, belonged to
that body; and, as they are a people who are especially noted for
their social qualities and for their warm attachment to kinsfolk
and friends, the Gurneys very frequently received visits from
them.

The conversation, part of which I have given to my readers, took
place upon one of these visits. One of the parties present on this
occasion deserves more than a passing notice, as she was an
uncommon character.

Deborah Donaldson, or, as she was always called, "Aunt Debie,"
was, "after the strictest sect of her religion," a Quaker, and she
never quite forgave James and Martha Gurney for leaving the Church
of their fathers. She had been a widow for more than thirty years,
her husband having been killed by the falling of a limb from a
tree which he was chopping down, and she had been blind and deaf
for the greater part of that time.

She had been a woman of very great energy, and there were some who
hinted that she was the controlling member of the matrimonial firm
when the now lamented Donaldson was living. Whether there was any
truth or not in that report it is not for the writer to say, but
she was certainly a woman of great force of character--a living
embodiment of the Scripture maxim, "Whatsoever thy hand findeth to
do, do it with all thy might." And even now, in extreme old
age--for she was more than four score--though in many ways she
manifested she had entered her second childhood, she yet retained
a great deal of her original energy. As I have illustrated, though
she possessed genuine piety, it was so mingled with superstition
as to leave it difficult to decide which exerted the controlling
influence.

If any of my readers have associated to any extent with the
people in the rural districts, especially those of American or
Dutch-American descent, they, no doubt, have observed that a great
many of the older and more illiterate ones among them are very
superstitious, being implicit believers in signs, charms,
apparitions, etc.; and most of them, also, entertain the opinion
that the moon exerts an occult influence over many things of vital
importance to the residents of this mundane sphere; and no power
that could be brought to bear could induce some of them to plant
corn, make soap, kill pigs, or perform many other important duties
in certain phases of the moon, for they would be positive if they
did it would result in dire disaster.

There are also sounds and signs which are looked upon as warnings
of coming woe; for instance: three knocks in the still hours of
the night are considered a "death call," and when heard by them
they expect soon to learn of the decease of a friend. Dreams are
the certain presages of coming events--of prosperity and
happiness, of sorrow, disease, and death.

Now, Aunt Debie and her friends were firm believers in these
things, and the former was looked upon as one who was favored with
receiving more signs, seeing more visions, and dreaming more
dreams, than any person in that section of country. She was also
viewed by her friends as an oracle, in interpreting these signs;
and she, having no doubt in regard to her own endowments, accepted
in perfect faith their eulogium of her power in this respect.

Another present at the time to which we refer was a sister of Aunt
Debie's, some ten years younger than herself, Phoebe Barrett by
name. She was attended by her husband, whom she addressed as
Enoch. He certainly was not the predominant spirit of the family;
for he was so quiet and unobtrusive as to scarcely ever utter a
word, except it might be to make a remark in regard to the weather
or answer a question. There was also a young Quakeress by the name
of Rachel Stebbins, a distant relative of the others, and they
were all related to Mr. and Mrs. Gurney.

"Did thee have any peculiar dreams lately, Aunt Debie?" asked
Rachel Stebbins. "I had a perfectly awful one the other night."

"Doo tell. What was it, Rachel?" said Aunt Debie.

"I dreamt," continued Rachel, "that I was standing by an open
grave; and it appeared to me, jest before they lowered the coffin
into it, they took the lid off from the coffin, and in it was the
corpse of a young girl, white as chalk, but she appeared as if she
must have been very pretty when she was living. There were orange
blossoms on her bosom and also in her hair. The features 'peared
familiar, but I could not, for the life of me, make out who she
was, nor can I yet, though I see her ghastly face ever before me,
and think I shall thus see it until the day I die. And what 'pears
to me as singular is, that I saw every one that is here now there,
and a great many more of our relatives and friends, and all were
weeping as if she were some one very near and dear to them. Now,
what does thee make of that dream?"

"What did thee eat before thee went to bed, Rachel?" asked Mr.
Gurney, who came into the room while she was relating her dream.
He was by nature inclined to be reserved, but yet possessed a fund
of quiet humor, and he delighted to quiz Aunt Debie and her Quaker
friends in respect to their superstitious fancies. But Aunt Debie
could not look upon this levity with any degree of allowance, in
fact, she viewed it as little else than profanity. "Did thee eat
mince pie, dough nuts, or plum cake? If thee did, thee must be
more careful in thy diet, or thee may dream something even more
terrible the next time."

Rachel Stebbins repeated to Aunt Debie what Mr. Gurney had said,
which so roused the old lady that she said to him, with
considerable asperity in the tone of her voice:

"I know thee always laughs at these things, James; but thee may be
convinced some day in a manner that thee will not like, and then
thee will be sorry that thee made so light of it."

And then addressing Rachel, she said, in answer to her question:
"Well, Rachel, when I dream of a death I always expects to hear of
a wedding. I have never known it to fail. And thee will see that
some friend of ours will be getting married soon, and then thee
will wonder how strangely contrary these kinds of dreams is. Why,
before Jonas Head was married to Prudence Leggit, I seed him laid
out in his shroud as plainly as I used to see thee; and a short
time after that I hearn that he was married. Now, thee just watch
if this dream don't end in the same way."

"But, Debie," said Phoebe, "thee was telling me the other day
about dreaming of Charles Dalton walking through the cornfield.
Will thee tell it to us now?"

This was a request that would yield a great amount of satisfaction
to Aunt Debie, for she was always delighted to be asked to relate
her dreams and the warnings she received of coming woe. Phoebe, of
course, was well aware of this, and it was partially because of it
that she asked the question; but the strongest motive power that
moved her was that she herself was a strong believer in the
supernatural. And though men will not acknowledge it, or rarely do
so, nevertheless all are more or less influenced by a certain
undefined and shadowy belief in the supernatural, even in this
grosser shape; and I believe most have a desire, though mixed with
a strange dread, to listen to its relation.

"Well," began Aunt Debie, responding to Phoebe's request, "I
dreamt I saw before me a field of waving corn. It was nearly ready
to cut, and the wind moaned through it, as it bent and shook
before it, and the tassels glinted in the moonlight like ghosts
keeping watch. And then there seemed to be something gliding
through the corn; at first it was nothing but a shadow, but after
a little it 'peared more plain, and at last I could see the
features--it was the face of Charles Dalton. And then way down at
the other end of the field I could see men, though not very plain,
but just like shadows, and they were cutting the corn. I tell thee
there is going to be some terrible trouble come to him ere long,
and before many years he will die."

Just after Phoebe had asked the question, Ruth Ashton came in and
was introduced to the company, with the exception of Aunt Debie,
Mrs. Gurney explaining that the latter was blind and deaf, and
telling Mrs. Ashton she would introduce her to the old lady when
she had finished relating and explaining her dream.

Mrs. Ashton had been invited to spend the afternoon with them, and
had accepted the invitation.

After Aunt Debie had finished relating her dream and giving her
interpretations of its meaning, Mr. Gurney moved his chair over
near her and asked: "Were you talking and thinking of Charles
Dalton, and of his unfortunate drinking habits, also of his being
nearly drowned, before you went to bed the night you dreamed that
dream?"

"Ye-s," said Aunt Debie, "I--was." She made the admission very
reluctantly; for she immediately saw the inference Mr. Gurney
wished to draw.

"And did thee not eat plum cake and cheese just before retiring?"
He knew the old lady was very partial to the edibles he mentioned,
and suspected that because she had yielded to her weakness she had
been disturbed by dreams.

"Well," he said, "thee ate the cheese and plum cake, and these
indigestibles caused thee to dream; and thee believes that to
dream of persons walking in a cornfield and plucking ears of corn
is a sign of disease and death. You were talking of Charles Dalton
and of his unfortunate drinking habits, also of his being nearly
drowned lately. Now, what is more natural than that you should
dream of him of whom you were thinking just before you went to
sleep, and that your sleeping thoughts should be influenced by
your waking ones, and by your opinions in regard to such dreams?"

"Thee can always explain things to suit thine own notion, James
Gurney. Does thee not believe that God can give warnings now the
same as He did in the days of old? Did He not give warnings to
Samuel of Eli's coming trouble? Likewise of Saul's? And to Nathan
of David's? And is there not many other places in the Bible where
it speaks of warnings given? Now let me ask, Is not God 'the same
yesterday, today, and forever,' and, if so, can He not do as well
now as He did then? _I wonder at thee, James Gurney_!"--and
the old lady raised her voice as she uttered the last sentence.

Mr. Gurney thought it better not to argue the point, so he put his
mouth to her horn and said: "Thee and I had better not argue any
further, Aunt Debie. Thee always gets the better of me anyway. But
were not Judge McGullett and Sheriff Bottlesby with Charles
Dalton, and were they not the ones who furnished him with the
liquor that intoxicated him?"

"Yes, they were," said the old lady. But we will leave the
remainder of her reply to another chapter.




CHAPTER XII.

A WORTHY SHERIFF AND JUDGE--DR. DALTON.


Aunt Debie continued: "They were out shooting on the marsh, and
the jedge and the sheriff had whiskey with them, of which I guess
they drank as much as he did, but it 'pears they was able to stand
it better, for they did not get drunk. I think it is a disgrace to
this county to have a drunken jedge and sheriff. The idea of the
judge setting on the bench and trying men for breaking the law!
And yet he will intice other men to drink that which will fit them
to commit the crime which, if they come before him, he will punish
them for doing. And the sheriff will take them to jail when they
are condemned by the jedge, though he helped to prepare them for
the evil work they did."

