Chapter 21

"I see," was the reply to this, "that my remark was too broad. Still, the memory of a thing is very different from a permanent and inordinate desire to do something wrong, remaining as a latent principle in the mind, and ready to spring into activity years afterwards, upon the slightest provocation."

"It certainly is a different thing; and if it be really so, its establishment is a matter of vital importance. In regard to reformed drinkers, there has been much testimony in proof of the position. I have heard several men relate their experiences; and all have said that time and again had they resolved to conquer the habit that was leading them on headlong to destruction; and that they had, on more than one occasion, abstained for months. But that, so soon as they again put liquor to their lips, the old desire came back for it, stronger and more uncontrollable than before."

"That was, I presume," Marshall remarked, "because they had not abstained long enough."

"One man, I remember to have heard say, that he did not at one period of his life use any kind of intoxicating drink for three years. He then ventured to take a glass of cider, and was drunk and insensible before night! And what was worse, did not again rise superior to his degradation for years."

"I should call that an, extreme case," urged the infatuated man. "There must have been with him a hereditary propensity. His father was, doubtless, a drunkard before him."

"As to that, I know nothing, and should not be willing to assume the fact as a practical principle,"--the friend replied. "But there is another point that ought to be fully settled."

"What is that?"

"No one can, without seriously injuring himself, morally, violate a solemn pledge--particularly, as you have justly said, a pledge made more binding and solemn, by act and deed, in the sign-manual. A man may verbally pledge himself to do or not to do a thing. To violate this pledge deliberately, involves moral consequences to himself that are such as almost any one would shrink from incurring. But when a man gives to any pledge or contract a fulness and a confirmation by the act of subscribing his name to it, and then deliberately violates that pledge or contract, he necessarily separates himself still further from the saving power of good principles and influences than in the other case, and comes more fully under the power of evil principles and evil influences. After such an act, that man's state is worse, far worse than it was before. I speak strongly and earnestly on this subject, because I feel deeply its importance. And I would say to our friend Marshall here, as I would say to my own brother, let these two points be fully settled before you venture upon dangerous ground. Be sure that the latent desire for stimulating drinks is fully eradicated--and be certain that your pledge can be set aside without great moral injury to yourself, before you take the first step towards its violation, which may be a step fraught with the most fatal consequences to yourself and family."

This unlooked-for and serious turn which the discussion assumed, had the effect to make Marshall hesitate to do what he had too hastily made his mind up that he might venture upon without the slightest danger. It also furnished reasons to the company why they should not urge him to drink. The result was, that he escaped through all the temptations of the evening, which would have overcome him, inevitably, had his own inclination found a general voice of encouragement.

But none of the strong arguments why he should not again run madly into the way of evil, which had been so opportunely and unexpectedly urged, had the effect to keep his eye off of the decanters and brim-full glasses that circulated far too freely;--nor to prevent the sight of them from exciting in his mind a strong, almost unconquerable desire, to join with the rest. This very desire ought to have warned him--it should have caused him to tremble and flee away as if a raging wild beast had stood in his path. But it did not. He deceived himself by assuming (sic) hat the desire which he felt to drink with his friends arose from his love of sociality, not of wine.

The evening was lonely and long to Mrs. Marshall, and there was a shadow over her feelings that she endeavoured in vain to dispel. Her husband's knock, which came between ten and eleven o'clock, and for which she had been listening anxiously for at least an hour, made her heart bound and tremble, producing a feeling of weakness and oppression. As she opened the door for him, it was with a vague fear. This was instantly dispelled by his first affectionate word uttered in steady tones. He was still himself! Still as he had been for the blessed two years that had just gone by!

"What is the matter, Jane? You look troubled," the husband remarked, after he had seated himself, and observed his wife's appearance.

"Do I?--If so, it is because I have felt troubled this evening."

"Why were you troubled, Jane?"

"That question I can hardly answer, either to your satisfaction or my own," Mrs. Marshall said. "From some cause or other, my feelings have been strangely depressed this evening; and I have experienced, besides, a consciousness of coming misery, that has cast a shadow over my spirits, even now but half dispelled."

"But why is all this, Jane? There must be some cause for such a change in your feelings."

"I know but one cause, dear husband!" Mrs. Marshall said, in a voice of deep tenderness, laying her hand upon her husband's arm as she spoke, and looking him in the face with an expression of earnest affection.

"Speak out plainly, Jane. What is the cause?"

"Do not be offended, Jonas, when I tell you, that I have not been so overcome by such gloomy feelings since that happy day when you signed the pledge, as I have been this evening. The cause of these feelings lies in the fact of your having become dissatisfied with that pledge. I tremble, lest, in some unguarded moment, under the assurance that old habits are conquered, you may be persuaded to cast aside that impassable barrier, which has protected your home and little ones for so long and happy a time."

