“Henry, my dear brother!” There was a momentary illumination of countenance accompanying these words, which soon faded into a mournful quietness, as she cast her eyes around on the scanty accommodations and mean apartment.
“I see how it is, Augusta; step by step, you are sinking — dragged down by a vain sense of duty to one no longer worthy. I cannot bear it any longer; I have come to take you away.”
Augusta turned from him, and looked abstractedly out of the window. Her features settled in thought. Their expression gradually deepened from their usual tone of mild, resigned sorrow to one of keen anguish.
“Henry,” said she, turning towards him, “never was mortal woman so blessed in another as I once was in him. How can I forget it? Who knew him in those days that did not admire and love him? They tempted and insnared him; and even I urged him into the path of danger. He fell, and there was none to help. I urged reformation, and he again and again promised, resolved, and began. But again they tempted him — even his very best friends; yes, and that, too, when they knew his danger. They led him on as far as it was safe for them to go, and when the sweep of his more excitable temperament took him past the point of safety and decency, they stood by, and coolly wondered and lamented. How often was he led on by such heartless friends to humiliating falls, and then driven to desperation by the cold look, averted faces, and cruel sneers of those whose medium temperament and cooler blood saved them from the snares which they saw were enslaving him. What if I had forsaken him then? What account should I have rendered to God? Every time a friend has been alienated by his comrades, it has seemed to seal him with another seal. I am his wife — and mine will be the last. Henry, when I leave him, I know his eternal ruin is sealed. I cannot do it now; a little longer — a little longer; the hour, I see, must come. I know my duty to my children forbids me to keep them here; take them — they are my last earthly comforts, Henry — but you must take them away. It may be — O God — perhaps it must be, that I shall soon follow; but not till I have tried once more. What is this present life to one who has suffered as I have? Nothing. But eternity! O Henry! eternity — how can I abandon him to everlasting despair! Under the breaking of my heart I have borne up. I have borne up under all that can try a woman; but this thought — —” She stopped, and seemed struggling with herself; but at last, borne down by a tide of agony, she leaned her head on her hands; the tears streamed through her fingers, and her whole frame shook with convulsive sobs.
Her brother wept with her; nor dared he again to touch the point so solemnly guarded. The next day Augusta parted from her children, hoping something from feelings that, possibly, might be stirred by their absence in the bosom of their father.
It was about a week after this that Augusta one evening presented herself at the door of a rich Mr. L., whose princely mansion was one of the ornaments of the city of A. It was not till she reached the sumptuous drawing room that she recognized in Mr. L. one whom she and her husband had frequently met in the gay circles of their early life. Altered as she was, Mr. L. did not recognize her, but compassionately handed her a chair, and requested her to wait the return of his lady, who was out; and then turning, he resumed his conversation with another gentleman.
“Now, Dallas,” said he, “you are altogether excessive and intemperate in this matter. Society is not to be reformed by every man directing his efforts towards his neighbor, but by every man taking care of himself. It is you and I, my dear sir, who must begin with ourselves, and every other man must do the same; and then society will be effectually reformed. Now this modern way, by which every man considers it his duty to attend to the spiritual matters of his next-door neighbor, is taking the business at the wrong end altogether. It makes a vast deal of appearance, but it does very little good.”
“But suppose your neighbor feels no disposition to attend to his own improvement — what then?”
“Why, then it is his own concern, and not mine. What my Maker requires is, that I do my duty, and not fret about my neighbor’s.”
“But, my friend, that is the very question. What is the duty your Maker requires? Does it not include some regard to your neighbor, some care and thought for his interest and improvement?”
“Well, well, I do that by setting a good example. I do not mean by example what you do — that is, that I am to stop drinking wine because it may lead him to drink brandy, any more than that I must stop eating because he may eat too much and become a dyspeptic — but that I am to use my wine, and every thing else, temperately and decently, and thus set him a good example.”
The conversation was here interrupted by the return of Mrs. L. It recalled, in all its freshness, to the mind of Augusta the days when both she and her husband had thus spoken and thought.
Ah, how did these sentiments appear to her now — lonely, helpless, forlorn — the wife of a ruined husband, the mother of more than orphan children! How different from what they seemed, when, secure in ease, in wealth, in gratified affections, she thoughtlessly echoed the common phraseology, “Why must people concern themselves so much in their neighbors’ affairs? Let every man mind his own business.”
