ROLAND WEST'S MARK,

AND HOW HE MADE IT.

ELL nurse to bring the children down, Barnes," said Mrs. West, as a servant answered a peal of the dining-room bell.

"Yes, ma'am," replied Barnes, and in a few minutes the children made their appearance. After being introduced to a guest, the elder ones seated themselves at the table, from which the dessert was not yet removed.

"Please, mamma, may I have half a glass of sherry?" asked one.

"I should like port better," said a second.

"Will you help them, very carefully, please, papa?" asked the mother.

"I want some, too," said a bright, handsome boy of five, upraising his sparkling eyes to his father's face.

"Oh, no, Roland, you are such a wee boy; if you have it, Leonard will want it."

"I do like it so much; let me have just a little drop in papa's glass," teased Roland.

"Oh, come, mamma; that'll never hurt him; only help to make a man of him, won't it, Roland?" said his father.

"Yes, make me a man, like my papa! When I'm big, I'll drink, oh, bottles and bottles; not have a taste of papa's," said the child, looking contemptuously at the remains of the sparkling wine, which, in his father's glass, had been set before him.

"When you're a man, Roland, you will be a little wiser than you are now," said his father, somewhat sharply.

"I'll be as wise as—as—that man in the picture on the library wall, perhaps."

"Who's that?" asked the guest, in amused tones.

"Why, Gladstone! The precocious youngster strongly admires him, and is for ever declaring his intention of copying his hero's plan of life."

"He has the brow and eye of a genius, West!" said the visitor, gazing in admiration at the boy's face. "I wish I had such a child! What are you going to make of him?"

"I'll give him a good education, first; fit him for the bar, if he takes kindly to the idea, and he ought, for he talks like a lawyer already. Yes, he'll make his mark, I shouldn't wonder," replied the father, with pride; "but what's the matter with the boy? sleepy! at this time! Here, sit up! Mamma, his forehead's burning. Lucy, has he had a fall upstairs?"

"No, papa: but he was asleep when Barnes came for us, and nurse had to wake him up to come down."

Mr. and Mrs. West looked anxiously at the child, who was already asleep, and after observing his flushed cheeks and heavy breathing, Mrs. West sent for the nurse.

"Nurse," she said, as the servant entered the room, "have you noticed Master Roland seeming unwell to-day?"

"No, ma'am, he was as bright as usual this morning; but, when we were at dinner, I happened to turn my head to attend to Miss Hetty, and Master Roland emptied my glass of ale, and since then he has been very drowsy, and I could scarcely rouse him to bring him downstairs."

"Oh, nurse, I wish you would take your ale some other time; if the children see you taking it they are sure to want it, and I never allow them to touch anything but a little wine," exclaimed Mrs. West.

"Roland won't come to any harm, my dear, so don't trouble yourself. Carry him away, nurse, and put him straight to bed. He'll be all right in the morning," said Mr. West.

Nurse obeyed, looking much aggrieved. Bending over the sleeping child she murmured: "What with my ale and his father's drops, the boy's drunk. Poor little fellow! he'll make his mark, as they're so fond of saying, but I'm afraid it will be a very black one. But I'll take no more blame to myself, for Master Roland shall never see me touch my ale again; not for missis's sake, though," added the girl with a dark look.

Ten years went by, and again Mr. West entertained the same friend at his well-spread table.

"What has become of that fine little fellow of yours, West? Roland, I think you called him," inquired the guest, looking round the table and missing from amongst the youthful faces the one that had struck his fancy years ago.

"The young scamp's just finishing his schooldays," answered the father.

"He's been making his mark, I quite expect; no one could help observing the boy had splendid capabilities. Do you still think of making a lawyer of him?" continued the visitor.

"I don't know what to do with him; I'm fairly puzzled. It's true enough, as you say, he has splendid capabilities, and might become anything he chose; but he settles to nothing, and as for making his mark at school, he's done it with a vengeance."

