Chapter 22

As the two emerged into the street, Mr.--said,

"I would not, if I were you, madam, attempt to look further for your husband. I have just learned that he is safe and well, only a little overcome, by having, accidentally, I have no doubt, drunken a little too freely. In the, morning he will come home, and all will, I trust, be right again."

"What you say, I know, is meant in kindness, Mr.--," Mrs. Marshall replied, in a firmer tone, the assurance that her husband was at least safe from external danger, being some relief to her, "but I would rather see my husband, and have him taken home. Home is the best place for him, under any circumstances--and I am the most fitting one to attend to him. Will you, then, do me the favour to procure a hack, and go with me to the place where he is to be found?"

Mr.--saw that in the manner and tone of Mrs. Marshall which made him at once resolve to do as she wished him. The hack was procured, into which both entered. Directions were given, in a low tone, to the driver, and then they rattled away over the resounding pavement, for a space of time that seemed very long to the anxious wife. At last the hack stopped, the door was opened, and the steps thrown down. When Mrs. Marshall descended, she found herself in a narrow, dark street, before a low, dirty-looking tavern, the windows and doors of which had been closed for the night.

While Mr.--was knocking loudly for admission, her eyes, growing familiar with the darkness, saw something lying partly upon the street and partly upon the pavement a few yards from her, that grew more and more distinct, the more intently she looked at it. Advancing a few steps, she saw that it was the body of a man,--a few paces further, revealed to her eyes the form of her husband. An exclamation of surprise and alarm brought both Mr.--and the hack-driver to her side.

In attempting to raise Marshall to his feet, he groaned heavily, and writhed with a sensation of pain. Something dark upon the pavement attracted the eye of his wife. She touched it with her hand, to which it adhered, with a moist, oily feeling. Hurrying to the lamp in front of the hack, with a feeling of sudden alarm, she lifted her hand so that the light could fall upon it. It was covered with blood!

With a strong effort, she kept down the sudden impulse that she felt to utter a wild scream, and went back to Mr.--and communicated to him the alarming fact she had discovered. Marshall was at once laid gently down upon the pavement, and a light procured, which showed that his pantaloons, above, below, and around the knees, were saturated with blood.

"O, Mr.--! what can be the matter?" Mrs. Marshall said, in husky tones, looking up, with a face blanched to an ashy paleness.

"Some passing vehicle has, no doubt, run over him--but I trust that he is not much hurt. Remain here with him, until I can procure assistance, and have him taken home."

"O, sir, go quickly!" the poor wife replied, in earnest tones.

In a short time, four men, with a litter, were procured, upon which Marshall, now groaning, as if acutely conscious of pain, was placed, and slowly conveyed home. A surgeon reached the house as soon as the party accompanying the injured man. An examination showed that his legs had been broken just above the knees. And one of them had the flesh dreadfully torn and bruised, and both were crushed as if run over by some heavy vehicle. A still further examination showed the fracture to be compound, and extensive; but, fortunately, the knee joint had entirely escaped. Already the limbs had swollen very considerably, exhibiting a rapidly increasing inflammation. This was a natural result flowing from the large quantity of alcohol which he had evidently been taking through the day and evening.

Fortunately, notwithstanding the morbid condition of his body, and the nature and extent of the injury he had sustained, the vital system of Marshall, unexhausted by a long-continued series of physical abuse from drinking, rallied strongly against the violent inflammation that followed the setting of the bones, and dressing of the wounds, and threw off the too apparent tendency to mortification that continued, much to the anxiety of the surgeon, for many days. During this time, he suffered almost incessant pain--frequently of an excruciating character. The severity of this pain entirely destroyed all desire for intoxicating drink. This desire, however, gradually began to return, as the pain, which accompanied the knitting of the bones, subsided. But he did not venture to ask for it, and, of course, it was not offered to him.

With the most earnest attentions, and the tenderest solicitude, did Mrs. Marshall wait and watch by the bedside of her husband, both day and night, wearing down her own strength, and neglecting her children.