Augusta received in silence from Mrs. L. the fine sewing for which she came, and left the room.
“Ellen,” said Mr. L. to his wife; “that poor woman must be in trouble of some kind or other. You must go some time, and see if any thing can be done for her.”
“How singular!” said Mrs. L.; “she reminds me all the time of Augusta Howard. You remember her, my dear?”
“Yes, poor thing! and her husband too. That was a shocking affair of Edward Howard’s. I hear that he became an intemperate, worthless fellow. Who could have thought it!”
“But you recollect, my dear,” said Mrs. L., “I predicted it six months before it was talked of. You remember, at the wine party which you gave after Mary’s wedding, he was so excited that he was hardly decent. I mentioned then that he was getting into dangerous ways. But he was such an excitable creature, that two or three glasses would put him quite beside himself. And there is George Eldon, who takes off his ten or twelve glasses, and no one suspects it.”
“Well, it was a great pity,” replied Mr. L.; “Howard was worth a dozen George Eldons.”
“Do you suppose,” said Dallas, who had listened thus far in silence, “that if he had moved in a circle where it was the universal custom to banish all stimulating drinks, he would thus have fallen?”
“I cannot say,” said Mr. L.; “perhaps not.”
Mr. Dallas was a gentleman of fortune and leisure, and of an ardent and enthusiastic temperament. Whatever engaged him absorbed his whole soul; and of late years, his mind had become deeply engaged in schemes of philanthropy for the improvement of his fellow-men. He had, in his benevolent ministrations, often passed the dwelling of Edward, and was deeply interested in the pale and patient wife and mother. He made acquaintance with her through the aid of her children, and, in one way and another, learned particulars of their history that awakened the deepest interest and concern. None but a mind as sanguine as his would have dreamed of attempting to remedy such hopeless misery by the reformation of him who was its cause. But such a plan had actually occurred to him. The remarks of Mr. and Mrs. L. recalled the idea, and he soon found that his intended protégé was the very Edward Howard whose early history was thus disclosed. He learned all the minutiæ from these his early associates without disclosing his aim, and left them still more resolved upon his benevolent plan.
He watched his opportunity when Edward was free from the influence of stimulus, and it was just after the loss of his children had called forth some remains of his better nature. Gradually and kindly he tried to touch the springs of his mind, and awaken some of its buried sensibilities.
“It is in vain, Mr. Dallas, to talk thus to me,” said Edward, when, one day, with the strong eloquence of excited feeling, he painted the motives for attempting reformation; “you might as well attempt to reclaim the lost in hell. Do you think,” he con
tinued, in a wild, determined manner—”do you think I do not know all you can tell me? I have it all by heart, sir; no one can preach such discourses as I can on this subject: I know all — believe all — as the devils believe and tremble.”
“Ay, but,” said Dallas, “to you there is hope; you are not to ruin yourself forever.”
“And who the devil are you, to speak to me in this way?” said Edward, looking up from his sullen despair with a gleam of curiosity, if not of hope.
“God’s messenger to you, Edward Howard,” said Dallas, fixing his keen eye upon him solemnly; “to you, Edward Howard, who have thrown away talents, hope, and health — who have blasted the heart of your wife, and beggared your suffering children. To you I am the messenger of your God — by me he offers health, and hope, and self-respect, and the regard of your fellow-men. You may heal the broken heart of your wife, and give back a father to your helpless children. Think of it, Howard: what if it were possible? Only suppose it. What would it be again to feel yourself a man, beloved and respected as you once were, with a happy home, a cheerful wife, and smiling little ones? Think how you could repay your poor wife for all her tears! What hinders you from gaining all this?”
“Just what hindered the rich man in hell—’between us there is a great gulf fixed;’ it lies between me and all that is good; my wife, my children, my hope of heaven, are all on the other side.”
“Ay, but this gulf can be passed: Howard, what would you give to be a temperate man?”
“What would I give?” said Howard. He thought for a moment, and burst into tears.
“Ah, I see how it is,” said Dallas; “you need a friend, and God has sent you one.”
“What can you do for me, Mr. Dallas?” said Edward, in a tone of wonder at the confidence of his assurances.
“I will tell you what I can do: I can take you to my house, and give you a room, and watch over you until the strongest temptations are past — I can give you business again. I can do all for you that needs to be done, if you will give yourself to my care.”
“O God of mercy!” exclaimed the unhappy man, “is there hope for me? I cannot believe it possible; but take me where you choose — I will follow and obey.”