Mrs. West frowned from the bottom of the table, but Mr. West took no notice, and continued:

"His education and his private bills have cost me a pretty penny."

"Private bills! What has a school-boy to do with private bills?" asked the guest.

"Oh, bills for champagne suppers and cigars, on the sly, of course; the young rascal says the other fellows do it, and he must, and I've had to pay the piper. I told him last term he would have to stop his extravagance and settle to hard work, but he seems in no way inclined to do that, and I've had more than one complaint of him from head-quarters."

"Well, papa, Roland's only a boy yet, and we mustn't expect him to be as wise as his father," expostulated Mrs. West, in a tone of irritation.

"No, my dear, we must not and do not, but when I was his age——"

"You were perfect, of course," finished Mrs. West; "pray find some other topic of conversation than the little weaknesses of your son."

"Little weaknesses!" Ah! thus had Roland's grave faults and his early tendencies to evil courses been glossed over by the false kindness of a fond parent, until now, at the early age of sixteen, few would have recognised in the boisterous stripling, with swaggering gait and eyes already lustreless, the once lovely boy, whose childish years had given the fair promise of a golden future.

Choosing for himself companions rife for mischief and folly, on leaving school he indulged in those pursuits, from which, though most congenial, he had been greatly debarred during his seclusion. Now he began, as he termed it, to enjoy life. Each evening he sought the exciting scenes of revelry and debauch, and neither his father's stern reproaches nor the tearful pleadings of his mother, moved him to more than a passing thought of the ruin which he was inevitably working out for himself. But when his constitution had become weakened by excesses, there came into his life influences that were mighty in their gentle drawing towards all that was good and noble.

While yet a young man, he met, at the house of a friend, a lady of strong religious tendencies. Strongly drawn to her by the attraction of a well-balanced mind and a beautiful exterior, he resolved, if possible, to win her affections. So great was her influence upon him, that, for a time, the force of evil habits lost its power, and other society was readily relinquished for hers, and the house of God beheld him an outwardly reverent worshipper at her side. Alas! that one so influenced by the power of human love should have missed those gracious impressions which, made on the tender heart of childhood, so often prove the good seed of the Kingdom, springing up into life eternal.

In thus taking upon himself the profession of Christianity, Roland was no hypocrite. He had seen the beauty and acknowledged the power of a life that was far above him, and from his heart he loathed the life he had hitherto led, and earnestly desired to put it away for ever. But strong only in his own strength, and looking to no higher power than earthly love to aid him in his upward course, what marvel that he deceived himself and others also. With his heart's desire at length accomplished, and with renewed prospects of a bright future, Roland West might have retrieved the dark past, and entered upon a career of usefulness, such as had been fondly pictured for him. Was it so? Let one scene, after a lapse of twelve years, tell its sorrowful tale.

In a cottage in one of the crowded suburbs of London, a pale, anxious-looking mother was alternately sewing and directing the studies of a fine boy, with a massive forehead and intelligent eyes.

"Mother, I've mastered it at last; I'm so glad," he said presently.

"That's right, my son; you are quick, like your father," his mother replied with a sigh.

"My father quick!" said the boy with ill-repressed contempt; "I didn't know that before."

"Hush, Allan, your father was very clever when I first knew him, and could do anything he liked."

"Then why does he leave you to work so hard now, while he lounges about all day? Mother, I must speak; tell me that!" cried the boy impetuously.

"I cannot have you speak of your father like that, Allan; but I will tell you why he cannot now do what he ought. When he was a boy like you he was allowed to choose his own way in everything, and have all that he asked for, and he chose wrong companions and sinful pleasures until he ruined and blighted his own life and others too."

Allan hung his head, and remembered how he had sometimes rebelled against the wise decisions of his much loved mother, and determined that in the future he would add as little as possible to the heavy burden that rested upon her frail shoulders. There was a step outside, and Mrs. West rose hurriedly saying: "Clear your books away, and go to bed, Allan; I must lay supper;" but before Allan had time to obey, his father entered.