At the end of three weeks, he had so far recovered, as to be able to sit up, and to bear a portion of his weight. As fear for the consequences of the injury her husband had received, began to fade from the mind of Mrs. Marshall, another fear took possession of it--a heart-sickening fear, under which her spirit grew faint. There was no pledge to bind him, and his newly-awakened desire for liquor, she felt sure would bear him away inevitably, notwithstanding the dreadful lesson he had received.

About this time, however, two or three of his temperance friends, who had heard of his fall, came to see him. This encouraged her, especially as they soon began to urge him again to sign the pledge;--but he would not consent.

"It is useless," was his steady reply, to all importunities, and made usually, in a mournful tone, "for me to sign another pledge. Having broken one, wilfully and deliberately, I have no power to keep another. I am conscious of this--and, therefore, am resolved not to stain my soul with another sin."

"But you can keep it. I am sure you can," one friend, more importunate than the rest, would repeatedly urge. "You broke your first pledge, deliberately, because you believed that you were freed from the old desire, even in a latent form. Satisfied, from painful experience, that this is not the case, you will not again try so dangerous an experiment."

But Marshall would shake his head, sadly, in rejection of all arguments and persuasions.

"It may all seem easy enough for you," he would sometimes say, "who have never broken a solemn pledge; but you know not how utter a destruction of internal moral power such an act, deliberately done, effects. I am not the man I was, before I so wickedly violated that solemn compact made between myself and heaven--for so I now look upon it. While I kept my pledge, I had the sustaining power of heaven to bear me safely up against all temptations;--but since the very moment it was broken, I have had nothing but my own strength to lean upon, and that has proved to be no better than a broken reed, piercing me through with many sorrows."

To such declarations, in answer to arguments, and sometimes earnest entreaties made by his friends to induce him to renew his pledge, Mrs. Marshall would listen in silence, but with a sinking, sickening sensation of mind and body. All and more than she could say, was said to him, but he resisted every appeal--and what good could her weak persuasions and feeble admonitions do?

Day after day passed on, and Marshall gradually gained more use of his limbs. In six weeks, he could walk without the aid of his crutches.

"I think I must try and get down to the store to-morrow," he said, to his wife, about this time. "This is a busy season, and I can be of some use there for two or three hours, every day."

"I don't think I would venture out yet," Mrs. Marshall said, looking at him, with an anxious, troubled expression of countenance, that she tried in vain to conceal.

"Why not, Jane?"

"I don't think you are strong enough, dear."

"O, yes, I am. And, besides, it will do me good to go out and take the fresh air. You know that it is now six weeks since I have been outside of the front door."

"I know it has. But--"

"But what, Jane?"

"You know what I would say, Jonas. You know the terrible fear that rests upon my heart like a night-mare."

And Mrs. Marshall covered her face with her hands, and gave way to tears.

A long silence followed this. At length Marshall said,

"I hope, Jane, that I shall be able to restrain myself. I am, at least, resolved to try."

"O, husband, if you will only try!" Mrs. Marshall ejaculated eagerly, lifting her tearful eyes, and looking him with an appealing expression in the face--"If you will only try!"

"I will try, Jane. But do not feel too much confidence in my effort. I am weak--so weak that I tremble when I think of it--and remember what an almost irresistible influence I have to contend with."

"Why not take the pledge, again, Jonas?" said his wife, for the first time she had urged that recourse upon him.

"You have heard my reasons given for that, over and over again."

"I know I have. But they never satisfied me."

"You would not have me add the sin of a double violation of a solemn pledge to my already overburdened conscience?"

"No, Jonas. Heaven forbid!"

"The fear of that restrains me. I dare not again take it."

"Do you not deeply repent of your first violation?" the wife asked, after a few moments of earnest thought. "Heaven knows how deeply."