A few hours witnessed the transfer of the lost husband to one of the retired apartments in the elegant mansion of Dallas, where he found his anxious and grateful wife still stationed as his watchful guardian.
Medical treatment, healthful exercise, useful employment, simple food, and pure water were connected with a personal supervision by Dallas, which, while gently and politely sustained, at first amounted to actual imprisonment.
For a time the reaction from the sudden suspension of habitual stimulus was dreadful, and even with tears did the unhappy man entreat to be permitted to abandon the undertaking. But the resolute steadiness of Dallas and the tender entreaties of his wife prevailed. It is true that he might be said to be saved “so as by fire;” for a fever, and a long and fierce delirium, wasted him almost to the borders of the grave.
But, at length, the struggle between life and death was over, and though it left him stretched on the bed of sickness, emaciated and weak, yet he was restored to his right mind, and was conscious of returning health. Let any one who has laid a friend in the grave, and known what it is to have the heart fail with longing for them day by day, imagine the dreamy and unreal joy of Augusta when she began again to see in Edward the husband so long lost to her. It was as if the grave had given back the dead.
“Augusta!” said he, faintly, as, after a long and quiet sleep, he awoke free from delirium. She bent over him. “Augusta, I am redeemed — I am saved — I feel in myself that I am made whole.”
The high heart of Augusta melted at these words. She trembled and wept. Her husband wept also, and after a pause he continued, —
“It is more than being restored to this life — I feel that it is the beginning of eternal life. It is the Savior who sought me out, and I know that he is able to keep me from falling.”
But we will draw a veil over a scene which words have little power to paint.
“Pray, Dallas,” said Mr. L., one day, “who is that fine-looking young man whom I met in your office this morning? I thought his face seemed familiar.”
“It is a Mr. Howard — a young lawyer whom I have lately taken into business with me.”
“Strange! Impossible!” said Mr. L. “Surely this cannot be the Howard that I once knew.”
“I believe he is,” said Mr. Dallas.
“Why, I thought he was gone — dead and done over, long ago, with intemperance.”
“He was so; few have ever sunk lower; but he now promises even to outdo all that was hoped of him.”
“Strange! Why, Dallas, what did bring about this change?”
“I feel a delicacy in mentioning how it came about to you, Mr. L., as there undoubtedly was a great deal of ‘interference with other men’s matters’ in the business. In short, the young man fell in the way of one of those meddlesome fellows, who go prowling about, distributing tracts, forming temperance societies, and all that sort of stuff.”
“Come, come, Dallas,” said Mr. L., smiling, “I must hear the story, for all that.”
“First call with me at this house,” said Dallas, stopping before the door of a neat little mansion. They were soon in the parlor. The first sight that met their eyes was Edward Howard, who, with a cheek glowing with exercise, was tossing aloft a blooming boy, while Augusta was watching his motions, her face radiant with smiles.
“Mr. and Mrs. Howard, this is Mr. L., an old acquaintance, I believe.”
There was a moment of mutual embarrassment and surprise, soon dispelled, however, by the frank cordiality of Edward. Mr. L. sat down, but could scarce withdraw his eyes from the countenance of Augusta, in whose eloquent face he recognized a beauty of a higher cast than even in her earlier days.
He glanced about the apartment. It was simply but tastefully furnished, and wore an air of retired, domestic comfort. There were books, engravings, and musical instruments. Above all, there were four happy, healthy-looking children, pursuing studies or sports at the farther end of the room.
After a short call they regained the street.
“Dallas, you are a happy man,” said Mr. L.; “that family will be a mine of jewels to you.”
He was right. Every soul saved from pollution and ruin is a jewel to him that reclaims it, whose lustre only eternity can disclose; and therefore it is written, “They that be wise shall shine as the brightness of the firmament, and they that turn many to righteousness, as the stars forever and ever.”
COUSIN WILLIAM.
