Chapter VIII: Act V (3)

“I beg your pardon, my dear madam, but I think we have a great deal to do, though not in the way of assisting Father Matthew to address Temperance Conventions, as Mrs. Moore kindly suggests. Moreover, I have known a confirmed inebriate, so supposed, to give up all his old associations, and become a useful and honorable member of society.”

“Tell us about it, please, Miss Gray,” urged Emily Bradford, deeply interested. “There will be plenty of time before the gentlemen come in.”

And as the request was seconded by many voices, Isabel told her simple tale.

[1]“There is no romance about it, Miss Emily; but you remember those pretty habit shirts you admired so much last fall—and _you_ have seen me wear them, Mrs. Moore. They were made by a woman—a _lady_ whom I first saw years ago, when I passed my vacations at Milton, a little town not far from Harrisburg. My Aunt Gray was very domestic, and thought it no disgrace to the wife of a judge, and one of the most prominent men in the state, to see after her own household.

“There was a piece of linen to be made up one vacation; and I remember going into my aunt’s room and finding her surrounded by ‘sleeves and gussets and bands’—cutting out and arranging them with the most exemplary patience. ‘Pray, aunt, why do you bother yourself with such things,’ I said, for I was full of boarding-school notions on the dignity of _idleness_. ‘Why don’t you leave it for a seamstress.’

“‘If you will go with me this afternoon to see my seamstress, you will find out. I should like you to see her.’ And that afternoon our walk ended at a plain brown frame house, with nothing to relieve its unsightliness but a luxuriant morning-glory vine, which covered one of the lower windows.

“‘How is Mrs. Hall to-day?’ aunt said to a dirty little fellow who was making sand pies on the front step.

“‘She’s in there,’ was all the answer we received, as he pointed toward a door on the right of the little hall.

“‘Come in,’ said a faint and very gentle voice; and, at first, I could hardly see who had spoken, the room was so shaded by the leafy curtain which had interlaced its fragile stems over the front window. There was a neat rag carpet on the floor; a few plain chairs, a table, and a bureau, ranged round the room; but drawn near the window, so that the light fell directly upon it, was a bed, covered by a well-worn counterpane, though, like everything else, it was very neat and clean—and here, supported in a sitting posture by pillows, was my aunt’s seamstress. I do not think she had been naturally beautiful—but her features, wasted by long illness, were very delicate, and her eyes were large, and with the brilliancy you sometimes see in consumptives, yet a look of inexpressible sadness. She was very pale in that soft emerald light made by the foliage, and this was relieved by a faint hectic that, if possible, increased the pallor. She smiled as she saw my aunt, and welcomed us both very gratefully. As she held out her long thin hand, you could see every blue vein distinctly. I noticed that she wore a thimble, and around her, on the bed, were scattered bits of linen and sewing implements. You cannot tell how strange it seemed to see her take up a wristband and bend over it, setting stitch after stitch with the regularity of an automaton, while she talked with us. She seemed already dying, and this industry was almost painful to witness.

“I gathered from her conversation with my aunt,—while I looked on and wondered,—that Mrs. Hall had long been a confirmed invalid. They even spoke of a ruptured blood-vessel, from the effects of which she was now suffering. She did not complain—there was not a single murmur at her illness, or the hard fate that compelled her to work for her daily bread. I never saw such perfect cheerfulness, and yet I knew, from the contracted features and teasing cough, that she was suffering intensely. The little savage we had seen on our arrival, proved to be the son of her landlady, who was also her nurse and waiting-maid.

“I was very much interested, and, by the time we bade her good-bye, I had sketched out quite a romance, in which I was sure she had been the principal actor.

“‘Poor lady,’ said I, the instant we were out of the gate. ‘Why do you let her work, aunt? Why don’t you take her home, you have so many vacant rooms—or, at least, I should think, there were rich people enough in Milton to support her entirely. She does not look fit to hold a needle. Has she no children? and when did her husband die?—was she very wealthy?’

“I poured out my questions so fast that aunt had no time to answer any one of them, and I had been so much engaged, that I had not noticed a man reeling along the side-walk toward us, until just in time to escape the rude contact of his touch, from which I shrunk, almost shrieking.