"And Heaven, that perceives and knows the depth and sincerity of that repentance, accepts it according to its quality. And just so far as Heaven accepts the sincere offering of a repentant heart, conscious of its own weakness, and mourning over its derelictions, is strength given for combat in future temptations. The bruised reed he will not break, nor quench the smoking flax. Hope, then, dear husband! you are not cast off--you are not rejected by Heaven."

"O, Jane, if I could feel the truth of what you. say, how happy I should be!--For the idea of sinking again into that hopeless, abandoned, wretched condition, out of which this severe affliction has lifted me, as by the hair of the head, is appalling!" was the reply, to his wife's earnest appeal.

"Trust me, dear husband,--there is truth in what I say. He who came down to man's lowest, and almost lost condition, that he might raise him up, and sustain him against the assaults of his worst enemies, has felt in his own body all the temptations that ever can assail his children, and not only felt them, but successfully resisted and conquered them; so that, there is no state, however low, in which there is an earnest desire to rise out of evil, to which he does not again come down, and in which he does not again successfully contend with the powers of darkness. Look to Him, then, again, in a fixed resolution to put away the evils into which you have fallen, and you must, you will be sustained!"

"O, if I could but believe this, how eagerly would I again fly to the pledge!" Marshall said, in an earnest voice.

"Fly to it then, Jonas, as to a city of refuge; for it is true. You have felt the power of the pledge once-try it again. It will be strength to you in your weakness, as it has been before."

Still Marshall hesitated. While he did so, his wife brought him pens, ink and paper.

"Write a pledge and sign it, dear husband!" she urged, as she placed them before him. "Think of me--of the joy that it will bring to my heart--and sign."

"I am afraid, Jane."

"Can you stand alone?"

"I fear not."

"Are you not sure, that the pledge will restrain you some?"

"O, yes. If I ever take it again, I shall tremble under the fearful responsibility that rests upon me."

"Come with me, a moment," Mrs. Marshall said, after a thoughtful pause.

Her husband followed, as she led the way to an adjoining room, where two or three bright-eyed children were playing in the happiest mood.

"For their sakes, if not for mine, Jonas, sign the pledge again," she said, while her voice trembled, and then became choked, as she leaned her head upon his shoulder.

"You have conquered! I will sign!" he whispered in her ear.

Eagerly she lifted her head, arid looked into his face with a glance of wild delight.

"O, how happy this poor heart will again be!" she ejaculated, clasping her hands together, and looking upwards with a joyous smile.

In a few minutes, a pledge of total abstinence from all kinds of intoxicating drinks, was written out and signed. While her husband was engaged in doing this, Mrs. Marshall stood looking down upon each letter as it was formed by his pen, eager to see his name subscribed. When that was finally done; she leaned forward on the table at which he wrote, swayed to and fro for a moment or two, and then sank down upon the floor, lost to all consciousness of external things.

From that hour to this, Jonas Marshall has been as true to his second pledge, even in thought, as the needle to the pole. So dreadful seems the idea of its violation, that the bare recollection of his former dereliction, makes him tremble.

"It was a severe remedy," he says, sometimes, in regard to his broken legs; "and proved eminently successful. But for that, I should have been utterly lost."

THE WANDERER'S RETURN.

A THANKSGIVING STORY.

A MAN, who at first sight, a casual observer would have thought at least forty or fifty years of age, came creeping out of an old, miserable-looking tenement in the lower part of Cincinnati, a little while after night-fall, and, with bent body and shuffling gait, crossed the street an angle; and, after pausing for a few moments before a mean frame building, in the windows of which decanters of liquor were temptingly displayed, pushed open the door and entered.

It was early in November. Already the leaves had fallen, and there was, in the aspect of nature, a desolateness that mirrored itself in the feelings. Night had come, hiding all this, yet by no means obliterating the impression which had been made, but measurably increasing it; for, with the darkness had begun to fall a misty rain, and the rising wind moaned sadly among the eaves.

