AFTER a long day’s journey, I arrived at the house of some relatives in Wales, who had invited me to spend Christmas with them. After the first greetings had been exchanged, I said: “But I don’t see my dear Ruthie.”
“No, aunt,” one of the children answered, “Ruth is obliged to be out this evening; and she wants to have you all to herself at first, because she has some news that nobody else is to tell you.”
Ruth, the eldest daughter, had been for some time betrothed to a gentleman holding a civil post in India, whither soon after their engagement, he had been compelled to return. At the time of which I am speaking, there was every probability of his being able to revisit England in a few months, and claim his betrothed; but when last I heard from Ruth, the time for his coming was still unsettled. I at once guessed that her good news216had reference to this matter; nor was I mistaken. Soon after I had retired for the night, there came a gentle tap at my bedroom door, and Ruth entered; there was a light in her eyes, a joyous elasticity in her step.
“Auntie,” she cried, as she embraced me, “they haven’t told you?”
“No, darling; only that you have something to tell.”
So, making me sit down by the fire, she told me, with a happy blushing face, while she drew a letter from her pocket, that Herbert had written to say he would be home from India the following February. “He must almost have started before I got this,” she said. “Oh, auntie, I can hardly believe it for joy!”
After congratulating her most cordially, I said:—
“But, dear Ruth, if he has started by this time, he will be home before February.”
“No, aunty, I was going to tell you; there is one little drawback; he says he hasn’t been quite well, and though he is really all right now, he is so strongly advised to come by the long sea voyage, that he has made up his mind to do so.”
I thought this was not the time to remind my niece of the uncertainty of earthly things. We cannot prepare our loved ones for the darkness through which God may purpose to lead them, by casting over the sunshine he sends, the shadow of our misgivings. I therefore only expressed my ardent wishes for the loved one's safe arrival.
When Ruth had left me, I sat thinking how much more gladness there should be in the lives, in the very faces, of those who are looking for the coming of the heavenly Bridegroom. Could there be, I asked myself, a surer test of our affections toward the Lord Jesus, than our feelings about his personal return?
Every day’s intercourse with my niece taught me, in some new and practical way, how the thought of our Lord’s appearing should regulate our present aims and occupations—should influence our views concerning the possessions, privations, joys, and sorrows of this transitory life.
I noticed she was less with the family circle than formerly; and one day I went to seek her in her room. There I found her sitting at a table which was covered with books;218she was reading a large volume, and busily making notes from it.
“This is a new sort of occupation for you, my dear,” I remarked.
“Yes, aunt, but you see Herbert is so clever, I don’t want him to find me very ignorant, so I am studying history two hours a day. And as he said something in his last letter, about going on the continent after our wedding, I want to get up my French and German.”
Again, one afternoon there was to be a shopping expedition to the neighboring town, and Ruth’s mother and sister were busily engaged making a list of what they wanted. “Now, Ruth,” her mother asked, “what can I do for you?”
“Nothing, thank you, mamma. It is not worth while now. I must think about my outfit next month, as Herbert will soon be here.”
Shortly before Christmas, an invitation was received for as many of the family as could go to an entertainment given by a gentleman and lady who had lately settled in the neighborhood. It was accepted; but the carriage room was limited, and Ruth, hearing herself mentioned among those who must219certainly be of the party, said it would be a great pity she should keep any one else from going. “You see, papa,” she said, “it is of more consequence the others should make acquaintance with these people, as I am so soon going away.”
On another occasion I heard some young friends ask her if she had heard anything about the house of Peshawur where she was to live. “Hardly anything,” she answered. “I know Herbert has been preparing it for a long time; but he has scarcely told me anything about it but that it seems lonely to him; and I,” she added, in a lower tone, “have scarcely thought anything about it, except that he will be there.”
But, alas! Herbert never came home for his betrothed. The indisposition of which he had made light, deceiving himself for her dear sake, rapidly increased; and at length, all hope of recovery being at an end, he started for England in the hope of at least dying amidst his loved ones. But even this wish was not fulfilled; he breathed his last on board ship, before the voyage was over.