Was it possible that in a few short years Roland West should have become the besotted, degraded-looking man, who flung himself into the one easy-chair the room possessed?

"That boy up yet," he said with a scowl, "at those everlasting books; let him go to work like other boys of his age, and earn his salt."

"That's what I intend him to do as soon as he is fit, Roland," answered his wife in the quiet, firm tone with which she always addressed her husband; usually he outwardly submitted to the controlling power that her voice and eye exerted upon him; but this night he was in no mood to be controlled or reasoned with.

"Hold your tongue, you saucy jade! What right have you to be bringing up my boy to know more than his father, and teaching him your own fine airs and graces. I'll have no more of it. Here, boy, fetch me a pint of ale!"

"Roland," said his wife, "Allan shall not go into that place of cursing and drunkenness; I'll go myself rather."

"Oh," said the man, inwardly quailing before her flashing eyes, "is that it, my high and mighty dame? either you or Allan shall go, then."

Seizing a jug, in a moment his wife had disappeared, returning shortly with her face crimson, and the foaming vessel in her hand.

"Well, madam, you've had your way, now I'll have mine," said her husband, and filling a glass, he called his son downstairs. "Here, Allan," he said, "drain that, or I'll thrash you soundly."

"Father, you forget, I belong to the Band of Hope," said the boy appealingly.

"Drink it, I say," and the infuriated man seized the child's arm.

"Roland, will you blight your boy's life as you have your own?" interposed the mother. Down came the cruel hand on wife and child, and, while a volley of oaths rained from the man's lips, Allan lifted the glass and drained the contents.

"Now, go to bed, and remember that when your father speaks you are to obey. I'll make a man of you yet, you young milksop!"

Sobbing bitterly, Allan crept to his bed, and his anguish found vent in the pitiful question: "What else can I be but a drunkard when my father makes me drink?"

What, indeed, could be the future of the child, who from that time was compelled to fetch, and then partake of his brutal father's cup? What marvel that with early acquired taste for strong drink, he impatiently cast aside the restraint of a tender mother, and followed with rapid footsteps his father to a premature dishonoured end!

Another scene, the closing one, and all that is needful for reproof and warning will have been drawn from the life-history of Roland West.

"He's worse to-day, mum," said the nurse of a workhouse infirmary to a woman closely veiled, who was bending over a bed upon which lay stretched the form of an old man. What a face for any woman to gaze upon, and know that once it had been the joy of her life to mark the light of intellect and the tenderness of devotion sparkling and kindling in the eyes that now only turned in their sunken sockets with dim, vague unrest from side to side.

"Do you know me, Roland?" asked the visitor; but no reply was made, nor sign of any kind given.

"Bless you, no, mum; he doesn't know me as allus feeds him, and hasn't for months. He jest lays there and rolls his eyes about, and cries sometimes like a babby," said the nurse who stood by. "You see, mum," she continued, "it's more often like this with them as drinks, when they can't get at their drops, they jest get lower and lower, and you can't do nothing for them. My old man went off like this one, and he'd been a frightful drinker."

"How do you know when he's worse?" asked Mrs. West, for it was she.

"He won't swaller his food, mum, and you can't get no heat into him; jest feel his hands." Mrs. West took the icy hand into her own, and started at its chill dampness.

"This is no ordinary coldness," she said, with a nurse's quick perception; for many years had passed since, obeying her husband's mandate, she had found occupation for herself, and food for her children, at the bedside of the sick and dying.

"He is dying," she said, touching the clammy forehead; "Oh, Roland, say one word to your wife before you go." As if in answer to her appeal there flashed a gleam of intelligence from the glazing eyes, and with a tremendous effort one word broke from the blue lips with terrible distinctness, and rang through the ward. It was the word "Forgive." Then the eyes grew fixed, and the face slowly settled down into the stillness of death. He who was once the pride of a fond father, and the joy of a doting mother, had made his mark and gone from a workhouse bed to answer before his Creator and Judge for the deeds done in the body.