“‘Who told you that Mrs. Hall was a widow, Isabel?’ said aunt, to divert me from my mishap.

“‘Nobody; but I knew it at once, as soon as I looked at her; how lonely she must be—and how terrible to see one’s best friend die, and know you cannot call them back again.’

“‘Not half so dreadful, dear,’ answered she, very seriously, ‘as to live on from day to day and see the gradual death of the soul, while the body is unwasted. It would be a happy day for Mrs. Hall that made her a widow, though she, poor thing, might not think so. That wretched inebriate’—and she pointed to the man we had just met—‘is her husband; and this is why she plies her needle when we would willingly save her from all labor. She cannot bear that _he_ should be indebted to the charity of strangers.’

“It was even so, for the poor fellow had reached the garden-gate, and was staggering in.

“‘So he goes home to her day after day,’ continued aunt; ‘and so it has been since a few years after their marriage. When I first came here, he had a neat shop in the village, and was considered one of the most promising young men in the neighborhood. Such an excellent workman—such a clever fellow—so fond and proud of his wife; and everybody said that Charlotte Adams had married ‘out of all trouble,’ in the country phrase. Poor girl! she had only entered a sea of misfortunes—for, from the death of her only child, a fine little fellow, they have been going down. It is a common story. First, the shop was given up, and he worked by the day; not long after, they moved to a smaller house, and sold most of their furniture. It was then she first commenced sewing, and, with all her industry she could scarcely get along. She could never deny him money when she had it—and this, with his own earnings, were spent at the tavern. She remonstrated in vain. He would promise to do better—in his sober moments he was all contrition, and called himself a wretch to grieve such a good wife. I do not believe she has ever reproached him, save by a glance of sorrowful entreaty, such as I have often seen her give when he entered as now he is going to her.

“‘She was never very well, and under repeated trials, and sorrow and mortification, her health gave way. Many a time have I parted with her, never expecting to see her alive again; but there is some concealed principle of vitality which supports her. Perhaps it is the hope that she will yet see her husband what he has been. I fear she hopes in vain, for if there was ever a man given over to the demon of intemperance it is James Hall. But it is for this reason that she refuses the assistance of her acquaintances, and works on from day to day, sometimes as now unable to leave her bed. Of course she is well paid, and has plenty of work, for everybody pities her, and all admire the wonderful patience, cheerfulness and industry which she exhibits. She never speaks to any one, even to me, of her husband’s faults. If she ever mentions him it is to say, ‘James has been such a good nurse this week—he has the kindest heart in the world.’ ‘She is a heroine,’ exclaimed my aunt warmly. ‘The best wife I ever knew—and if there is mercy in heaven, she will be repaid for all she has suffered in this world.’

“‘Poor lady,’ I thought and said a hundred times that week. I suppose I must have tired everybody with talking about Mrs. Hall.”

“And did you ever see her again—_did_ she die, Miss Gray?” asked Emily Bradford, as Isabel paused in her narration.

“I told you she made those pretty habit shirts for me. They were not in fashion in those days if you will recollect. The first summer after my debut in society I passed at Milton. I never shall forget the second evening of my visit. If you recollect, there was a great temperance movement through all our towns and villages just about that time. Reformed inebriates had become the apostles of temperance, and went from village to village, rousing the inhabitants by their unlearned but wonderful eloquence. Mass meetings were held in the town-ball at Milton nightly, and by uncle’s invitation, for he went heart and hand with the newly awakened spirit of reform, aunt and myself accompanied him to one of these strange gatherings. It was with the greatest difficulty we could get a seat. Rough laborers, with their wives and children, crowded side by side with the _élite_ of the little place; boys of every age and size filled up the interstices, with a strange variety of faces and expressions. The speaker of the evening was introduced just as we entered. He was tall, with a wan, haggard-looking face, and the most brilliant, flashing eyes I ever saw. A few months ago he had been on outcast from society, and now, with a frame weakened by past excesses, but with a spirit as strong as that which animated the old reformers, he stood forth, going as it were ‘from house to house, saying peace be unto you.’ Peace which had fled from his own hearth when he gave way to temptation, but which now returning urged him to bear glad tidings to other homes.

