So, as they sat there in silence,
Dolly was thinking with some anxiety that they were
making themselves responsible for all the food needed
in the little log-house for the next two months at
least, and Stephen was thinking the same. Dolly
could see no possible way of doing this without putting
themselves in debt, and there were few things that
Dolly dreaded more. Stephen saw his way clear
without the debt, but it was a way almost as much
to be regretted as the running up of a long bill at
Smith’s would be. The little sum that he
had collected with much effort, and kept with much
self-denial, which was to purchase a supply of leather
at the cheapest market in Montreal, must be appropriated
to another purpose, for nothing but ready money would
do now. Morely’s expenses must be paid
to Montreal, and, indeed, in Montreal till he could
get employment; and the children must in the meantime
be cared for as well; and therefore Stephen’s
leather must be purchased piece by piece as before;
and how could he ever compete with the cheap shoe-shops
that had taken away some of his customers already?
His face took an anxious look, and so did Dolly’s,
till she caught sight of the wrinkles on her husband’s
forehead, and then she thought best to brighten up
immediately.
“It ain’t best to worry about it,”
said she.
“No, worry never helped nobody
yet.” said Stephen; but his face did not change.
“And there’s nothing we
can do about it, to-day, but wait,” continued
his wife.
“Nothing but wait and pray,”
said Stephen, quietly.
“If you could go to work now,
you’d feel a sight better; but the noise ”
and her voice sank into a whisper.
“Yes; I promised young Clement
that I should have little Teddy Lane’s boots
ready for him to-night,” said Stephen.
“It’s too late now, I’m afraid;
you’ll have to keep all the doors shut for the
noise,” he added, going; and then he turned
back to say in a whisper:
“I wish I could have that Bigby
in my hands for just two minutes? Eh, Dolly?”
Dolly shook her head.
“You might do him good,”
said she, gravely. “But then, again, you
might not.”
It never came into these people’s
minds that they could shirk this care that had fallen
on them. To keep Morely’s fall a secret
would save his wife from terrible grief and pain,
and would give the poor broken man a better chance
to retrieve the past; and kept from her it must be,
at whatever cost and trouble to them.
“For don’t I remember
how worse than death to me was my old man’s
falling back after my hopes were raised? The
poor creetur shan’t have this to bear, if I
can help it,” said Dolly to herself, as she went
to Morely’s door.
“And don’t I remember
the hole of the pit from which I was drawn time and
again by God’s mercy?” said Stephen, as
he sat down on his bench. “I’ll do
what I can; and when I can’t do no more, then
the Lord will put His hand to it Himself, I expect.”
It would not be well to enter the
wretched man’s room, or lift the curtain which
hid from all but these kind people the next few miserable
days. It was enough to say that, at their close,
John Morely, weak as a child in mind and body, found
himself with the old battle before him again.
If he could have had his choice, he would have had
it all end there. There was nothing but shame
in looking backward nothing but fear in
looking forward. He was helpless and hopeless.
Why had Stephen Grattan troubled himself to save
him from deeper sin and longer misery? There
was no help for him, he thought, in his utter despondency.
As for Stephen, if his faith did not
hold out for his friend now, no one would have guessed
it from his prayers, or from his words of encouragement
to Morely. According to him, it was the helpless
and hopeless sort that the Lord came to save.
He had done it before; He could do it again; and
He would do it.
“I’ve been a sight deeper
down in this pit than ever you’ve been yet.
But, down or up, it’s all the same to Him that’s
got the pulling of you out. There’s no
up nor down, nor far nor near, to Him. `O ye of little
faith, wherefore do ye doubt?’ He’s a-saying
this to you now; and He’s a-saying, too, `This
kind goeth not out but by prayer and fasting.’
But He drove that kind out by a word, just
as He drove all the rest. Hang onto His own
word, John. He’s said, time and again,
that He’ll save the man that trusts in Him;
and don’t you let go of that. You’ve
been trying to be sober, and to get back your good
name, for the wife’s sake and the babies.
You would give all the world to know again how it
feels to be a free man. Just you give all that
up. Seek to be the Lord’s. His grace
is all-sufficient. His strength will be made
perfect in your weakness. If you’re His,
He’ll keep you, and no mistake. Give all
the rest up, and hang on to the Lord in simple faith.
You can never do this thing of yourself; but the
Lord’ll give you the help of His grace, if you
ask Him. I know, because I’ve tried
Him.”
Whatever was said, it always ended
thus: “You can do nothing of yourself;
but with the Lord’s help you can do all things.
Hold fast to Him. Let your cry be, `Lord Jesus,
save, or I perish.’”
Poor Morely listened, and tried to
hope. If ever he was saved from the power of
his foe, the Lord must surely do it, he felt, for he
could do nothing; and, in a blind, weak way, he did
strive to put his trust in God.
When the time came that he was well
enough to go away, Stephen would fain have gone with
him, to encourage him and stand by him till he could
get something to do. But this could not be.
They lived by his daily labour, and his business
had been neglected of late, through his care for his
friend; and he could only write to a friend of his,
praying him to interest himself in Morely’s
behalf.
His letter, written out word for word,
just as he sent it, would very likely excite laughter.
But it answered the end for which it was sent.
It awoke in another true heart sympathy for the poor
desponding Morely; it strengthened another kind hand
to labour in his behalf. So he did not find
himself homeless and friendless in the streets of a
great city, as he had been before. In Montreal
a welcome awaited him, and a home; and something like
hope once more sprang up in Morely’s heart, as
he heard his new friend’s cheerful words and
responded to the warm grasp of his hand.
Stephen and his wife saw hard times
after Morely went away. And yet not so very
hard, either, seeing they were endured for a friend.
They never said to each other that the times were
hard.
There were no more suppers or breakfasts
of thin gruel at the little log-house on the hill.
In a few days after his first memorable visit, Stephen
Grattan was there again, and again Farmer Jackson’s
oxen called forth the wonder and admiration of the
little Morelys. For Stephen, as he took great
pains to explain to Mrs Morely, had taken advantage
of the opportunity afforded by the return of the farmer’s
empty sled, to bring up the barrel of flour and the
bag of meal that ought to have been sent up the very
night her husband went away. There were fish,
too, and meat, and some other things, and a piece
of spare-rib, which, Stephen acknowledged, his Dolly
had been saving for some good purpose all through
the winter.
And Stephen brought something for
which Mrs Morely was more grateful than even for the
spare-rib. He brought an offer of needle-work
from a lady in the town who had many little children.
The lady, it seemed, had a strange prejudice against
sewing-machines, and in favour of skilful fingers,
for the doing of fine white work. This did much
to restore the mother’s health and peace of
mind; and a letter that came from her husband about
this time did more. Not that it was a very hopeful
letter. He said little, except that he had got
work, and that he hoped soon to be able to send much
more than the trifle he enclosed. But, though
he did not say in words that he had withstood all temptation,
yet at the very end he said, “Pray for me, Alice,
that I may be strong to stand.” And her
heart leaped with joy, as she said to herself, “He
did not need to ask me to do that.” And
yet she was really more glad to be asked that than
for all the letter and the enclosure besides.