Many years have passed since then. After220a time it pleased God to heal my young niece’s sorrow; and although that tie was painfully sundered, she is now a happy, middle aged wife and mother.
But the impression left upon my mind by her earnest looking for her expected bridegroom has never been effaced; and, to this hour, when the things of this passing life threaten to assume an undue importance, I recall Ruth’s oft-repeated words, “It is not worth while, when he will so soon be here;” and I strive to bring the glory of the coming again, in his glorious majesty, of “that great God, and our Saviour Jesus Christ,” to bear on all the interest of time; to keep me sober in its joys, and content in its sorrows; and to be careful for nothing because “the Lord is at hand.”
And many a time, when I have felt a longing for more definite information regarding the promised land, the better country whence the Lord Jesus will return to receive us unto himself, I have remembered Ruth’s simple words with respect to her unknown dwelling-place in India, and rested my heart on the blessed thought, “He who loves me with an everlasting love is preparing a mansion for221me there; his happiness is not complete without the presence of his redeemed ones; and neither can there, in this case, be any disappointed hopes; for the heavenly Bridegroom ever lives; and his precious promise to all who look for and long for and ‘love his appearing’ is, ‘I go to prepare a place for you; and if I go to prepare a place for you, I will come again and receive you unto myself, that where I am there ye may be also.”
Look up! the stars shine dimly
Through the dark night of despair;
They light the shores of Paradise!
And thou art speeding there.
Fear not—for Christ, whose holy feet
Once calmed the stormy sea,
Will still the tempest-waves of grief,
And whisper, “Peace” to thee.
THE BLIGHTED LIFE.
It was at a boarding-house in one of our large cities, where I was expecting to sojourn for some months, that I made the acquaintance of Henry Somers. The first time I went to the table, he attracted my attention by his loquacity. He talked more than anyone else; but though his conversation was fluent and animated, his countenance did not light up; indeed he had not an expressive face, and what expression there was, was not cheerful. It was that of a man with whom things were not going happily; of one who had something on his heart—some disappointment, some sorrow, some anxiety, some heavy care. At first I thought the sweet, gentle, youthful woman who sat beside him was his wife, but in this I soon found that I was mistaken; their proximity at the table being merely accidental, and their acquaintance not of long standing. He had never been married.
Judging from his appearance, I should say that Somers, at this time, was approaching forty years of age. His dress was always most scrupulously neat, and his light brown hair and full handsome beard in perfect order. His blue eyes, though lusterless, and surrounded with a dark circle, were always in motion, as if indicative of an uneasy, restless soul. His cheeks were somewhat sunken, and his face pale.
As the season advanced, I became better acquainted with my fellow boarder, and found that he had been quite a traveler; having not only been in Europe, but in China and Japan. I discovered, too, that he belonged to a wealthy family, and that he had enjoyed opportunities of improvement far beyond what fall to the lot of most young men. But still there was not that intelligence and culture which such advantages should have given him. His conversation was quite disconnected, and, sometimes almost silly. Occasionally he seemed much dejected, talking about the unfeeling and heartless, selfish world, and his own hard lot and even wished he was dead. He had no employment, but told me that not long224before he had almost completed arrangements for going into business, but that the party failed to keep their word.
Two or three months had elapsed after my first meeting with my somewhat mysterious acquaintance when he disappeared from his place at the table for some days, and no one knew what had become of him. He had told no one of his intended absence, and his trunk and clothes were still in his room. Various were the conjectures, as day after day passed without his return. The mystery was soon solved. Learning one morning that he had come back the night before, and that he was sick in his room, I went to see him. The first glance told the tale. He had been in a debauch, and was now in the prostrate condition consequent upon days of drunkenness. I sat down by his bedside, spoke kindly to him, let him know that I understood the state of the case, that I wished to be his friend, and to do all in my power to help him up from his fall. Sympathy and kind words quickly unlocked his burdened heart, and he told me his sorrowful story. He had fallen in with so-called friends, who enticed him to drink, and225having once tasted he could not stop; he had lain several days at a public-house under the influence of liquor, and the debauch having run its course, he had now come back, “in soul and body,” as he expressed it, “the most wretched man alive.” With nerves unstrung, stomach disordered, burning thirst, an aching head, and an aching heart, he was indeed a pitiable spectacle.