"You are weak and foolish, Jane," her husband said, in a half-offended tone.

"In many things I know that I am," was Mrs. Marshall's reply, "but not in this. A wife who loves her husband and children as tenderly as I do mine, cannot but tremble when fears are suddenly awakened that the footsteps of a deadly enemy are approaching her peaceful dwelling."

"Such an enemy is not drawing nigh to your dwelling, Jane."

"Heaven grant that it may not be so!" was the solemn ejaculation.

"To this, Marshall felt no inclination to reply. He had already said enough in regard to his pledge to awaken the fears of his wife, and to call forth from her expressions of strong opposition to his views of the nature of his obligation. His silence tended, in no degree, to quiet her troubled feelings.

On the next morning, Marshall was thoughtful and silent. After breakfast, he went out to attend to business, as usual. As he closed the door after him, his wife heaved a deep sigh, lifted her eyes upwards, and prayed silently, but fervently, that her husband might be kept from evil. And well might she thus pray, for he needed support and sustenance in the conflict that was going on in his bosom--a conflict far more vigorous than was dreamed of by the wife. He had invited temptation, and now he was in the midst of a struggle, that would end in a more perfect emancipation of himself from the demon-vice that had once ruled him with a rod of iron, or in his being cast down to a lower depth of wretchedness and misery than that out of which he had arisen. In this painful struggle he stood not alone. Good spirits clustered around him, anxiously interested in his fate, and endeavouring to sustain his faltering purposes; and evil spirits were also nigh, infusing into his mind reasons for the abandonment of his useless pledge. It was a period in his history full of painful interest. Heaven was moving forward to aid and rescue him, and hell to claim another victim. But neither the one nor the other could act upon him for good or for evil, except through his own volition. It was for him to turn himself to the one, and live, or to the other, and die.

So intense was this struggle, that, after he had entered his place of business, he remained there for only a short time, unable to fix his mind upon anything out of himself, or to bid the tempest in his mind "be still." Going out into the street, he turned his steps he knew not whither. He had moved onwards but a few paces, when the thought of home and his children came up in his mind, accompanied by a strong desire to go back to his dwelling--a feeling that required a strong effort to resist. The moment he had effectually resisted it, and resolved not to go home, his eye fell upon the tempting exposure of liquors in a bar-room, near which he happened to be passing. At the same instant, it seemed as if a strong hand were upon him, urging him towards the open door.

"No--no--no!" he said, half aloud, hurrying forward, "I am not prepared for that. And yet, what a fool I am," he continued, "to suffer myself thus to be agitated! Why not come to some decision, and end this uncertain, painful state at once? But what shall I do? How shall I decide?"

"To keep your pledge," a voice, half audible, seemed to say.

"And be for ever restless under it,--for ever galled by its slavish chains," another voice urged, instantly.

"Yes," he said, "that is the consequence which makes me hesitate. Fool--fool--not to have taken a pledge for a limited period! I was deceived--tricked into an act that my sober reason condemns! And should I now be held by that act? No!--no!--no! The voice of reason says no! And I will not!"

As he said this, he turned about, and walked with a firm, deliberate step, towards the bar-room he had passed but a few moments before, entered it, called for a glass of wine, and drank it off.

"Now I am a free man!" he said, as he turned away, and proceeded towards his place of business, with an erect bearing.

He had not gone far, however, before he felt a strong desire for another glass of wine, unaccompanied by any thought or fear of danger. From the moment he had placed the forbidden draught to his lips, the struggle in his mind had ceased, and a great calm succeeded to a wild conflict of opposite principles and influences. He felt happy, and doubly assured that he had taken a right step. A second glass of wine succeeded the first, and then a third, before he returned to his place of business. These gave to the tone of his spirits a very perceptible elevation, but threw over his mind a veil of confusion and obscurity, of which, however, he was not conscious. An hour only had passed after his return to business, before he again went out, and seeking an obscure drinking-house, where his entrance would not probably be observed, he called for a glass of punch, and then retired into one of the boxes, where it was handed to him. Its fragrance and flavour, as he placed it to his lips, were delightful--so delightful, that it seemed to him a concentration of all exquisite perceptions of the senses.

Another was soon called for, and then another and another, each one stealing away more and more of distinct consciousness, until at last he sunk forward on the table before which he had seated himself, perfectly lost to all consciousness of external things!

Gladly would the writer draw a veil over all that followed that insane violation of a solemn pledge, sealed as it had been by the hand-writing of confirmation. But he cannot do it. The truth, and the whole truth needs to be told,--the beacon-light must be raised on the gloomy shores of destruction, as a warning to the thoughtless or careless navigator.