In a stately red house, in one of the villages of New England, lived the heroine of our story. She had every advantage of rank and wealth, for her father was a deacon of the church, and owned sheep, and oxen, and exceeding much substance. There was an appearance of respectability and opulence about all the demesnes. The house stood almost concealed amid a forest of apple trees, in spring blushing with blossoms, and in autumn golden with fruit. And near by might be seen the garden, surrounded by a red picket fence, enclosing all sorts of magnificence. There, in autumn, might be seen abundant squash vines, which seemed puzzled for room where to bestow themselves; and bright golden squashes, and full-orbed yellow pumpkins, looking as satisfied as the evening sun when he has just had his face washed in a shower, and is sinking soberly to bed. There were superannuated seed cucumbers, enjoying the pleasures of a contemplative old age; and Indian corn, nicely done up in green silk, with a specimen tassel hanging at the end of each ear. The beams of the summer sun darted through rows of crimson currants, abounding on bushes by the fence, while a sulky black currant bush sat scowling in one corner, a sort of garden curiosity.
But time would fail us were we to enumerate all the wealth of Deacon Israel Taylor. He himself belonged to that necessary class of beings, who, though remarkable for nothing at all, are very useful in filling up the links of society. Far otherwise was
his sister-in-law, Mrs. Abigail Evetts, who, on the demise of the deacon’s wife, had assumed the reins of government in the household.
This lady was of the same opinion that has animated many illustrious philosophers, namely, that the affairs of this world need a great deal of seeing to in order to have them go on prosperously; and although she did not, like them, engage in the supervision of the universe, she made amends by unremitting diligence in the department under her care. In her mind there was an evident necessity that every one should be up and doing: Monday, because it was washing day; Tuesday, because it was ironing day; Wednesday, because it was baking day; Thursday, because to-morrow was Friday; and so on to the end of the week. Then she had the care of reminding all in the house of every thing each was to do from week’s end to week’s end; and she was so faithful in this respect, that scarcely an original act of volition took place in the family. The poor deacon was reminded when he went out and when he came in, when he sat down and when he rose up, so that an act of omission could only have been committed through sheer malice prepense.
But the supervision of a whole family of children afforded to a lady of her active turn of mind more abundant matter of exertion. To see that their faces were washed, their clothes mended, and their catechism learned; to see that they did not pick the flowers, nor throw stones at the chickens, nor sophisticate the great house dog, was an accumulation of care that devolved almost entirely on Mrs. Abigail, so that, by her own account, she lived and throve by a perpetual miracle.
The eldest of her charge, at the time this story begins, was a girl just arrived at young ladyhood, and her name was Mary. Now we know that people very seldom have stories written about them who have not sylph-like forms, and glorious eyes, or, at least, “a certain inexpressible charm diffused over their whole person.” But stories have of late so much abounded that they actually seem to have used up all the eyes, hair, teeth, lips, and forms necessary for a heroine, so that no one can now pretend to find an original collection wherewith to set one forth. These things considered, I regard it as fortunate that my heroine was not a beauty. She looked neither like a sylph, nor an oread, nor a fairy; she had neither l’air distingué nor l’air magnifique, but bore a great resemblance to a real mortal girl, such as you might pass a dozen of without any particular comment — one of those appearances, which, though common as water, may, like that, be colored any way by the associations you connect with it. Accordingly, a faultless taste in dress, a perfect ease and gayety of manner, a constant flow of kindly feeling, seemed in her case to produce all the effect of beauty. Her manners had just dignity enough to repel impertinence without destroying the careless freedom and sprightliness in which she commonly indulged. No person had a merrier run of stories, songs, and village traditions, and all those odds and ends of character which form the materials for animated conversation. She had read, too, every thing she could find: Rollin’s History, and Scott’s Family Bible, that stood in the glass bookcase in the best room, and an odd volume of Shakspeare, and now and then one of Scott’s novels, borrowed from a somewhat literary family in the neighborhood. She also kept an album to write her thoughts in, and was in a constant habit of cutting out all the pretty poetry from the corners of the newspapers, besides drying forget-me-nots and rosebuds, in memory of different particular friends, with a number of other little sentimental practices to which young ladies of sixteen and thereabout are addicted. She was also endowed with great constructiveness; so that, in these days of ladies’ fairs, there was nothing from bellows-needlebooks down to web-footed pincushions to which she could not turn her hand. Her sewing certainly was extraordinary, (we think too little is made of this in the accomplishments of heroines;) her stitching was like rows of pearls, and her cross-stitching was fairy-like; and for sewing over and over, as the village schoolma’am hath it, she had not her equal. And what shall we say of her pies and puddings? They would have converted the most reprobate old bachelor in the world. And then her sweeping and dusting! “Many daughters have done virtuously, but thou excellest them all!”
Complete Works of Harriet Beecher Stowe Page 485