But notwithstanding the evident sufferings of this miserable man, it was a relief to him to have some one present, and especially one to whom he could unburden his oppressed and troubled soul. He told me his whole story. “This is not the first time,” said he, “no, not by hundreds, that I have been as you now see me. This thing has been going on for years. Long ago I contracted the habit of drinking, and it has clung to me with a power that I can’t shake off. I am the son of a rich man and that has been my ruin. I had plenty of money, and abundant opportunities of indulgence, and but for that my life would have been a very different one. My social position, and ample means gave me access to a club, when I was quite young. “There I met a gay, jolly set, and we used226to play cards, and take drinks night after night, until a very late hour. In this way things went on from bad to worse, until sometimes I took a dozen or more drinks in a night, and of course never went home sober. This sort of life soon brought its natural consequences. My family were mortified and distressed. At first they plead and remonstrated; then they grew harsh, and reproached. I was making a brute of myself, disgracing them. Various means were resorted to, to reform me, and after a time I was taken to Europe to get me out of the way of bad companions; but this did not help the matter much. Afterwards they sent me off to China, in hopes that the long voyage and change of life would break up my wretched habits; but this did not avail.
“I remained two years in the East, and soon made the acquaintance of Englishmen who were harder drinkers than my old companions; and the only wonder is that I lived to get back to my own country. Perhaps it would have been better if I had died there, but I was spared and came home, and for a while strove to do better. Indeed I reformed so far that my father put me into business,227but the accursed drink soon got the better of me, no longer fit for business, I was once more set adrift, and with old companions to help me on to ruin.
“What I have gone through since then, God only knows. Some time ago I concluded that I would make a desperate effort to break the horrible bondage, and, as it was important to get away from old haunts and companions, I came to this city. I am allowed just money enough to pay necessary expenses; but even that, with the exception of a few dollars a month, is not risked in my hands. I had been keeping sober until I fell into this bad company, and then, as you see, I was overcome and I fear this will continue to be the way. What is to be the end—how long this wretched sort of life is to continue, I don’t know; but if I were only ready for a better world, what a relief it would be to die!”
The foregoing was not given in the continuous form in which I have narrated it; he was suffering too much for that—nor in the precise words; but this is the story. He looked and talked like one who, although conscious of his frightful bondage, was yet hopeless as to his power to escape. I told him228that God could help him, that his grace was all-sufficient, and that if with a penitent, broken heart, he would cast himself at the feet of the sinner’s Friend, he would find mercy and be made a thoroughly reformed man; and that this was the only help that would certainly avail.
“I wish I were a Christian,” said he; “what a blessing it must be to be a Christian! I should think you must be the happiest man in the world, with a Christian’s hope, and spending your life in trying to do good.”
This was spoken in the tone and manner of one whose bitter experience afforded a sombre background for setting off his ideal of a Christian. But though the words were sincere, they were evidently but the passing utterances of a restless, disturbed spirit.
After a few moments’ silence, he said:—
“I’m like the man in the Bible—Esau, wasn’t it?—that sold his birthright for a mess of pottage. I sold mine for a glass of liquor.”
“Well, there’s one thing,” said I, “that you ought to do, and which I suppose you can do—that is, to get some employment. You know the proverb ‘An idle mind is the229devil’s workshop;’ and so long as you are unemployed, you will be more liable to fall into temptation.”