A short time after sundown the man, to whom we have just referred, came home to the comfortless-looking house we have seen him leaving. All day he had turned a wheel in a small manufactory; and when his work was done, he left, what to him was a prison-house, and retired to the cheap but wretched boarding-place he had chosen, where were congregated about a dozen men of the lowest class. He did not feel happy. That was impossible. No one who debases himself by intemperance can be happy; and this man had gone down, step by step, until he attained a depth of degradation most sad to contemplate. And yet he was not thirty years old! After supper he went out, as usual, to spend the evening in drinking.

The man, fallen as he was, and lost to all the higher and nobler sentiments of the heart, had experienced during the day a pressure upon his feelings heavier than usual, that had its origin in some reviving memories of earlier times.

The sound of his mother's voice had been in his ears frequently through the day; and images of persons, places, and scenes, the remembrance of which brought no joy to his heart, had many times come up before him. At the supper-table, amid his coarse, vulgar-minded companions, his laugh was not heard as usual; and, when spoken to, he answered briefly and in monosyllables.

The tippling-house to which the man went to spend his day's earnings and debase himself with drink, was one of the lowest haunts of vice in the city. Gambling with cards, dominoes, and dice, occupied the time of the greater number who made it a place of resort, and little was heard there except language the most obscene and profane. For his daily task at the wheel, the man was paid seventy-five cents a day. His boarding and lodging cost him thirty-one and a quarter cents,--and this had to be paid every night under penalty of being expelled from the house. He was a degraded drunkard, and not therefore worthy of confidence nor credit beyond a single day, and he received none. What remained of the pittance earned, was invariably spent in drink, or gambled away before he retired from the grogshop for the night; when, staggering home, he groped his way to his room, too helpless to remove his clothes, and threw himself upon a straw pallet, that could scarcely be dignified with the name of bed. This in outline, was the daily history of the man's life; and daily the shadows of vice fell more and more darkly upon his path.

The drinking-house had two rooms on the first floor. In front was a narrow counter, six or eight feet in length, and behind this stood a short, bloated, vice-disfigured image of humanity, ready to supply the wants of customers. Two or three roughly-made pine tables, and some chairs, stood around the room. The back apartment contained simply chairs and tables, and was generally occupied by parties engaged in games of chance, for small sums. Tobacco-smoke, the fumes of liquor, and the polluted breaths of the inmates, made the atmosphere of these rooms so offensive, that none but those who had become accustomed to inhale it, could have endured to remain there for a minute.

The man, on entering this den of vice, went to the counter and called for whisky. A decanter was set before him, and from this he poured into a glass nearly a gill of the vilest kind of stuff and drank it off, undiluted. About half the quantity of water was sent down after the burning fluid, to partially subdue its ardent qualities; and then the man turned slowly from the bar. As he did so, an individual who had seen him enter, and who had kept his eyes upon him from the moment he passed through the door, came towards him with a smile of pleasure upon his countenance, and reaching out his hand, said, in an animated voice--

"How are you, Martin, my good fellow! How are you?"

And he grasped the poor wretch's hand with a hearty grip and shook it warmly. Something like a smile lighted up the marred and almost expressionless face of the miserable creature, as he gave to the hand that had taken his a responsive pressure, and replied,

"Oh! very well, very well, considering all things."

"Bad night out," said the man, as he sat down near a stove, that was sending forth a genial heat.

"Yes, bad enough," returned Martin. A thought of the damp and chilly air without caused him to shiver suddenly, and draw a little nearer to the stove.

"Which makes us prize a comfortable place like this, where we can spend a pleasant evening among pleasant friends, so much the more."

"Yes. It's very pleasant," said Martin, spreading himself out before the stove, with a hand upon each knee, and looking with an absent-minded air, through the opening in the door, which had once been closed by a thin plate of mica, and seeing strange forms in the glowing coals.

"Pleasant after a hard day's work," remarked the man, with an insinuating air.

"I don't know what life would be worth, if seasons of recreation and social intercourse did not come, nightly, to relieve both body and mind from their wearisomeness and exhaustion."

"Yes--yes. It's tiresome enough to have to sit and turn a wheel all day," said Martin.