"I agree with you, Aunt Debie," said Mrs. Gurney, speaking for the
first time. "These two men being allowed to hold such high
positions is not only a disgrace to this county but also to
Canada. Men who hold offices of trust and grave responsibility
should be patterns to the community, and above reproach.
Especially should this be the case with a judge. He should be a
man not only of the highest legal talent, and with a broad,
judicial mind, but also of a pure and lofty character. How ever
they came to appoint a man with the loose habits of Judge
McGullett to the position is a mystery to me."

"Why, my dear," said Mr. Gurney, "it was given him because he
worked for his party. He has ever been a man of low instincts and
loose habits, though he was considered what is called a smart
lawyer. In my opinion this did not qualify him for his position as
judge. A man may be cunning, and so is a fox. He may have the
qualities which enable him to browbeat a witness, and so has a
bully. He may have great volubility, and so has a Billingsgate
fishwife. He may even have considerable legal acumen, and yet be
narrow and coarse. A man to be a judge, as you just remarked,
should be of a broad, judicial mind, able to look at a case in all
its bearings, to sift evidence, balance probabilities, and, being
above prejudice and every outward influence, should decide a case
on its merits. And I believe with you and Aunt Debie, that he
should be as far above anything that is coarse or impure in his
private life as above suspicion in his public capacity. But I look
upon our present judge as the farthest remove from this; he was a
good party hack, and, to the shame of the government in power
when he was appointed be it said, he was rewarded for his
unscrupulousness by being elevated to the bench of our county.

"In regard to Sheriff Bottlesby, he is a man who is almost beneath
contempt; he has neither the brains, dignity, nor character to fit
him for such a position. He cunningly worked to pack a caucus to
secure the choice of our present member as a candidate to the
local legislature, with the understanding, no doubt, if his
efforts were crowned with success, that he should receive his
reward. By low cunning, and resorting to means that no honorable
man could employ, he succeeded. The last occupant of the position
was found to be too old, and therefore asked to retire; and
Bottlesby was rewarded for his faithfulness by getting the vacant
position, though his predecessor was infinitely his superior in
every respect.

"The fact is, everything that is pure and good in the government
of our country is being dragged through the mire of party
politics. If a measure is brought forward, I am afraid the
question is not, Will this be for the best interest of society or
the country? but, Will it help or hurt the party? If a public
position of great responsibility becomes vacant, they do not
appoint the man who is best qualified to fill it, but the one who
has done the most for his party. And in some instances when they
have not places for those who have been their subservient tools,
they make them by removing, on some trivial pretext, those who are
the occupants of the position, utterly regardless of the fact that
it may cause misery to the ones removed and their families. If
this evil is allowed to grow unchecked, our country will ere long
be cursed with a system similar to that introduced into the United
States by Burr and Jackson, and forcibly expressed by the words of
an unscrupulous politician, 'To the victor belongs the spoil.'"

Mr. Gurney became quite excited while he was making this speech,
for it was a subject upon which he had often thought, and with a
great deal of solicitude. In fact, it was about the only topic which
could have inspired him to speak with so much bitterness, and it
was also the only time any of his friends had seen him so animated
since his great bereavement. He was a man too broad in his views
to make principle subservient to party. He had a party, and believed
that it was necessary in the government of a country that such
should exist; but he would not be a mere tool and follow his leaders,
even though he could not endorse their policy. He said he would
not vote for a man whom he believed was unprincipled, even if his
party, through the caucus system, did make him their standard-bearer.
He was strongly of the opinion that men who were not pure in private
life should not be entrusted to conduct public affairs; and if the
party to which he gave allegiance chose such a man as their candidate,
he would not so violate his conscience as to give him his support,
for he would not trample his honor and principle in the dust for any
party.

As Mr. Gurney has given to my readers some idea of Judge McGullett
and Sheriff Bottlesby, I will give a sketch of Charles Dalton, the
one whose name had been associated with those two worthies.

He was the only son of Aunt Debie's youngest sister. This sister
had not married a Quaker, and in this respect differed from the
rest of the family. Her husband was, however, a farmer in very
comfortable circumstances, and was chosen, because of his superior
intelligence, as reeve of the township in which he resided; but he
had become a poor, besotted victim of strong drink, and driving
home from Bayton one night, while in a helpless state of
intoxication, he was thrown from his buggy, being so injured by
the fall as never to recover consciousness, and died the following
day. He left his wife and only child--a son, three years old--ample means.

Mrs. Dalton, much to the surprise of the Mrs. Grundys of the
neighborhood, never married again, but seemed to devote her life
to her son, whom she loved with a passionate tenderness. He, from
a very early age, manifested that he was a child of quick parts:
he seemed to master in a short time, with consummate ease, lessons
that would tax the brains of others for hours; and he had a
prodigious memory. He was also a general favorite, because of his
chivalrous character and amiable disposition. In fact, this last
element of character was his weakness, for he was so amiable as to
sometimes be persuaded to enter into engagements against the
dictates of his better judgment.

When he reached the age necessary for him to decide as to his
future course of action, he chose medicine for his profession. He
first took an Arts course in Toronto University, and then entered
one of the Medical Schools of that city, in both institutions
taking front rank as a student.

He had, previous to his entering the Medical School, neither
smoked nor drank, and even when there, though he was almost alone
in this respect, his companions found it impossible to tempt him.
His mother had suffered so much from drink that she had taught him
to shrink from even a glass that contained it as he would from a
rattlesnake. But visiting one day at an old friend of his
mother's, who was at that time residing in Toronto, a glass of
wine was placed before him; and as all the rest drank, he, through
fear of being laughed at for being singular, drank too. He would,
no doubt, have passed through the ordeal unscathed, had not the
eldest daughter of his host, a handsome young girl of eighteen,
said to him, when she saw he hesitated, "Take a glass, Charley; it
will do you good, and cannot possibly do you any harm."

Now, he had conceived a warm attachment for her, and had every
reason to believe that his attentions were not distasteful to her;
so, when she made the remark, he no longer hesitated, but took the
fatal first glass. As he and a companion were on their way home
from Mr. Fulton's to their boarding-house, the companion said:
"Come, Charley, let us go into Frank's and take a glass of ale;"
and, since he had taken the wine, it strangely presented itself to
his consciousness as a reason why he should not refuse to take the
beer. Thus Satan leads us on by first tempting us to transgress,
then making our first sin an argument to sweep away all objections
in regard to committing others. Dalton took the ale; and the enemy
having broken down the barriers of his temperance principles, it
was not long ere he had full possession of the citadel. In fact,
in a short time after he had taken his first glass, he and several
of his fellow-students had, what they termed, "a regular spree."

His mother, fortunately for her, did not live to hear of her son's
sad fall; for, as she was sitting in her easy chair one day, she
was suddenly seized with a pain near her heart, asked to be
assisted to bed, and before the doctor could arrive she was dead.

"Died of heart disease," said the doctor; and then he added:
"There is no doubt it resulted from her husband's death. She has
never recovered from the shock; and though she has lived for
years, she might have dropped off at any moment if she had been
the least excited."

But she received her call home while sitting in her chair reading
the 14th chapter of St. John's Gospel; asked to be carried to her
bed, and, after being propped up by pillows, she said to her
attendant, "Elizabeth, I think I am dying; tell Charley my last
thoughts were of him." And then, looking heavenward, she murmured,
"God bless and guard my own dear boy," and in another moment she
was dead. But "the silver cord was loosed" as if by seraph
fingers, and "the golden bowl was broken" so gently that she
scarcely felt the stroke of the Death Angel. They laid her to rest
while yet in her prime by the side of the husband of her youth.

The son was sadly stricken by his mother's death, for he had a
very strong affection for her; and for a long time after his
return to the Medical College--in fact, until he had taken his
diploma--he remained perfectly sober; but in the banquet that he
and the rest of his class held to celebrate that event he again
fell, and ere he left was so intoxicated he had to be helped to
his lodgings. From that period he seemed to lose all power of
resistance and almost all sense of shame.

He had been engaged to Mary Fulton, the young woman who, in her
innocence, first tempted him to drink, and who now bitterly
repented of her thoughtlessness; for she was a true woman, and
loved him with all the strength of her deep, sensitive nature. He,
after taking his medical degree, had started to practice in
Orchardton, a small and lovely village not far from Bayton, and
would have done exceedingly well had it not been for his drinking
propensities.

It was about a year after he had begun to practice that he met
with the adventure of which Aunt Debie and her friends were
speaking.

"God was merciful when He removed poor Rebecca before she had a
chance to hear of her boy's shameful conduct," said Aunt Debie.
"'Pears to me that the words of Scripter is come troo in his
case--'The sins of the parent has to be borne by the children to
the third and fourth generation.'"

Aunt Debie endeavored to quote from memory, and so she is to be
excused if she did not render it according to the letter.

"I believe with thee, Aunt Debie," said Mrs. Gurney. "It was a
blessed thing for Rebecca she died thinking her boy was pure; if
she had known how it was--and if she had lived a little longer she
would have been sure to have found out--it would have broken her
heart. Then she would have gone down to her grave in sorrow, and
Charles would have had his mother's death to answer for."

"I believe," said Mr. Gurney, breaking in rather abruptly, "that a
tendency to drink is transmitted from father to son--that, in
fact, it is a disease, and in this respect is similar to
consumption or insanity. Because I take this view of the case, I
have a great deal of sympathy with Charley Dalton. I am determined
to do all I can to save the boy. I heard from a lady friend the
other day who is very intimate with Mary Fulton, and she said that
the latter was experiencing deep grief because of Charley's utter
fall; for she holds herself partially responsible, because she, in
her innocence and thoughtlessness, tempted him to take his first
glass of wine. Her friends have been endeavoring to influence her
to break the engagement, but she resolutely refuses to do so. She
says she will never marry him while he continues to drink as he
does, but breaking off the engagement will be the last report, and
she declares she will never marry another."