Sadder and more wretched was the heart of Mrs. Marshall during the morning of that day, than it had been on the evening before. There was an overwhelming sense of impending danger in her mind, that she could not dissipate by any mode of reasoning with herself. As her children came about her, she would look upon them with an emotion of yearning tenderness, while her eyes grew dim with tears. And then she would look up, and breathe a heart-felt prayer that He who tempereth the winds to the shorn lamb, would regard her little ones.

The failure of her husband to return at the dinner hour, filled her with trembling anxiety. Not once during two years had he been absent from home without her being perfectly aware of the cause. Its occurrence just at this crisis was a confirmation of her vague fears, and made her sick at heart. Slowly did the afternoon pass away, and at last the hour came for his return in the evening. But though she looked for his approaching form, and listened for the well-known sound of his footsteps, he did not come.

Anxiety and trembling uncertainty now gave way to an overwhelming alarm. Hurriedly were her children put to bed, and then she went out to seek for him, she knew not whither. To the store in which he had become a partner, she first turned her steps. It was closed as she had feared. Pausing for a few moments to determine where next to proceed, she concluded to go to the house of his partner, and learn from him if he had been to the store that day, and at what time. On her way to his dwelling, she passed down a small street, in which were several drinking-houses, hid away there to catch the many who are not willing to be seen entering a tavern.

In approaching one of these, loud voices within, and the sound of a scuffle, alarmed her. She was about springing forward to run, when the door was suddenly thrown open, and a man dashed out, who fell with a violent concussion upon the pavement, close by her feet. Something about his appearance, dark as it was, attracted her eye. She stooped down, and laid her hand upon him. It was her husband!

A wild scream, that rung upon the air,--a scream which the poor heart-stricken creature could not have controlled if her life had been the forfeit--brought instant assistance. Marshall was taken into a neighbouring house, and a physician called, who, on making an examination, said that a serious injury might, or might not have taken place--he could not tell. One thing, however, was certain, the man was beastly drunk.

O, with what a chill did that last sentence fall upon the ear of his wife! It was the death-knell to all the fond hopes she had cherished for two peaceful years. For a moment she leaned her head against the wall near which she was standing, and wished that she could die. But thoughts of her children, and thoughts of duty roused her.

A carnage was procured and her husband conveyed home, and then, after he had been laid upon a bed, she was left alone with him, and her own sad reflections. It was, to her, a sleepless night--but full of waking dreams, whose images of fear made her heart tremble and shrink, and long for the morning.

Morning at last came. How eagerly did the poor wife bend over the still unconscious form of her husband, reading each line of his features, as the pale light that came in at the windows gave distinctness to every object! He still breathed heavily, and there was an expression of pain on his countenance. A double cause for anxiety and alarm, pressed upon the heart of Mrs. Marshall. She knew not how serious an injury his fall might have occasioned,--nor how utter might be his abandonment of himself, now that he had broken his solemn pledge. As she bent over him in doubt, pain, and anxiety, he suddenly awoke, and, without moving, looked her for a moment steadily in the face, with a glance of earnest inquiry. Then came a distinct recollection of his violated pledge; but all after that was only dimly seen, or involved in wild confusion. His bodily sensations told him but too plainly how deep had been his fall: and the intolerable desire, that seemed as if it were consuming his very vitals, was to him a sad evidence that he had fallen, never, he feared, to rise again. All this passed through his mind in a moment, and he closed his eyes, and turned his face away from the earnest, and now tearful gaze of his wife.

"How do you feel, Jonas?" Mrs. Marshall inquired, tenderly, modifying her tones, so as not to permit them to convey to his ear the exquisite pain that she felt. But he made no reply.

"Say, dear, how do you feel?" she urged, laying her hand upon him, and pausing for an answer.

"As if I were in hell!" he shouted, springing suddenly from the bed, and beginning to dress himself, hurriedly.

"O, husband, do not speak so!" Mrs. Marshall said, in a soothing tone. "All may be well again. One sin need not bring utter condemnation. Let this be the last, as it has been the first, violation of your pledge. Let this warn you against the removal of that salutary restraint, which has been as a wall of fire around you for years."

"Jane!" responded the irritated man, pausing, and looking at his wife, fixedly, while there sat upon his face an expression of terrible despair; "that pledge can never be renewed! It would be like binding a giant with a spider's web. I am lost! lost! lost! The eager, inexpressible desire that now burns within me, cannot be controlled. The effort to do so would drive me mad. I must drink, or die. And you, my poor wife!--and you, my children! what will become of you? Who will give you sufficient strength to bear your dreadful lot?"

As he said this, his voice fell to a low and mournful, despairing expression--and he sunk into a chair, covering his face with his hands.

"Dear husband!" urged his wife, coming to his side, and drawing her arm around his neck, "do not thus give way! Let the love I have ever borne you, and which is stronger and more tender at this moment than it has ever been--let the love you feel for your dear little ones, give you strength to conquer. Be a man! Nerve yourself, and look upwards for strength, and you must conquer."