"And a relief to get into a place like this at night," returned the man, rubbing his hands with animation.

"It's a great deal better than sitting at the wheel," sighed Martin.

"I should think it was! Come! won't you liquor."

"Thank you! I've just taken something."

"No matter. Come along, my good fellow, and try something more." And he arose, as he spoke, and moved towards the bar.

Martin was not the man to refuse a drink at any time, so he followed to the counter.

"What'll you take? Whisky, rum, gin, brandy, or spirits? Any thing, so it's strong enough to drink to old acquaintanceship. Ha! my boy?" And he leered in Martin's face with a sinister expression, and slapped him familiarly on the shoulder.

"Brandy," said Martin. "Brandy let it be! Nothing like brandy! Set out your pure old Cogniac! Toby. A drink for the gods!"

"Prime stuff! that. It warms you to the very soles of your feet!" added the, man after he had turned off his glass. "Don't you say so, Martin?"

"Yes! and through your stockings, to your very shoes!"

"Hat ha! ha! He! he!" laughed the man with a forced effort. "Why, Bill Martin, you're a wit!"

"It ain't Bill, it's the brandy," said the bar-keeper, with more truth than jest.

"That brandy would put life into a grindstone!"

"It's put life into our friend here, without doubt." And as the very disinterested companion of Martin said this, he slapped him again upon the shoulder.

The two men turned from the bar and sat down again by the stove, both getting more and more familiar and chatty.

"Suppose we try a game of dominoes or chequers?" at length suggested the friend.

"No objection," replied Martin. "Any thing to make the time pass agreeably. Suppose we say chequers?"

"Very well. Here's a board. We'll go into the backroom where it's more quiet."

The two men retired into the little den in the rear of the bar-room, where were several parties engaged at cards or dice.

"Here's a cozy little corner," said the pleasant friend of Martin. "We can be as quiet as kittens."

"What's the stake?" he next inquired, as soon as the board was opened and the pieces distributed. "Shall we say a bit?"

Martin received, at the close of each day, his earnings. Of his seventy-five cents, he had already paid out for board thirty-one and a quarter cents; and for a glass of liquor and some tobacco, six cents more. So he had but thirty-seven and a half cents. This sum he drew from his pocket, and counted over with scrupulous accuracy, so as to be sure of the amount. While he was doing so, his companion's eyes were fixed eagerly upon the small coins in his hands, in order, likewise, to ascertain their sum.

"A bit let it be." And the man laid down a twelve-and-a-half-cent piece.

"No! We'll start with a picayune," said Martin, selecting the smaller coin and placing it on the table.

"That's too trifling. Say a bit," returned the man, but half concealing the eager impatience he felt to get hold of the poor wretch's money.

"Well, I don't care! Call it a bit, then," said Martin. And the coin was staked.

An observer would have been struck with the change that now came over Martin. His dull eyes brightened; something like light came flashing into his almost expressionless face, and his lips arched with the influx of new life and feeling. He moved his pieces on the board with the promptness and skill of one accustomed to the game, and, though he played with an opponent whose clearer head gave him an advantage, he yet held his own with remarkable pertinacity, and was not beaten until after a long and well-balanced struggle. But beaten he was; and one-third of all he possessed in the world passed from his hand.

Another twelve-and-a-half-cent piece was staked, and, in like manner, lost.

"I can't go but a picayune this time," said Martin, when the pieces were arranged for the third game. "My funds are getting too low."

"Very well, a picayune let it be. Any thing just to give a little interest to the game. I'm sure you'll win this time."

And win Martin did. This elated him. He played another game and lost. The next was no more successful. Only a single picayune now remained. For a short time he hesitated about risking this. He wanted more liquor; and, if he lost, there would be no means left to gratify the ever burning thirst that consumed him. Not until the close of the next day would he receive any money; and, without money, he could get nothing. There were unpaid scores against him in a dozen shops.

"Try again. Don't be afraid. You're a better player than I am. You'll be sure to win. Luck lies in the last sixpence. Don't you know that?"