"Well," said Phoebe, "I don't wonder she feels bad; 'pears to me I
should feel bad, too, if I had coaxed the man I thought more of
than any one else to drink, and then he went to the bad after it."

"Thee must not be too severe in thy thoughts of poor Mary," said
Mrs. Gurney, "but when thee feels like censuring her, just remember
that she has been accustomed to see wine on her father's table
ever since she was a girl. It is the custom which should be
condemned, and not poor, foolish innocents like Mary Fulton."




CHAPTER XIII.

RUTH ASHTON'S INTRODUCTION TO AUNT DEBIE RUTH'S DILEMMA.


As there was a lull in the conversation which we reported in the
last chapter, after Mrs. Gurney had finished speaking, she thought
it would be a favorable opportunity to introduce Mrs. Ashton to
Aunt Debie; so she spoke to the former, and they walked over to
the old lady's chair. Mrs. Gurney then took Mrs. Ashton's hand and
placed it in the old lady's, saying, as she did so: "Aunt Debie,
this is Mrs. Ashton, of whom thee has heard us speak!"

"Happy to meet with thee, I am sure." said Aunt Debie.

"What is thy fust name?"

"Ruth," answered Mrs. Ashton.

"That is a good Script'al name. May thee, like thy namesake, be
worthy of the Lord's blessing."

"What is thy husband's name?"

"Richard," answered Mrs. Ashton.

"And how many children has thee got?"

"We have three, a boy and two girls," and then, as if in
anticipation of the old lady's next question, she added: "Their
names are Edward, Alice Maud, and Mary; Edward is fourteen, Alice
Maud is twelve, and Mary is four, she is our baby."

"Thee had a long rest between thy second and third," remarked Aunt
Debie. "Did thee lose any?"

Ruth Ashton's face flushed slightly, for Aunt Debie was like a new
revelation to her; she had never met anyone like her before, but
she good-naturedly answered "No" to her question.

Mrs. Gurney now told Ruth she had better leave the old lady, for
she was very inquisitive, and added, by way of explanation: "She
has been blind and deaf so long that she seems to have forgotten
that some of her questions are hardly in keeping with good
manners;" and, she continued, "in her youth, where she was raised,
the habits and customs were not as they are here at the present.
Then, as she cannot see nor hear, she is naturally more
inquisitive."

Mrs. Ashton, who began to be alarmed, would gladly have left the
old lady; but, as the latter held her by the hand, she thought it
would be rude to hastily withdraw.

"It is a blessing thee has not had to pass through that sore
trial," she said. "I lost a little babe more than sixty years ago,
and I see its sweet little face now just as plainly as if it were
only yesterday that it was taken from me; and often in my dreams
it comes to me, and again I hear it prattle and crow as it did in
the days of the long, long ago. But God was good to me in taking
it away; for, while all the rest of my children are now getting
old and gray, in my memory that sweet little babe is ever young.
James and Sarah have had a harder trial. If God in His mercy,
wisdom, and love, had seen it was for the better to have taken
their children when they were young, it would not have been so
hard for them to bear; but when they were let to grow up and then
taken, leaving them alone in their age, the stroke is very hard
indeed. But they--thank God--know where to go for consolation, and
have learned to say: 'The Lord gave, and the Lord hath taken away;
blessed be the name of the Lord.'" And then, addressing Ruth, she
said: "Thee ought to be very thankful that God hath not made thee
to pass through this fire."

"I am more thankful than I can find words to express," said Ruth,
as the tears streamed from her eyes, as they also did from the
eyes of every person in the room, for, they were all strangely
moved by Aunt Debie's pathos.

"But thee has had thine own troubles, has thee not?" and Aunt
Debie asked the question significantly, as if she referred to a
particular trouble.

Mrs. Gurney now saw what she feared was coming, and she told Ruth
it would be prudent to withdraw, quietly, but as quickly as
possible.

Mrs. Gurney was secretly condemning herself for what she now felt
was to say the least, imprudence; for in a conversation she had
had with Aunt Debie she gave her an outline of the life of Richard
and Ruth Ashton, and she was now sure that the old lady was about
to refer to it. In fact, she had unfolded to her, almost in full,
the benevolent schemes they had formed for the purpose of
reforming Richard Ashton.

Ruth, in answer to Aunt Debie's question, replied: "Yes, I have
had to pass through troubles. I suppose," she added, "God has seen
that it was better for me that I should have my share, the same as
others. It would not do for any of us to be basking always in the
sunlight and experiencing nothing but pleasure; so God takes us
down in the shadow and brings sorrow upon us, that we can more
fully sympathize with our suffering fellow-creatures, and also be
made riper for heaven."

Ruth now gently withdrew her hand, and, bending down, said:
"Please excuse me, Aunt Debie, Mrs. Gurney has called me into the
conservatory."

"'Pears to me Martha is in a hurry to get thee away"--and she spoke
with some asperity of tone. "But I was going to say that I heard
thee has passed through particular trouble--that thy husband had
been a drinker, and that he had brought thee and thy children to
poverty. This must have caused thee much sufferin'; and the wust
of it is, if a man becomes a drinker, though he does break off he
is almost sartan to begin again. He never abused thee and thy
children, did he, Ruth?"

Ruth's pale face flushed red as she quickly withdrew. She did not
know what to say in the way of reply, and therefore left the room
as speedily as possible; but though she did, the tones of Aunt
Debie's voice fell distinctly upon her ear as, in her innocence,
she garrulously gave expression to her fears as to the woe that
was yet to come. "I pity the poor thing," she said; "for thee jest
mind if he does not take to drink again, such men scarcely ever
fail to do so. He will likely drink himself to death, and then she
will be a widow and her children orphans in a strange land. God
help the poor thing!'"

Mrs. Gurney closed the door to shut out the sound, but Ruth had
heard the ominous words, and they made her feel wretched. She was
not angry with Aunt Debie, for she was broad enough to understand,
after Mrs. Gurney's explanation, that what would be inquisitive
rudeness in another was to be excused in her because of her early
environments and her latter afflictions. The major portion of her
life had been passed in a primitive community, where, though its
inhabitants were as pure as they were simple and unsophisticated,
they had no conception of that fine sense of delicacy which is the
product of higher culture, and keeps one from prying into the
affairs of others. She was, in fact, an exaggerated specimen of
those primitive times, for her afflictions had preserved her from
the influences which had wrought such a transformation on those
around her. Indeed, if she, at the time of which we are writing,
could have had her hearing and her sight restored, the world would
have appeared as strange to her as it did to Rip Van Winkle after
his twenty years' sleep.

But though, as we have intimated, Ruth Ashton could, at least to
some extent, excuse the old lady, when she understood the
circumstances, this did not keep what she said from exerting such
an influence upon her, for the time being, as to entirely destroy
all peace of mind, and to cause the former to wish she had not
accepted Mrs. Gurney's invitation.

In a short time after her interview with Aunt Debie, Enoch broke
his long silence by giving expression to the opinion that "it was
time to go hum." The female members of the party acquiescing, they
quietly departed. And as her husband called on his way home from
the shop to escort her, Ruth, shortly after, bade her kind host
and hostess good-night.

Her first association with the rural inhabitants of Canada was
not of the most pleasing character, but yet they possessed
characteristics she could not help admiring; for, while there was
an entire absence of that delicate sensibility which would have
kept them from so rudely endeavoring to satisfy their curiosity,
there was exhibited, in the short time she was in their company,
so much shrewdness, common sense, and, added to this, such an
inherent hatred of shams, of vice and villany, and such a love for
the true, the pure, and the good, that she formed an opinion in
regard to them a narrower person, under the circumstances, would
be incapable of doing.

That night she slept but little, and the little she did was
broken, fitful, and disturbed by hideous dreams, in which her
husband and children, Aunt Debie, and herself, were all mixed up
in horrible confusion; and when awake she found the couplet of the
poet Campbell running through her mind--

  "The sunset of life gives me mystical lore,
   And coming events cast their shadows before"

the association of ideas in her mind quite involuntarily, as far
as her will-power was concerned, linking this creation of the poet
with Aunt Debie's ominous utterances. She finally quietly left the
side of her sleeping husband, and knelt before the Lord in prayer;
and then, returning to bed, soon fell into a peaceful slumber.




CHAPTER XIV.

A HAPPY HOME.


Richard Ashton had now settled down to business as vigorously and
keenly as in the days of the past, and he seemed not to have lost
any of his faculties by what he had passed through. And yet,
physically, a great change had come over him in the last few
years. He had aged very fast, his thick, wavy hair had lost its
glossy blackness, and was now shaded with grey and white. The hand
was not so steady as in the days of the past; the step had not so
firm a tread.

Ruth saw this with loving apprehension, and while thanking God
that He had influenced her husband so that he was as of old in his
love and kindness to her and their children, and that they had
again a happy home, she prayed he might be kept from temptation;
for she was afraid, if he fell again, he would not be long with
them, as he was only now a wreck of his former self.

And Ruth herself, though time had dealt more kindly with her than
with her husband, knew that the care and anxiety of the last ten
years had, to a serious extent, undermined her constitution and
made her prematurely old. She was now much more easily fatigued
than of yore, and there were those certain indications of time's
ravages, "busy wrinkles," forming around her eyes, though her fair
complexion was favorable to her.

She was sitting at the window one beautiful summer evening,
listening to the carolling of a bird which was perched upon the
bough of a tree that shaded the house, and little Mamie was
playing at her feet, when Allie, who was in the parlor practising
on the piano, struck up with her full-toned soprano voice:

  "Darling, I am growing old
   Silver threads among the gold
   Shine upon my brow to-day;
   Life is passing fast away."