“I know that very well,” he replied, “but how can I get employment? My father won’t trust me with money, for he thinks I would soon waste it; and nobody would take a man into a business house who knows nothing about business, and who, they would be sure to find out, had been dissipated. And to tell the truth, I am not fit for business; my miserable course of life has injured my mind. I can’t fix my attention on anything, and what I undertook to do wouldn’t be done well. The fact is, there’s no hope for me. Oh, if I was only prepared, what a relief it would be to die!”
The tone and manner in which this was said, showed that it came from a thoroughly wretched heart. It was the wail of woe from one who had made shipwreck of himself.
After this interview I not unfrequently conversed with this unhappy man. His course was still the same—sometimes for months conducting himself well, and then falling into a debauch. But at his best moments there was about him an air of misery and230hopelessness, which always excited my sympathy. He went to the West some years since, and not long ago I read a notice of his death. Poor fellow! from what I have been able to gather about his last years, they were of a piece of his previous life, and no light shone upon his closing scene.
I have narrated the foregoing as a striking illustration, of the wreck which bad habits, contracted in youth, make of the entire subsequent life. This man was not cut off in the morning of his days; he lived to middle age. Nor did he sink to utter degradation. He never lay in the gutter; he was not a common outcast; nor did he die literally a drunkard’s death. For years he saw the evil of his course, and would fain have changed it; but when he had made the attempt, he could neither form the social ties nor make the business connections so essential to his continuance in well-doing.
What he said of himself, indeed was true; he really was fit for nothing. His enfeebled mind rendered him an uninteresting companion; he was incapable of continuance and intelligent application, and he was restless as the troubled sea. All this, combined with231shattered nerves and an irresolute will, made him apparently as unavailable for all the practical purposes of manhood as any human being I ever saw. Oftentimes I used to think what could be done for him, or with him, but there seemed nowhere to begin, nothing to build upon. Had he become a Christian that would have furnished the needful objective point; but thoughts on that subject came and went through his mind like water through a sieve. And so powerless was his will, that if he made a pledge of abstinence he would not keep it.
Here, then, was the sad spectacle of a man hardly yet in the noon of his days, restless, miserable, exiled by his family, without one intimate virtuous friend, and for practical purposes good for nothing. It was one of the most sorrowful illustrations I have ever met with, of a blighted life. At the outset of his career he had every advantage—social position, wealth, influential friends, everything—but by yielding to the tempter these were all sacrificed. In those days and nights card-playing drinking and jollity, no doubt seemed very fine, that was the seed-sowing, but when I saw him, the harvest time had232come. He sowed to the wind and was reaping the whirlwind.
As I used to listen to the moaning of his wretched heart, and feel how powerless I was to help him in such a case, oh, how my inmost soul pitied him; and how unspeakable seemed the folly of those who, with such beacons before them, deliberately and persistently follow in their footsteps. “Surely in vain the net is spread in the sight of any bird.” So spoke Solomon; but it does not seem to be so now. The net stands right in view, with its victims struggling in its meshes, and yet how many with eyes wide open walk right into it.
Young man, beware of dissipated company! Touch not, taste not, the fatal wine cup. Avoid the first step in the road to ruin and then you will not take the second. Take warning from the bitter experience of Henry Somers, lest like him sowing the poison seeds in youth, like him you reap the blighted life.
HOME INFLUENCE.
“Who is that, I wonder?” said Mrs. Seaburn, as she heard a ring at the basement door.
“Ah! it’s Marshall,” returned her husband who had looked out at the window and recognized the grocer’s cart.
“And what have you sent home now Henry?”
But before Mr. Seaburn could answer, the door of the sitting room was opened, and one of the domestics looked in and asked:—
“What’ll I do with the demijohns, ma’am?”
“Demijohns?” repeated Mrs. Seaburn.
“Put them in the hall, and I’ll attend to them,” interposed the husband.
“Henry, what have you sent home now?” the wife asked after the domestic was gone.