“I never listened to such strange and thrilling eloquence. I have seen Fanny Kemble as Portia plead with Shylock with all the energy of justice, and the force of her passionate nature, but though that was beyond my powers of conception, I was not moved as now. With what touching pathos he recounted the sorrows, the wasting, mournful want endured by the drunkard’s wife! The sickness of hope deferred and crushed—the destruction of all happiness here, or hope of it hereafter! It was what his own eyes had seen, his own acts had caused—and it was the eloquence of simple truth. More than one thought of poor Mrs. Hall, I am sure. As for myself, I know not when I have been so excited, and after the exhausted speaker had concluded his thrilling appeal, and the whole rude assembly joined in a song arranged to the plaintive air of Auld Lang Syne—more like a triumphal chant it seemed, as it surged through the room—I forgot all rules of form, and though I had sung nothing but tame Italian _cavatinas_ for years, my voice rose with the rest, forgetful of all but the scene around me.

“Scarce had the last strains died away, when through the crowded aisles, passing the very seat we occupied, some one pressed forward with trembling eagerness. At first I did not recognize him—but uncle started and made way for him to the table in front of the speaker’s seat. A confused murmur of voices ran through the room, as one and another saw him grasp the printed pledge which was lying there, with the eagerness of a dying man. The first name subscribed to the solemn promise of total abstinence that night was James Hall. When it was announced by my uncle himself, whose voice was fairly tremulous with pleasure, the effect was electrical. The whole assembly rose, and the room rang with three cheers from stentorian voices. All order was at an end. Men of all classes and conditions pressed forward to take him by the hand, and more names were affixed to the pledge that night than any one could have counted on.

“It was a proud tribute paid to woman’s influence, when James Hall grasping the hand of the speaker ejaculated—‘Oh! it was the picture you drew of what my poor wife has suffered. Heaven bless her! she has been an angel to me—poor wretch that I am.’

“My aunt’s first impulse was to fly to Mrs. Hall with the good news, but ‘let him be the bearer of the glad tidings himself,’ she said afterward. ‘We will offer our congratulations to-morrow.’ And never were congratulations more sincerely received than by that pale invalid, trembling even yet with the fear that her great happiness was not real.”

“Oh! very well,” broke in Mrs. Bradford. “Quite a scene, my dear; you should have been a novelist. But did he keep it?—_that’s_ the thing.”

“You would not ask, my dear madam,” answered Isabel, “if you could have witnessed another ‘scene,’ as you term it, in which Mrs. Hall was an actor.

“There is a pretty little cottage standing at the very foot of the lane which leads to my uncle’s house. This has been built since that memorable evening by Mr. Hall, now considered the best workman, and one of the most respected men in Milton; and it was furnished by his wife’s industry. Her health was restored as if by a miracle; it was indeed such, but wrought by the returned industry, self-respect, and devotion of her husband. My aunt and myself were her guests only a few months ago, the evening of her removal to her new home.

“We entered before her little preparations were quite finished, and found Mrs. Hall arranging some light window curtains for the prettily furnished parlor, while a fine curly-haired, blue-eyed little fellow was rolling on the carpet at her feet. She was still pale, and will never be strong again, but a happier wife and mother this world cannot contain. Her reward has been equal to her great self-sacrifice, and not only this, but the example of her husband has reformed many of his old associates, who at first jeered at him when he refused to join them. There is not a bar now in all Milton, for one cannot be supported.”

More than one thoughtless girl in the little group clustered around Isabel began, for the first time, to feel their responsibility as women, when her little narrative was concluded. But the current of thought and education is not so easily turned, and by the time the gentlemen entered the room, most of them had forgotten every thing but a desire to outshine each other in their good graces.

Emily Bradford alone remained in the shadow of a curtain, quiet and apart; and as she stood there musing, her heart beat faster, it may be, with an unacknowledged pang of jealousy as she saw Robert Lewis speaking earnestly with Isabel.

“Heaven bless you, Miss Gray, I confess I wavered—you have made me ashamed of my weakness; I will not mind their taunting now,” was all that the grateful, warm-hearted man could say; and he knew by the friendly clasp of Isabel’s hand that nothing more was needed. Who among that group of noble and beautiful women had more reason for happiness than Isabel Gray? Ah, my sisters, if you could but realise that all beauty and grace are but talents entrusted to your keeping, and that the happiness of many may rest upon the most trivial act, you would not use that loveliness for an ignoble triumph, or so thoughtlessly tread the path of daily life!