"Why, my mamma, dear, oo have silver threads among the gold," said
Mamie. "See dare," and she pointed to the shining silver threads
that were glimmering in the sunlight amid her mother's golden
hair. "I heard Eddie say to Allie that oo had."

Allie, hearing her little sister's remarks, came out and kissed
her affectionately; then, sitting upon her mother's lap, she
lovingly entwined her right arm round her neck, while she caressed
and smoothed her hair with her left hand, and said:

"Yes, mamma, dear, there are now a great many 'silver threads
among the gold,' and yet I don't think my own dear mamma is
growing old at all." And then, as the white tears glistened in her
dark eyes, she continued: "I hope my darling mamma's life is not
passing fast away, for Eddie was saying last night that he was
sure there never was another mother so patient, loving and good as
you are;" and she kissed her again and again.

Ruth returned her child's caresses and said: "I am sure, Allie
darling, I am very happy to know my children love me so fondly;
but if God saw fit to take me, He would care for my motherless
children. He has promised to be a 'Father to the fatherless;' but
tell Eliza to hasten up tea, for here comes your pa."

The conference between mother and daughter was suddenly broken up
by the husband and father's return to his tea. He was in high
spirits, and having brought home a beautiful gros grain silk dress
as a present to Ruth, he claimed a kiss as a bounty. He said to
her: "I want you to congratulate me, dear, for Mr. Gurney has been
so well pleased with me that he has raised my salary; so it will
be the same as what I received when in Rochester, and as our
living is much cheaper here, I consider it fully equal to a
hundred dollars a year more. I am sure, dear, you find the people
equally as considerate and kind as you did in your other home. Do
you not?"

"Yes, dear, I have every cause to be thankful." She could truly
thus speak; for, with the exception of the interview with Aunt
Debie, her intercourse with her neighbors had been of the most
pleasing character. They could not, in fact, do otherwise than
treat Ruth Ashton with considerate kindness, as her amiable
disposition drew all hearts to her, and her intelligent culture
caused even the comparatively ignorant to respect her; for they
instinctively realized she was a lady.

"I am sure, Richard, dear," she said, "that wherever you and our
children are, if we are enjoying health and comparative prosperity,
I cannot but feel contented. I should be very ungrateful, indeed,
if I did not do so. Have we not every reason to be thankful? We
are living in this delightful home, and is it not like Mount Zion,
beautiful for situation?" As she spoke she drew aside the curtain,
and looked out upon the flowers and gravelled walks which,
sweeping in a circle, enclosed a closely-cropped lawn, with
flower-beds on either side of and bordering them, and through
an opening they could see the broad river that gradually widened
until it entered the bay, which was dotted here and there with
white sails, and away in the dim distance they could just discern
the blue waters of the wide-sweeping Ontario. And, as she opened
the window the breeze came fresh from the bay, catching, as it
came, the fragrance of the clover and flowers, which had an
exhilarating effect upon those who inhaled its fragrance. In fact,
her words were emphasized by the silent but poetic eloquence
of the surroundings.

Just then Eddie came in, bringing a fine string of fish. He had
been angling in a stream which flowed into the river, a little
more than a mile from the town, and had succeeded in capturing
some really fine trout. His father, as he looked at them, said
they were "speckled beauties," and they were; for, after counting
them and finding there were nineteen, the scales were brought in,
when they were found to weigh ten pounds.

Eddie's eyes sparkled with triumph. He enjoyed his success all the
more because his father had indulged in a little good-natured
banter as he was starting away, asking him if he should send out a
cart to bring home what he would catch. He now felt he could turn
the laugh against his father.

But who has ever yet caught a fine string of fish without being
proud of his success? Even my reader, who may have reached life's
summit, and is now on the steep decline, if he ever has indulged
in the "gentle art," so beautifully delineated by quaint old Izaac
Walton, will, I think, acknowledge that even yet he feels somewhat
elated when he is so fortunate as to bring home a nice basket of
the "speckled beauties," thus manifesting to all that his hand has
not lost its cunning; but his feelings are cold when compared to
the joy that animates the youthful heart under similar circumstances.

Let any gentleman who may read these pages go back, in memory, to
the sunny days of boyhood, when he returned home with a "fine
string"--the result of a day's fishing--how enthusiastically he
entered into the description of the manner in which the big ones
were captured. And then, with a tinge of regret in the tones, how
graphically he related the escape of some monster of the stream,
which, probably, carried away the hook and part of the line. If
you can remember such episodes in your life, now, alas! in the
long ago--and if you cannot the author sincerely pities you--then
you can have some idea of the triumph of Eddie Ashton upon the
evening in question. He had fished on several occasions in the
river and bay, both with rod and with trolling line, and had been
moderately successful, catching some fine pike and bass--larger
indeed than he had ever seen before, even in the fish-market in
the city; but their capture did not animate him with pride like
this day's catch. He had often read of trout-fishing, and had
longed to participate in its exciting pleasures, thinking how
delighted he should be if he were ever so fortunate as to bring
home even a few; but never in his wildest dreams did he anticipate
anything like what he had now actually realized. That night he sat
down and wrote to Jim Williams, telling him of his success, and
then asking him if he thought Canada was such a slow place to live
in after all.

As the Ashton family gathered round the tea board in their neat
cosy dining-room that beautiful summer evening they presented a
picture of true happiness. They had still many things left which
they had purchased in the days of their opulence. The silver tea
set was shining upon the board as brightly now as it did fifteen
years before. The table was spread with a snow-white cloth--one
that had been brought from over the sea. The silver spoons and
china tea set were also mementos of the dear old home land. The
fare was simple but ample, and there was so much of kindly mirth
and genial wit that each one was happy.

Richard Ashton had not lost his fine sense of humor, and he dearly
loved to enjoy a joke with his wife and children, though he never
indulged in witticisms that would wound the feelings of the most
sensitive person; he was too much of a gentleman to thus torture
others.

If a person could have been present that night, without
restraining their innocent mirth, and participated in the joy of
that happy family, he would never have dreamed that less than one
short year before there had been a dark cloud of sorrow lowering
over them, shutting out all the sunlight from their view.

"Our business has been developing very rapidly lately," said Mr.
Ashton; "there has not been a period during the time in which Mr.
Gurney has been in business that the sales have equalled this
month. And this is the reason, I suppose, he has raised my salary
sooner than he promised. I think I have no cause to be discouraged
with the result."

The dark eyes of Richard Ashton flashed pleasure as he thus spoke,
and the eyes of his wife and children caught and reflected back
the light.

"Pa," said Allie, "my music teacher spoke very kindly to-day, and
said I had made much more advancement than any of his pupils. He
also said if I only had the opportunity I would be much above
mediocrity as a musician. I do wish, papa, that an opening might
occur. Ella Fair has been to Toronto for a year taking lessons
from one who is considered among the best teachers in Canada, and
yet my teacher told me to-day that neither her touch nor her
execution of difficult parts could be compared to my own."

"I am afraid," said her father, "that Mr. Stevens is praising you
so much that he will make you vain. You must remember you are only
a little girl as yet, and have to finish your studies at the High
School. I think there is too much superficiality in the education
of the young in this country, especially in the education of young
girls. There seems to be a desire for what is named the
accomplishments, while even the rudiments of an English education
are to a great extent neglected.

"Why, the young lady of whom you were speaking bought the material
for a silk dress from me to-day, and she undertook to make up the
bill, but failed to do so. I am certain I should have had no
difficulty in reckoning it when I was a mere child, eight years of
age; and though she appeared to be so estimable young lady, her
English was execrable and her slang phrases offensive to
cultivated ears. I concluded if she had only been thoroughly
taught in one of our common schools, she would have appeared to
much better advantage.

"I hope, Allie, you will not become so entirely absorbed in your
music as to neglect those primary studies, which certainly are of
much greater importance. Pastry is all very well for dessert; it
is, however, a very poor substitute for bread.

"But be diligent with your studies, dear, and then we will
probably, some day, see if something cannot be done. If you will
play a piece for me I shall be happy to listen to you after tea."

"I tay, papa," said little Mamie, "I'se going to have a foochoo,"
and she shook her head in coquettish consequence, till the curls
fell over her eyes and nearly hid them from view.

"A foochoo? What is that, little sunbeam? Is it a Chinese doll, or
a doggie, or what is it?"

Of course, by this time, the whole family had joined in a good-natured
laugh at little Mamie's expense.

"No, no, papa, a foochoo--a pant dat will have a petty fower, I
mean. Mrs. Gurney was here, and she taid she ood div me a foochoo
in a petty 'ittle pot, and dat den I ood have my own fowers, and
tood water and tend 'em all myself."

"Oh, it is a fuchsia that she is to give you! Well, I am sure papa
is glad that his little sunbeam is to have a pretty plant to tend;
and if she smiles as sweetly at it as she does at her papa, it
will be a very naughty plant indeed if it does not soon have a
great many beautiful flowers."

"Do you know, papa," said Mrs. Ashton, "that your little daughter
has learned another hymn to sing for you, and she would like to
sing it to you before you return to the store, if it will not
detain you too long."

"Is that so?" said Mr. Aston. "Then, by all means, papa must hear
it."

"I 'earned it from Allie," said Mamie, "and she has been teaching
me this 'ong, 'ong time; but dey told me I was not to 'et papa
know till I had dot it dood."

"Well, Allie," said her father, "you come and give me your piece,
and then I will hear my little Mamie."

Allie sat down at the piano and played Thalberg's "Home, Sweet
Home," and as she rendered it its sweet pathos went to the heart
of her father, and he paid her the highest compliment possible;
for when she had finished she found him with his head turned away
to hide his emotion.

