From Wealth to Poverty Part 7

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 cla.s.s 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.

"G.o.d 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 gla.s.s 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 antic.i.p.ation 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 pa.s.s 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 G.o.d 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 G.o.d 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 G.o.d--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 G.o.d hath not made thee to pa.s.s 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 pa.s.s through troubles. I suppose," she added, "G.o.d 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 G.o.d 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 pa.s.sed 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. G.o.d 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 pa.s.sed 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 circ.u.mstances, 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 a.s.sociation 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 circ.u.mstances, 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 a.s.sociation 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 pa.s.sed 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 G.o.d 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 const.i.tution 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.