* * * * *

“Oh, Isabel,” said Lucy Rushton, bursting into her cousin’s room, some two years from the scenes we have recorded, “what am I to do? Pray advise me, for you always know every thing.”

“Not quite as wise as that, dear, but what am I to do for you?”

“Oh, Emily Bradford has been proposed for by young Lewis, and aunt, who sees only his wealth and connections, is crazy for the match. Emily really loves him devotedly; and what am I to do, knowing how near he once came to downright intemperance? Is it my duty, or is it not, to tell aunt? It has no effect on Emily, and, besides, he confessed it all to her when he proposed.”

“And what does she say?”

“Why, it’s your fault, after all, for she quotes a story you told that same night I heard about his folly. You told me that, too. Well, he declares he has not drank a glass of wine since then, and never will again. Particularly if he has Emily for his guiding angel, I suppose, and all that sort of thing. And she believes him, of course.”

“Well, ‘of course’—don’t say it so despairingly; why not? I do, most assuredly. I might perhaps have distrusted the reformation if it had been solely on Emily’s account, a pledge made to gain her, but if I am not very much mistaken, I think I can trace their attachment to that same eventful night, but I am very certain he did not declare himself until quite recently.”

“So I am to let Emily run the risk?”

“Yes, if she chooses it; though I do not think there is much. I should have no hesitation to marry Lewis if I loved him. Emily is a thoughtful, sensible girl. She does not act without judgment, and she is just the woman to be the wife of an impulsive, generous man like Lewis. Sufficient time has elapsed to try his principles, and her companionship will strengthen them.”

And so it proved, for there are now few happier homes than the cheerful, hospitable household over which Emily Lewis presides. Isabel Gray is always a favorite guest, and Robert predicts that she will never marry. It may prove so, for she is not of those who would sacrifice herself for fortune, or give her hand to any man she did not thoroughly respect and sympathise with, to escape that really very tolerable fate—becoming an old maid.

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[1] The circumstances here related are substantially true.

* * * * *

ON A PORTRAIT OF CROMWELL.

BY JAMES T. FIELDS.

“Paint me as I am,” said Cromwell,
Rough with age, and gashed with wars—
“Show my visage as you find it—
Less than truth my soul abhors!”

This was he whose mustering phalanx
Swept the foe at Marston Moor;
This was he whose arm uplifted
From the dust the fainting poor.

God had made his face uncomely—
“Paint me as I am,” he said,
So he _lives_ upon the canvas
Whom they chronicled as _dead_!

Simple justice he requested
At the artist’s glowing hands,
“Simple justice!” from his ashes
Cries a voice that still commands.

And, behold! the page of History,
Centuries dark with Cromwell’s name,
Shines to-day with thrilling lustre
From the light of Cromwell’s fame!

* * * * *

A SEA-SIDE REVERIE.

BY ENNA DUVAL.

These white-capped waves roll on with pride, as if
The myth that ancient poësy did tell
Were true, and they did bear upon their breasts
King Néreus with state most royal. How
They leap and toss aloft their snowy crests;
And now a tumbling billow springing up
In air, does dash and bound—another comes—
Then playfully they meet, with bursting swell
Dashing their spray-wreaths on the shelving shore,
And quick the ripples hasten back, as if
To join the Ocëanides wild glee.
But when the beaming sunlight fades away
And storm-clouds gather—then the rolling waves,
Without a light, sweep on, and soon is heard
The under-current’s deep and solemn tones,
As on the shore it breaks.
How like to life
These ocean waves! When beaming with the rays
Of sunny Joy, Youths cresting billows bound,
Its frolick waves leap up with gleeful laugh,
Glitt’ring with pleasure’s light; but lo! a cloud
Obscures Life’s sky, and sorrow’s storm awakes,
The heavy swell of grief comes rolling on,
And all the sparkles of Life’s waves are gone!

* * * * *

THE BRIDE OF THE BATTLE.

A SOUTHERN NOVELET.

BY W. GILMORE SIMMS.

(_Concluded from page 91._)