It had brought back the dear old home of his boyhood, and the dear
ones who had made it so happy, but who had long, long ago gone to
the home above; and then his thoughts came back to his present
happy home, and he thought of the dear inmates who had been so
true to him when he had been so untrue to himself. The piece was,
in his estimation, the sweetest, the most thrilling, the most
delicately and tenderly touching of anything to which he had ever
listened.

"It is certainly very fine, my darling," he said, as he stooped
and kissed Allie. "I never had music exercise such a power over
me; it was almost painful in its thrilling ecstasy."

The fine dark eyes of Allie glowed with happiness as she listened
to the commendation of her father. Praise from any other lips
would be but as "sounding brass or a tinkling cymbal" when
compared with his; for her love for him, under every circumstance,
through evil as well as good report, was so great that she would
have died for him; and his praise of her singing filled her with
inexpressible joy.

"Now, little sunbeam," said Mr. Ashton, "I will hear you sing your
piece. Come, Allie, and play for her, for I must soon return to
the shop."

Allie again took her place at the piano and played the prelude,
and then started little Mamie, who sang:

  "I am so glad that my Father in heaven
   Tells of His love in the Book He has given.
   Wonderful things in the Bible I see,
   But this is the dearest--that Jesus loves me.

       "I am so glad that Jesus loves me--
        Jesus loves me, Jesus loves me;
        I am so glad that Jesus loves me--
        Jesus loves even me."

There was something in the singing of his little prattler which
filled Richard Ashton with strange awe. As she lisped out "I am so
glad," with note as clear as the carolling of a lark, the look of
seraphic rapture which overspread her face evinced that she had
entered into the spirit of the piece and that her little heart was
glad. As he looked into the face of his wife he saw, intuitively,
her thoughts were as his, and he whispered to her: "Ruth, dear,
she seems too fair, too sweet, too good for earth; I am sometimes
afraid that God will take her from us."

Mrs. Ashton made no reply; her heart was too full for speech. But
as he looked at Allie he saw she had caught his whispered words,
and--it seemed almost in unconscious harmony with her thoughts--her
fingers struck the keys and her lips warbled forth in sweetest
pathos the simple but tenderly touching words:

  "Strange, we never prize the music
     Till the sweet-voiced bird has flown!
   Strange, that we should slight the violets
     Till the lovely flowers are gone!
   Strange, that summer skies and sunshine
     Never seem one half so fair
   As when winter's snowy pinions
     Shake the white down in the air!

       "Then scatter seeds of kindness," etc.

They each of them kissed the little one who was to them so dear.

"My little girl sang that beautifully," said her father, "but she
must not sing too much; I am afraid, if she does, she will injure
her voice."

"Call Eddie," he said; and Mamie ran out for him, for he had gone
out immediately after supper to exhibit his catch to the son of a
neighbor. Mamie met him, and told him that his father was waiting
to have prayer.

It was now the custom of Richard Ashton to gather his wife and
children around him at the family altar, both morning and evening,
to sing a hymn and read a portion of Scripture; and then to
supplicate the Father in heaven for His benediction upon the
little group that were there assembled.

He had commenced family worship when they were married, but as his
views changed he gradually desisted, and finally left off
entirely. This caused Ruth great grief, for she had ever been a
conscientious and consistent Christian. Since they came to Bayton
she had prevailed upon him to resume the custom that was such a
source of joy and comfort to them in the halcyon days of yore. He
always held the service in the morning before breakfast and just
after supper in the evening, as then all the children could be
present.

When Eddie came his father took down the family Bible. They then
sang an appropriate hymn, and, after reading a chapter, he carried
them all to a throne of grace in prayer.

The Bible from which he read the lesson had been in the family for
four generations, and in the family record there were the names of
some who had been gathered to their fathers for over a hundred
years. It had been left him by his mother, and almost her last
words were spoken as she presented it to him. She said: "Take
this, my son; it has been your mother's counsellor and guide
through life, and when other friends failed her it was true. Go to
it for counsel every day, my son; it will be better unto thee than
thousands of gold and silver."

The son took it with a determination to guard it as a precious
treasure, and to leave it as an heirloom to his children. He
penned upon its flyleaf the beautiful words of the poet Morris, as
they so explicitly expressed the incidents which were associated
with his own experience:

  "This Book is all that's left me now;
     Tears will unbidden start;
   With faltering lip and throbbing brow
     I press it to my heart.
   For many generations past
     Here is our family tree,
   My mother's hand this Bible clasped,
     She dying gave it me."


After prayer he went to his shop thanking God in his heart for His
mercy to him after all his lapses. And there was that glow of
happiness reigning in his soul which he only knows who has a happy
home.

Never were truer words penned than those of the poor wanderer,
John Howard Payne:

  "Be it ever so humble,
   There's no place like home."

If a man has hearts that love him there, he is better prepared to
successfully meet and overcome life's difficulties and to endure
buffetings from the outside world. It seems eminently felicitous
that heaven should be called home; for the name is associated with
the sweetest, purest, holiest joys that are experienced in this
life. It raises our hopes, and fills us with a glorious
expectancy, when we think of that place of rest as "home, sweet
home."




CHAPTER XV.

MR. AND MRS. GURNEY'S SATISFACTION WITH ASHTON; MUTUAL
CONGRATULATIONS.


The next summer and winter passed away and there was nothing
transpired to cause sorrow to rest upon the home of Richard and
Ruth Ashton. They and their children were winning golden opinions
from all with whom they were associated; and as Mr. Gurney's
business prospered under the management of the former, who proved
himself to be reliable, Mr. Gurney felt very thankful that he had
secured so good a man.

"I think, dear," he said to his wife one day, "we might have gone
farther and fared worse. I did not dream that I would be so
relieved from responsibility. Ashton is certainly one of the best
business men I have ever met."

"True," interjected Mrs. Gurney, "I came to that conclusion from
almost the first; and his courteous, gentlemanly demeanour makes
him a general favorite."

"Yes," continued Mr. Gurney, "and then he is so clear-sighted,
intelligent, and energetic; so conscientious in regard to what he
owes to his employer that he takes just as much interest in the
business as if it were his own."

"I am sure, James," his wife replied, "we were divinely directed;
the clouds of our affliction were so dark they hid all the
sunlight from our view; but yet we can now see, can we not, dear,
that they were lined with silver?"

"Yes," he replied; "God's ways are not our ways."

"I hope," she said, "Mr. Ashton may continue as he has so far; but
if he were again to fall a victim to his old habit I should not,
even then, regret that we employed him."

"How is that, my dear?" queried Mr. Gurney.

"Why, because in so doing, James, we have kept him from sin for a
considerable period of time, and enabled him to sustain in
comparative comfort his wife and family. And then I esteem it a
great privilege to be intimately acquainted with such a family.
Mrs. Ashton is certainly one of the most estimable women with whom
I have ever associated; and their children are, to my mind, models
of what children should be--they are so bright and amiable, so
gentle to each other, and so obedient to their parents. Besides,
he has taken such an interest in your business, and has so won the
confidence of the public by his engaging manners and what seems to
be his intuitive insight into character; and his power to please
has helped your business so."

"Yes, I think you are about right, dear. In fact, I know you are,
as far as what you said applies to myself, for I am certain I
would not have recuperated so soon had it not been that I was
relieved from a great deal of care and worry by my confidence in
him, while I have had enough to employ my mind to keep me from
brooding sorrow. I am now confident the doctor gave me the best
possible advice when he said, 'You had better not give up your
business.'"

"I am certain, dear," his wife said, "that the course you adopted
was the very best under the circumstances; but, as you just
remarked, it would not have done to have tried if you had not had
a foreman to relieve you from all worry."

"Well, my dear," he remarked, "if it has turned out well for all
parties concerned, it is you who deserves the credit. I believe a
woman's instinctive perception of character is keener and clearer
than that of a man's. And the heart of a true woman always beats
responsive to human woe. If charity depended entirely upon the
sterner sex, there would be many hearts which have been made happy
by the beneficent hand of charity still unrelieved, and many homes
which are now happy would be filled with misery--their inmates
almost shut out from hope and sinking in despair."

"Thee mustn't flatter so, or I'll get vain," she said playfully,
at the same time going over to his chair and, kissing him lightly
on the forehead. She always spoke the plain language when she
wished to manifest her affection, for it was the language that
both of them spoke in their childhood.

"I do not deserve any more credit than you do. You hesitated, in
order that you might look at the matter from all sides, and view
it in all its bearings; you wished to weigh it carefully in your
mind, and not come to a conclusion from the impulse of the moment.
You desired to do what was best for all concerned, and I have no
doubt but you would have concluded to do just what you did."

"I might, or I might not," he said; "but thee seemed to conclude
at once that he would be just the man for me; and then thee pitied
him so that I think thee wanted to give him a chance under any
circumstances."

"Well--yes, James, I will admit I did; but I must say that from
the very first I liked him, and thought he would be, if he kept
from drink, just the man for you. And I think you may be right in
your estimate of women; for I have no doubt they have an intuitive
perception of character that is, to a certain extent, lacking in
men; this, in many instances at least, takes the place of
reasoning with them. I also believe their hearts are more easily
influenced by the appeals of want or sorrow, and that therefore
they are more frequently found taking the initiative in matters
that appeal largely to the heart. Their nature and their position
alike fit them for this."

"Let me see, Sarah!" said Mr. Gurney, jocosely. "You are among
those strong-minded women that believe in women being the equal of
man in every respect, and should have the same rights as men."