“Some nice old brandy,” replied Henry. Cora Seaburn glanced up at the clock, and then looked down upon the floor. There was234a cloud upon her fair brow, and it was very evident that something lay heavily upon her heart. Presently she walked to the wall and pulled the bell cord, and the summons was answered by the chambermaid.
“Are George and Charles in their room?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Tell them it is school time.”
The girl went out, and in a little while two boys entered the sitting room, with their books under their arms and their caps in their hands. They were bright, happy, healthy fellows, with goodness and truth stamped upon their rosy faces, and the light of free consciences gleamed in their sparkling eyes. George was thirteen years of age, and Charles eleven; and certainly those two parents had reason to be proud of them. The boys kissed their mother, gave a happy “good morning” to their father, and then went away to school.
“Come,” said Mr. Seaburn, some time after the boys had gone, “what makes you so sober?”
“Sober?” repeated the wife, looking up.
“Yes. You have been sober and mute ever since the grocer came.”235“Do you want me to tell you why?”
“Of course I do.”
“Well, Henry, I am sorry you had that spirits brought into the house.”
“Oh, what’s the use of talking so, Cora! You wouldn’t have me do without it would you?”
“Yes.”
“Why, what do you mean?”
“I mean that I would cut clear of the stuff now and forever.”
“But, Cora, you are wild. What should we do at our parties without wine?”
“Do as others who have it not.”
“But—mercy!—what would people say?—Are you afraid—but no, I won’t ask so foolish a question.”
“Ask it, Henry. Let me say plainly, now that we have fairly commenced.”
“Well, I was about to ask if you were afraid that I should ever drink too much?”
“That’s not a fair question, Henry. I was not thinking of that at all. But I will answer it by and by. You have no fixed appetite for it now.”
“Of course not.”
“Then it would not cost you any effort to abstain from its use?”
“Not a particle.”
“And you only have it in your house, and serve it to your friends and drink it yourself because it is fashionable? or, you do it because others do it?”
“I do it because”—said Mr. Seaburn, hesitating in his choice of language—“because it would appear very odd, and very niggardly and very fanatical, not to do it.” This last was spoken emphatically.
“But,” pursued Mrs. Seaburn, with the calmness and assurance of one who feels the sustaining influence of right, “you would not do what you were convinced was wrong, out of respect to any such consideration, would you?”
“You know I would not, Cora. This question of temperance, I know, is a good one in the abstract, and I am willing to live up to it as I understand it; but I am not a teetotaler.”
“Henry,” said his wife with an earnest look into his face, “will you answer me a few questions?—answer them honestly and truly, without equivocation or evasion?”
“Bless me, how methodically you put it, Cora! But I will answer.”
“Then first—do you believe you, or your friends, are in any way benefited by the drinking of intoxicating beverages at your board? That is—do you derive any real good from it?”
“No, I can’t say that we do.”
“Do you think the time has ever been since we were married, when we actually needed wine in the house, either for our health or comfort?”
“Why, I think it has added to our comfort Cora.”
“How?”
“In many ways.”
“Name one of them.”
“Why, in the enjoyment of our guests.”
“Ah! But I am speaking of ourselves, Henry—of you, and of our own little family. Has it ever ministered to our comfort?”
“No, I can’t say that it has.”
“And if it were banished from our house to-day and forever, as a beverage, should we suffer in consequence?”
“Certainly. What would our friends—”
“Ah! but stop. I am only speaking of our own affairs, shut out from the world, by our own fireside. I want all extraneous considerations238left out of the question. Should we, as a family, suffer in our moral, physical, social or domestic affairs, in the total abstinence of this beverage?”
“No, I don’t know that we should.”
“Then to you, as a husband and a father, and as a man, it is of no earthly use?”
“No.”
“And it would cost you no effort, so far as you alone are concerned, to break clear from it?”
“Not a particle.”
“And now, Henry,” pursued the wife, with increased earnestness, “I have a few more questions to ask: Do you believe that the drinking of intoxicating beverages is an evil in this country?”