"No--no--no--Jane!" the poor wretch murmured, shaking his head, mournfully. "Do not deceive your heart by false hopes, for they will all be in vain. I cannot look up. The heavens have become as brass to me. I have forfeited all claim to success from above. As I lifted the fatal glass to my lips, I heard a voice, whose tones were as distinct as yours--'Let us go hence!' and from that moment, I have been weak and unsustained in the hands of my enemies. I am a doomed man!"

As he said this, a shrinking shudder passed through his frame, and he groaned aloud. The silence that then reigned through the chamber was as appalling as the silence of death to the heart of Mrs. Marshall. It was broken at length by her husband, who looked up with an expression of tenderness in her face, as she still stood with her hand upon him, and said--

"Jane, my dear wife! let me say to you now, while I possess my full senses, which I know not that I ever shall again, that you have been true and kind to me, and that I have ever loved you with an earnest love. Bear with me in my infirmity;--if, amid the grief, and wrong, and suffering, which must fall upon you and your children, you _can_ bear with the miserable cause of all your wretchedness. I shall not long remain, I feel, to be a burden and a curse to you. My downward course will be rapid, and its termination will soon come!"

A gush of tears followed this, and then came a stern silence, that chilled the heart of Mrs. Marshall. She longed to urge still further upon her husband to make an effort to restrain the intense desire he felt, but could not. There seemed to be a seal upon her lips. Slowly she turned away to attend to her little ones, upon whom she now looked with something of that hopelessness which the widow feels, as she turns from the grave of her husband, and looks upon her fatherless children.

With a strong effort, Marshall remained in the house until breakfast was on the table. But he could only sip a little coffee, and soon arose, and lifted his hat to go out. His wife was by his side, as he laid his hand on the door.

"Jonas," she said, while the tears sprang to her eyes, "remember me--remember your children!" She could say no more; sobs choked her utterance--and she leaned her head, weak and desponding, upon his shoulder.

Her husband made no reply, but gently placed her in a chair, kissed her cheek, and then turned hastily away, and left the house.

It was many minutes before Mrs. Marshall found strength to rise, and then she staggered across the room, like one who had been stunned by a blow. We will not attempt the vain task of describing her feelings through that terrible day;--of picturing the alternate states of hope and deep despondency, that now made her heart bound with a lighter emotion,--and now caused it to sink low, and almost pulseless, in her bosom. It passed away at last, and brought the gloomy night--fall--but not her husband's return. Eight, nine, ten, eleven, and twelve o'clock came, and went, and still he was absent.

For an hour she had been seated by the window, listening for the sound of his approaching footsteps. As the clock struck twelve, she started, listened for a moment still more intently, and then arose with a deep sigh, her manner indicating a state of irresolution. First she went softly to the bed, and stood looking down for some moments upon the faces of her little ones, sleeping calmly and sweetly, all unconscious of the anguish that swelled their mother's heart almost to bursting. Then she raised her head, and again assumed a listening attitude. An involuntary sigh told that she had listened in vain. A few moments after she was aroused from a state of deep abstraction of thought, by a strong shudder passing through her frame, occasioned by some fearful picture which her excited imagination had conjured up. She now went hastily to a wardrobe, and took out her bonnet and shawl. One more glance at her children, told her that they were sleeping soundly. In the next minute she was in the street, bending her steps she knew not whither, in search of her husband.

Almost involuntarily, Mrs. Marshall took her way towards that portion of the city where she had, on the night previous, unexpectedly found him. It was not longer before she paused by the door at the same drinking-house from which her husband had been thrust, when he fell, almost lifeless, at her feet. Although it was past twelve o'clock, the sound of many voices came from within, mingled with wild excitement, and boisterous mirth.

Now came a severe trial for her shrinking, sensitive feelings. How could she, a woman, and alone, enter such a place, at such an hour, on such an errand? The thought caused a sensation of faintness to pass over her, and she leaned for a moment against the side of the door to keep from falling. But affection and thoughts of duty quickly aroused her, and resolutely keeping down every weakness, she placed her hand upon the door, which yielded readily to even her light hand, and in the next moment found herself in the presence of about a dozen men, all more or less intoxicated. Their loud, insane mirth was instantly checked by her entrance. They were all men who were in the habit of mingling daily in good society, and more than one of them knew Marshall, and instantly recognised his wife. No rudeness was, of course, offered her. On the contrary, two or three came forward, and kindly inquired, though they guessed too well, her errand there at such an hour.

"Has my husband been here to-night, Mr.--?" she asked, in a choking voice, of one whose countenance she instantly recognised.

"I have not met with him, Mrs. Marshall," was the reply, in a kind, sympathizing tone, "but I will inquire if any one here has seen him."

These inquiries were made, and then Mr.--came forward again, and said, in a low tone,

"Come with me, Mrs. Marshall."