"Now, James, thee knows better than that, and simply likes to
tease. I believe that women should have the same rights as men, in
their proper sphere; and I would like to see them have a right to
vote on this temperance question, for if they had they would soon
sweep the land clear of its most blighting curse; but except for
this purpose I think the right place for woman to exert an
influence is in the home circle: though, James, thee knows," she
said, "that 'George Eliot' and Elizabeth Barrett Browning are, in
their field, unexcelled--though I never think of the former
without sorrow and shame--and there are a great many more whom I
might mention. Then I often think, dear, there would be a much
larger proportion of eminent women if they had the same chances as
your sex; in their daily rounds of domestic duties they have not
the same opportunities of development. I think it may be better
that it is so; but yet, in making a comparison of the two sexes,
we should not overlook this fact. Gray's lines--

  'Full many a gem of purest ray serene
     The dark, unfathomed caves of ocean bear;
   Full many a flower is born to blush unseen,
     And waste its sweetness on the desert air'--

"I think, are even more applicable to the women than to the men.
But I am talking too much. Does thee not feel tired, dear? If thee
does not, I do; come, let's make ready for bed."

"Yes, dear, I do feel tired, for I have had rather a hard day; but
I am very thankful I can now go to bed and sleep. If I was not so
weary I would answer that long speech," he said, playfully: "Thee
may expect a crushing reply at some other time."




CHAPTER XVI.

ASHTON RE-VISITS OLD SCENES.


A week or two after the conversation we recorded in the last
chapter, Richard Ashton spoke to Mr. Gurney in regard to his
contemplated journey to Rochester. He wished to go that he might
settle his business with the man who had purchased his place.

Mr. Gurney was well aware that such a journey was contemplated,
and he was sincerely sorry that such was the case.

Ashton, during the year that was passed, had never left the town
for any purpose whatever, and had kept so strictly to his business
as not to form any association with those who would be likely to
lead him astray. Mr. Gurney, therefore, was not altogether
satisfied that he would have strength enough to resist the
temptations to which he would be exposed when he met his old
associates in Rochester. He plainly told Ashton what his fear was,
but the latter assured him he would pass through the ordeal and
come out unscathed. So Mr. Gurney expressed the hope that he would
bring his business to a successful issue, and return with improved
health from his trip, and he then bade him a kindly good-bye.

But it was his wife who experienced the greatest anxiety. Ruth had
from the beginning expressed her fears as to the result of the
voyage. It seemed to her like courting temptation. She thought the
business might have been settled through his solicitor without his
going in person. But, as he seemed bent on the journey, she did
not like to make many objections; she was afraid, by so doing, she
would wound his feelings, for he would be certain to interpret the
objections as inspired by her fears of his falling, and, strange
to say, that, like a great many others in similar circumstances,
he seemed to be very much hurt if anyone hinted to him that there
was any danger of his drinking again.

She had, however, prevailed upon him to take Eddie along. She
thought his presence would have a restraining influence upon his
father, and she reasoned, if he should again fall, Eddie could, to
some extent, take care of him.

The thought of this journey had so preyed upon her mind that it
robbed her of her sleep; and now, as the time more nearly
approached, her anxiety deepened into anguish which was all the
more acute because she dare not make a confident of him from whom
she kept no other secret. Only to Him from whom no thoughts are
hidden, did she go and tell her anguish, and pray for strength to
bear up under her great sorrow. She also prayed that God would
protect him who was dearer to her than her own life.

It was nearly a year from the day in which they first landed in
Bayton, when Richard Ashton was again bidding his wife and
children an affectionate farewell, ere he departed on a journey to
another land. It was undertaken under much more favorable auspices
than when he started from Rochester to Canada; for in the first
instance he was journeying to a strange land on an errand of
doubtful success, while in the present instance he was going to a
place with which he was familiar, where he would have old friends
to bid him welcome, and kindly hearts to care for him. And yet, if
possible, there was greater dread entertained by his wife now than
there had been on the former occasion. Then he could scarcely make
his position worse, and there was a possibility of his bettering
it; now there was everything to lose and nothing to gain.

True, he had assured her she had nothing to fear. Just the night
before he started he had said, as he lovingly threw his arms
around her and drew her to him:--

"I know, Ruth, darling, you are suffering anxiety upon my account,
and are fearing I shall not have strength to resist the temptation
to which I shall be exposed; but you need not fear, little wife, I
shall return as I leave you. I have made up my mind, God helping
me, I will never drink again."

The tears started from Ruth's eyes as he spoke, and she threw her
arms around his neck as she clung to him, sobbing as she did so.
She spoke no word in denial of what he had stated concerning her
fears in his behalf, but simply murmured: "God bless you, my
darling; I know I am a poor, weak, foolish little thing to grieve
so at parting from you; but oh, Richard, I am afraid something
will happen you, and we are so happy now!"

He endeavoured to calm her by loving caresses. He was not at all
surprised that his wife should be troubled with anxious fear. He
inwardly resolved he would so acquit himself this time that she
should ever after, in this as in other respects, repose the most
perfect confidence in him.

As we said, on the morning in question he and Eddie kissed their
loved ones good-bye and took the seven o'clock train for the place
in which they had spent so many happy years.

The wife and mother, with her two children who had accompanied
them to the station, looked at the receding train with tearful
eyes.

It was a beautiful morning: the first beams of the slowly-rising
sun, stealing gently above the eastern hills, scattered the mist
of the morning and bathed the river and bay in its golden light. A
robin, which was perched upon a maple growing not far from where
Ruth and her children were standing, was singing its lay to the
morning, and the atmosphere was balmy with the breath of flowers.
It was a morning to charm the heart into joyousness, and yet the
heart of Ruth Ashton was filled with unutterable woe. The thoughts
which had borne so heavily upon her spirits for so long a period
of time now came with redoubled force, and dark, dreadful
forebodings and sorrowful memories assailed her soul and filled it
with unspeakable anguish.

"Oh, my Father, help me to bear up!" she prayed. "Oh, why am I
filled with dread, with this awful fear?"

Taking her children by the hand, she led them back to the house.
They uttered no word, even little Mamie seeming to understand that
her mother's heart was too full for words.




CHAPTER XVII.

MR. HOWE GIVES HIS VIEWS IN REGARD TO CANADA.


Richard Ashton found many in Rochester who were glad to see him
again and extend to him a most cordial welcome. He soon had
completed his business with Mr. Howe, the gentleman who had
purchased his property, and was ready to return to Canada.

"I suppose you are able to exist in that country, Ashton," said
Mr. Howe. "The climate must be somewhat healthy, or you and your
boy would not be so hearty. But, from what I hear, I would not
like to put in much of the time that may be allotted to me on this
terrestrial sphere in a land where the thermometer so assiduously
courts zero; and then the nature of the soil will keep it from
ever amounting to much. The fact is, Ashton, the only hope for
Canada is annexation to the United States."

When Mr. Howe made these remarks he threw himself back in his
chair, elevated his feet on the back of another chair, took
another chew of his honey dew, and, as he whittled a stick,
consequentially shook his head, as much as to say, "I know what I
am talking about."

"You are altogether mistaken, Mr. Howe, in almost everything about
Canada, as most of your countrymen are."

"Well, I may be, but I would like to know in what particulars."

"Well, in the first place, in regard to the climate. I suppose you
will be somewhat surprised when I inform you that it has not been
so cold this winter where I reside as it has been in Rochester;
for I have carefully noted what the thermometer registered in both
places, and we had the advantage of you in this respect. As to the
soil, there is no part of the world in which I have travelled, not
even your much-lauded and far-famed Genesee, has better land than
the country surrounding the town of Bayton, and I have been
informed from the most reliable sources that the major portion of
the land in Ontario is of a similar character."

"I want to know!" ejaculated Mr. Howe.

"And then we have the great North-West, that is just opening up,
which they say has as fine land as the world possesses, and to an
extent that is practically illimitable. This is settling rapidly,
and will be in some future day the home of countless millions."

"I guess you are going to your imagination for your facts now,
Ashton. Why, man, the thermometer often sinks to forty below zero.
They'd freeze out; no white population can stand that."

"But, my dear fellow, they have stood it, and 'facts are stubborn
things;' and you are well aware that at this present time the
northern nations are the ones that lead the world in skill,
enterprise, and deeds of daring. And then the atmosphere is so
clear and dry that those who have resided there for years say they
do not suffer from cold to the same extent as they did in
countries where it was not nearly so cold but where the atmosphere
was more humid."

"Well, all I can say is, they may stay and shiver there for all
me. I wouldn't live there all my life if they'd give me the whole
concern. No, no, not for Joseph!"

"I wouldn't trust you, sir, if you had the offer."

"You might."

"Then there is something else I wish to mention, and that is, our
Common School system is not surpassed in the world; and for
intelligent, healthy lads and lasses we will compare favorably
with any country under the sun.

"The fact is, Mr. Howe, we like you as neighbors, but are too
loyal to our Queen and mother land ever to want to be united by
any closer ties."

"Well, then, if Canada is the Eden you paint it how is it the
views of Canadian life and scenery are so wintry looking? Why,
sir, in the show rooms of the artists in this city--and you will
see the same in artists' rooms of England and even Europe--there
are sketches of Canadian scenes, and almost invariably something
wintry is suggested--men in great fur overcoats and caps, muffled
up to the eyes, and with capouches that seemed capacious enough to
carry a week's stock of provisions, and yet have spare room; the
men generally having on snow-shoes and accompanied with Indians to
wait on them, and dogs to drag their toboggans, while all around
them are heaps of snow piled up on huge rocks, and overtopping and
bearing down short scrubby pines and firs. If you have a good
country I calculate that such pictures as these, no matter what
may be their artistic merits, are poor advertisements, and will
not get you many immigrants."

"I am well aware of this. But I suppose you know these scenes have
been got up, for effect, in the studios of enterprising
photographer; and though they may be very fair representations of
some parts of our Dominion in the depth of winter, they represent
the country, generally, about as faithfully as winter views from
the main lumber woods, or even from Alaska, would represent the
United States."

At that moment Eddie, who had been enjoying himself with some of
his old friends, came in. He asked his father if he might go and
spend the afternoon and evening with his old and very particular
friend, Jim Williams; as there was yet two days ere the time
expired upon which he had decided to return home, he gave Eddie
permission to go and extend his visit until the next day.

Eddie, during that afternoon, accompanied by his friend, visited
some of the old familiar places; they were dear to him, because
they were associated in his mind with some of the happiest hours
in his life; and he thought that, though in the land where it
seemed to be his destiny to reside in the future there were many
attractive spots which would, no doubt, in time be very dear to
him, he would never forget his old home nor the scenes where he
had played in childhood's happy hours.




CHAPTER XVIII.

THE BANQUET, AND WHAT FOLLOWED.


Richard Ashton had been invited by some of his friends to a supper
at the Metropolitan Hotel, which had been specially got up for his
benefit.

His first thought was that he would absolutely refuse to accept
the invitation--he was afraid he might be tempted to drink; but as
he concluded it would be considered ungracious on his part to
refuse he decided to go, but only on the understanding if there
was any toast-drinking he would be permitted to pledge them in
pure cold water.

When the members of the committee who had been appointed to wait
upon him heard his decision, they said they certainly could not
object to his observing his own mind; that they had no desire to
cause him to violate his principles; in fact, they gave it as
their opinion that there would not be a person present who would
not respect him the more for proving that he had the courage of
his convictions.

Upon the night appointed he went to the banquet, and it passed off
as such affairs usually do. Many very gracious and pleasant things
were said of the guest of the evening in the eulogistic strains
which generally characterize speeches made on such occasions. How
much of what was said was sincere, and how much mere complimentary
phraseology of the dental kind, I will allow those who are in the
habit of attending such parties to decide.

The meeting at last ended, as all meetings on earth do. But this
differed in one respect from the great majority of such
gatherings--that is, those who attended it at least left the
banqueting room sober; though, as the sequel will show, one of
them was not so fortunate as to reach his lodgings in that
condition.

"I will accompany you home, Ashton," said one who had taken a very
active part in the entertainment.

"I am sure, Chappell, I should like very much to have your
company, but I could not think of allowing you to put yourself to
such trouble on my account; of course you are aware that I am well
acquainted with the city."

"Oh, I am well aware of that, but you seem to forget that until we
cross the bridge my way home lies in the same direction as your
own; and then I can, after seeing you up the avenue, cross by the
way of Alexander or Jefferson Street to my own lodgings."

"It is exceedingly kind of you, Chappell, to make the offer, and I
shall be thankful for your company as far as the bridge, but I
shall insist upon our separating there, as I will soon reach
Reid's after that."

Chappell, after what seemed at least to be a vigorous protest,
finally yielded, and they started on their homeward journey.

The night was dark and cold--one of those chilly nights which we
frequently experience in the first week of June--and they had to
walk along briskly to keep themselves warm.

"Halloa, Chappell, is that you? Where are you going at this time
of night? It seems to me rather peculiar that a man who sits in
his pew every Sunday and listens to eloquent homilies on the evils
that result from the keeping of late hours and indulging in
bacchanalian revels should be wending his way home in the small
hours of the morning. Come, sir, give an account of yourself!" and
he slapped Chappell familiarly on the shoulder, and stood right in
his way, hindering his further progress.

"Allow me, Lawrence," said Chappell, "before answering your
question, to introduce you to Mr. Ashton."

"Oh, that is not necessary; we are old acquaintances, but I did
not expect to have the pleasure of meeting him to-night. I thought
he had migrated northward. I am happy to meet you again, Mr.
Ashton; but it is cold, let us step into Conglin's, he is open
yet. I want a few moments' conversation with you, Chappell."

Chappell asked Ashton if he would have any objections, and he, in
reply, said if they would excuse him he'd journey homeward, for
his friends, Mr. and Mrs. Reid, with whom he was stopping, would
not go to bed until he returned, and he would be sinning against
their hospitality by remaining longer.

"But a few moments will not make any particular difference," said
Lawrence, "and you will particularly oblige me if you step in for
a moment or two, as I should like to have your opinion in regard
to something of consequence."

Ashton, who, as the reader has already discovered, had a facile
disposition, and was easily persuaded, yielded, and followed
Lawrence and Chappell into the cosy sitting-room of Conglin's
hotel.

The fire was burning brightly, and the atmosphere of the room was
particularly warm and comfortable to men who had been out in the
chill night air as they had been, with clothing that was not heavy
enough to keep them warm.

"Just remain here a moment or two, gentlemen," said Lawrence, "I
have a word or two to say to our mutual friend, Tom."

According to his promise he soon returned, but the landlord
accompanied him carrying a tray, upon which there were three
steaming glasses of whiskey punch.

"Gentlemen," said Lawrence, "it is not necessary for me to
introduce you to Tom Conglin, for you have both been acquainted
with him and his liquors in the long ago, and you know he always
kept the very best brands. But I think this old rye is better than
any he has ever had before. It is only, however, as the Scripture
says "darkening counsel by words," to tell either of you the
quality of liquor, for you have only to taste to immediately and
correctly pass judgment. It was in regard to this matter I asked
for your counsel. Come, gentlemen, after paying your respects to
our jolly host we will do honor to his liquor."

They both shook hands with old Tom Conglin, a large, red-faced
individual, who, evidently, knew the flavor of his favorite
liquors. He expressed himself as particularly delighted to meet
Ashton, and said he was sorry that they lost him; which no doubt
was true, for Ashton had been one of his best customers, and had
left with him many a dollar.

Chappell, who was standing near to Ashton, and was afraid he was
about to refuse, whispered to him not to do so. "It will give
offence," he said. "A glass will do you no harm, and may do you a
great deal of good."

When the tray was presented he hesitated a moment, and then
stifling, as men will sometimes, every warning of conscience, he
took the fatal glass, and was again the foolish victim of his
facile disposition and his appetite for strong drink.

He might, if he had watched the faces of Chappell and Lawrence,
have noticed that a significant look passed between them when he
took the glass, and that a gleam of hellish triumph shone in their
eyes.

"Come, Tom, bring us some more liquor," said Chappell. "I will
have another glass of punch. What will you have, gentlemen?"

"I will have the same," said Lawrence.

"What will you have, Ashton?" and as Ashton hesitated a moment
before replying Chappell spoke for him: "Silence gives consent; he
will keep us company."

"Of course you will bring one for yourself, Tom."

"I never refuse to take a glass with a gentleman, especially in
such company as the present."

They were soon engaged sipping their fuming punch, and in a very
short time Ashton seemed the gayest and most voluble of the
company.




CHAPTER XIX.

A STARTLING NEWSPAPER ITEM TO MR. AND MRS. REID.


That night Mr. and Mrs. Reid waited long and anxiously for Ashton,
but as he did not return they concluded he must have decided to
remain at the Metropolitan, so at one o'clock in the morning they
retired, not, however, without misgivings that all was not right.

They slept long that morning, and when they had completed their
toilets Mr. Reid found the Rochester _Democrat_ lying at the
door. He read it leisurely as he ate his toast and sipped his
coffee, now and then reading an item which he thought would be
particularly interesting to his wife. Suddenly he exclaimed:

"My God, it is Ashton!" And in his excitement he sprang from his
seat, nearly upsetting the table and seriously frightening Mrs.
Reid.

"What is it Robert?" she said. "Oh, read it please."

In answer to her request he read the following:--

"As policeman Rogers was walking his beat about half-past one this
morning, he heard a cry for help, which was evidently stifled. He
ran towards the spot whence he thought the sound came, and as he
neared the bridge he saw three men apparently engaged in a
desperate struggle. He sounded his rattle for assistance; two of
them, who evidently had been garroting and robbing the third, ran,
leaving him lying motionless on the tow-path. He had either been
choked until he was insensible, or else he had been made so stupid
by drink as to be incapable of thought or action. Policeman
Johnson coming up, they gave chase to the other two who, however,
made good their escape. They carried the one who had been
assaulted to No. ---- Station, where he was recognized by Sergeant
Jameson as a man by the name of Ashton, who was once in the employ
of Robertson & Co., but had lately been residing in Canada. He
came over to settle his business with Mr. Howe, who purchased some
property from him. He evidently had been intoxicated, and while
thus was waylaid and robbed. He had not, up to the time of our
going to press, sufficiently recovered to be able to give an
account of the affair, so at present it remains a mystery."

"Oh, Robert, you must go at once," said his wife; "the poor fellow
has fallen again. I am afraid some of the party have made a
pretence of doing him special honor in order that they might
entice him to drink, and then waylay and rob him. Do you know,
dear, whether he carried much money on his person?"

"I don't think he had any but what he brought from Canada. I
remember hearing him say he had deposited what he had received
from Mr. Howe in the bank, but I have no doubt he had quite a sum
with him, and of course they would rob him of all he had."

"I think he said Eddie was stopping with Mr. Williams. I will run
up and tell him, and then go to the police station and see what I
can do."

"The poor boy will be nearly frightened to death," said Mrs. Reid;
"and if there is anything very serious comes from this, God help
Mrs. Ashton! The poor creature has had her own trouble."

Mr. Reid found Eddie eating his breakfast, and in as quiet a
manner as possible broke the news, endeavoring to avoid every
expression that would cause unnecessary alarm. But at the first
hint every particle of color left the boy's face and he sprang to
his feet, saying:

"Oh, Mr. Reid! what has happened to my father? Please tell me
quickly."

Mr. Reid quietly handed him the paper, and as he took it, so great
was his agitation, his hand trembled like an aspen leaf; but when
he had read the paragraph which particularly interested him, it
had just the opposite effect upon him to what Mr. Reid expected;
for he seemed at once to become another person, and the boy of
fifteen was as if transformed by some cabalistic power into a man.

"Let us go at once," he said with decision; and, as the tears
gushed from his eyes and streamed down over his cheek he murmured,
"Oh, my poor mother! if she hears of this it will break her
heart."




CHAPTER XX.

A BASE PLOT, AND WHAT IT LED TO.


"I say, Bill, I have a pretty good lay for you, and I think you
can work it without much risk."

The speaker was Chappell, and the person whom he addressed was
Lawrence.

We, in the preceding chapter, introduced these worthies into this
story, but as we wish our readers to become more thoroughly
acquainted with them, will now give them a more formal introduction.

Moses Chappell was the son of highly respectable parents, and had
the advantages that are ever associated with a home where there is
comparative wealth, culture, and purity. He had a fair education,
possessed a fine person and a gracious, polished manner.

When quite a young man he commenced the study of law with a firm
in the city, but he became so unsteady in his habits that it took
him a year or two longer to get through than the course required.
When he became an attorney,--it being immediately after the close
of the war,--he, through the influence of his friends, secured the
position of claim agent; and as there were a great many soldiers
who had claims for extra bounty and for pensions to prosecute, it
was not long before he secured a large share of this business.

It was just after he had entered into business on his own
responsibility that he became acquainted with Ashton. At that time
he was simply looked upon as a rather fast young man, who would
take a glass with a friend, and, as the boys would say, "just once
in a while get a little 'O be joyful!'" But among this class he
passed as a "Jolly good fellow!"

During the last year his degeneracy had been very rapid, and he
had become almost a confirmed drunkard, it being well known by the
initiated that he indulged in the passion of gambling, by which he
lost a great deal of money.

A short time before Ashton's return to Rochester, Chappell's
losses were, for him, very large indeed; and as his income failed
to meet his liabilities, he took the money which he had collected
from the Government for his clients, to meet his gambling debts,
and also to make new ventures, with the hope that he would win
back all his losses. But, as he expressed it, luck seemed to have
turned against him, and he lost in one night, by wild, reckless
play, hundreds of dollars that he had drawn for poor, wounded, and
disabled men, many of whom had expended quite a sum in instituting
their claim, and sadly needed it, because they had undermined
their constitutions in the campaigns through which they had
passed; some of them having wives and children depending upon them
for support. In fact, no one knows what disappointment and misery
was caused by the dishonest and reckless conduct of this now
abandoned young man.

He, however, though fallen, had not yet reached such a depth of
degradation as to be utterly careless of his reputation, or of the
suffering and shame he would entail upon his friends if his
wrong-doings were discovered, and he well knew that discovery was
inevitable if he did not in some manner recover the amount he had
lost. "Desperate diseases require desperate remedies;" and his
case was desperate indeed, and he was now in such a state of mind
that he was willing to resort to anything short of murder to
extricate himself.

He was in this state of mind when Ashton again appeared in
Rochester, and when he learned the nature of his business he
resolved, if possible, to get possession of his money. He had, in
the gambling dens of the city, formed the acquaintance of some
hard characters, and resolved to use them as his tools in carrying
out his purpose.

"Lawrence will do," he said, "and he can associate Dick Eagle with
him in the venture. Lawrence is acquainted with Ashton, as they
used to meet at old Tom's when on their drinking bouts. I will
sound him, and, if I find he is all serene on the matter, Ashton
must have become a more wary fly than he used to be if I do not
induce him to enter my spider's web."

It was to further this scheme that he hinted to some mutual
friends it would be a gracious thing to give Ashton a supper, and
as they immediately entered with fervor into the idea, it was
agreed upon. When Ashton stipulated, if he accepted, it must be
understood he would not be asked to drink anything but water, it
looked as if his well-concerted scheme would be entirely frustrated.
And then, after thinking the matter over, he hit upon the plan which
he adopted, and which, alas, as we have already made known
to our readers, he carried to a successful accomplishment.

Lawrence, the young ruffian whom he made his tool, had been
associated with him before, in some transactions that would not
bear the light of day, and when he unfolded the present scheme to
him he found him ready to be his pliant instrument--willing to
enter into any scheme, no matter how villainous its nature, if he
could be sure of making something by the venture.

"I am pretty certain," said Chappell, "he will have by that time
some four or five hundred dollars in his possession; and if you
would meet us and persuade him to accompany us into Tom's, I
think, old boy, we can induce him to take a glass. If he takes
one, you know he is such a fool that we will soon have him
gloriously drunk. But to make certain we will fix his liquor, and
then by the time he gets to the bridge he will be completely at
your mercy."

"Well, the question is, Chappell, what am I to get for the
venture? Of course, if there is any hard work to be done you will
expect me to do it, while you will play the role of gentleman."

"I am willing to deal fairly with you, Bill."

"But I want to have an understanding. I know you pretty
thoroughly, Mose, and I am not going to let you gull me as you
have on some former occasions. The question is what am I to get?
And if I can't get what's square, I will wash my hands of the
whole affair. 'Honor among thieves,' you know, Mose."

Chappell, who winced at the epithet "thieves," shrugged his
shoulders, and a look of supreme disgust gleamed for a moment from
his eyes, which did not pass unnoticed by Lawrence.

"Come now, Mose, no airs," he said; "if you don't like me just
keep away, and I'll not bother you with my company. When you force
yourself upon me you must be a little respectful, or, at least,
you must not be so open in your manifestations of disgust, as I am
somewhat sensitive and may resent it."

"Who was showing any signs of being disgusted? Now, what is the
use of making a fool of yourself, Bill, because you know how; and
if I were you I would not speak of "putting on airs." When Bill
Lawrence talks of being sensitive, he of course means all he says:
the idea of 'Billy the Kid' being sensitive is certainly a new
wrinkle."

"Well, Chappell, I know I am not as good as I might be; if I were
I would cut you dead, though you do wear kid gloves and move in
the so-called 'best society,' like many another scoundrel. But
this is neither here nor there; let's come to business. Before I
enter into this thing I want an understanding; you are not going
to come it over me as you have on former occasions."

"Why, Lawrence, I don't want to come it over you. It seems to me
you are deuced suspicious, all at once. I'll tell you what I'll
do. I'll give you one half, to be divided between you and Dick
Eagle. And when you remember that I put up the job, and run just
as much risk as you do, I think you will conclude that I am quite
moderate."

"Yes, 'quite moderate;' you are always 'moderate,' especially when
it comes to risks; but you don't come none of your moderate games
over me. If I get Dick Eagle to assist me in this job I will have
to go halves with him. I couldn't gull him if I were to try, and I
don't wish to try. I am not quite so mean as to cheat a comrade
who runs equal risks with myself, though some would-be gentlemen
of my acquaintance would. If we make anything by this venture it
must be equally divided, if it is not more than fifteen cents. If
you will not agree to this proposition I will wash my hands of the
whole affair."

Chappell--after putting in several demurrers, at last, when he saw
that he could make no better terms--consented.

It was arranged that Chappell should, if possible, induce Ashton
to drink at the supper; but if he could not accomplish that, he
was to accompany him up St. Paul street until he came in front of
Tom Conglin's, and then Lawrence was to meet them, and between
them they were to induce him to enter and, if possible, entice him
to drink. Chappell was, after this, to accompany him as far as the
bridge and leave him. And then Lawrence and Eagle were--to put it
in their classic language--"to go through him."

The scheme was carried to a successful issue, though not with the
ease that was anticipated. The drug was not as effective as they
supposed it would be; for though, when they started, Ashton was in
such a complete state of intoxication as not to be able to walk
without the assistance of Chappell, as they continued on their
homeward journey, the further they went the stronger he became.
The cold morning air seemed to revive him. Chappell accompanied
him to the spot agreed upon, and then left him, though not without
making a show of wishing to see him all the way home.

Ashton had not proceeded far on his uneven way before Lawrence,
who had gone by another route and got ahead of him and Chappell,
said to Eagle, who had waited for him near the appointed spot:
"Here he comes, and he don't seem to be very drunk either. We'll
have to make sure work, Dick. Now, go for him!"

Eagle, with whom Ashton was not acquainted, sprang forward as
Lawrence spoke and struck him a terrible blow in the stomach; at
the same time, Lawrence from behind swiftly passed his arm around
his neck, then drew him across his back, lifting him entirely from
the ground and choking him so that he could not cry out. But
before Lawrence had succeeded in doing this an alarm had been
given; for, though Eagle had struck him a terrible blow, Ashton
gave a startled sound, something between a cry and a moan, but
afterwards was perfectly helpless in their hands.

It was this sound which Constable Rogers heard, and, as we have
already informed our readers, he immediately hastened to the spot,
but arrived too late to rescue Ashton from his treacherous and
brutal assailants.

All the three worthies secured as the result of their base
treachery and inhuman villainy was about twenty dollars; for this
was all that Ashton had upon his person at the time.

As soon as the latter was able, he gave an account to a detective
of all that had transpired during the previous evening, which led
the latter strongly to suspect Chappell and Lawrence, as he was
well acquainted with them and knew their antecedents. He arrested
them both, but as nothing could be substantiated, though there
were strong grounds for believing they were the parties, they were
discharged.

The Police Magistrate, however, gave them to understand that it
was simply a case of "not proven." And he added, if they were the
guilty parties, they deserved to be execrated by every good
citizen for their treachery. He admonished them to be cautious, as
a strict watch would be kept on their movements, and they would
not be able always to escape the punishment they so richly
deserved.

It was not long after this before Chappell was called to give an
account of the money which he had collected for the soldiers who
had entrusted their cases to him. And as it was discovered he had
squandered it, the result was he was prosecuted and sent to jail
for defrauding his clients, and lay there for a considerable time.
Sinc

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