“Why, as it is now going on, I certainly do.”
“And isn’t it an evil in society?”
“Yes.”
“Look over this city, and tell me if it is not a terrible evil!”
“A terrible evil grows out of the abuse of it, Cora.”
“And will you tell me what good grows out of the use of it?”
“Really, when you come down to the abstract point, you have the field. But people should govern their appetites. All things may be abused.”
“Yes. But will you tell me the use—the real good—to be derived from drinking wine and brandy?”
“As I said before, it is a social custom, and has its charms.”
“Ah! there you have it, Henry. It does have its charms, as the deadly snake is said to have, and as other vices have. But I see you are in a hurry.”
“It is time I was at the store.”
“I will detain you but a moment longer, Henry. Just answer me a few more questions. Now call to mind all the families of your acquaintance; think of all the domestic circles you have known from your schoolboy days to the present; run your thoughts through the various homes where you have been intimate—do this, and tell me, if in any one instance you ever knew a single joy to be planted by the hearth-stone from the wine cup? Did you ever know one item of good to flow to a family from its use?”
“No; I cannot say that I ever did—not as you mean.”
“And now answer me again. Think of those homes once more—call to memory the playmates of your childhood, of the homes, think of the firesides where all you have known dwell—and tell me if you have seen any sorrows flow from the wine cup? Have you seen any great griefs planted by the intoxicating bowl upon the hearth-stone?”
Henry Seaburn did not answer, for there passed before him such grim spectres of sorrow and grief that he shuddered at the mental vision. He saw the youth cut down in the hour of promise; he saw the gray head fall in dishonor; he saw hearts broken; he saw homes made desolate; he saw affection wither and die; and saw noble intellect stricken down! Oh! what sights he saw as he unrolled the canvas of his memory.
“Henry,” whispered his wife, moving to his side, “We have two boys. They are growing to be men. They are noble generous, and tender. They love their home and honor their parents. They are here to form those characters, to receive those impressions, which shall be the basis upon which their future weal or woe must rest. Look at them—oh! think of them. Think of them241doing battle in the great struggle of the life before them. Shall they carry out from their home our evil influence? Shall they in the time to come fall by the way-side, cut down by the demon of the cup, and in their dying hour curse the example whence they derived the appetite? Oh! for our children—for those two boys—for the men we hope to see them—for the sweet memories we would have them cherish of their home—for the good old age they may reap—let us cast this thing out now and forever!”
Cora ceased speaking; and Henry, without another word left the house and went to his store.
How strangely did circumstances work to keep the idea his wife had given him alive in his mind! That very morning he met a youth, the son of one of his wealthy friends, in a state of wild intoxication; and during the forenoon he heard that Aaron Green had died at sea. He knew that Aaron had been sent away from home that he might be reclaimed.
After the bank closed, and as Henry Seaburn was thinking of going to his dinner, he received a note through the penny post. It242was from a medical friend, and contained a request that he would call at the hospital on his way home. The hospital was not much out of the way, and he stopped there.
“There is a man in one of the lower wards who wishes to see you,” said the doctor.
“Does he know me?” asked Seaburn.
“He says he does.”
“What is his name?”
“He won’t tell us. He goes by the name of Smith; but I am satisfied that such is not his true name. He is in the last stage of consumption and delirium. He has lucid intervals, but they do not last long. He has been here a week. He was picked up in the street and brought here. He heard your name, and said he knew you once.”
Mr. Seaburn went to the room where the patient lay, and looked at him. Surely he never knew that man! “There must be some mistake,” he said.
The invalid heard him, and opened his eyes—such blood-shot eyes!
“Henry,” he whispered, trying to lift himself up on his elbow; “is this Henry Seaburn?”
“That is my name.”
“And don’t you know me?”
“I am sure I do not.” And he would have said he did not wish to, only the man seemed so utterly miserable that he would not wound what little feelings he might have left.
“Have you forgotten your old playmate in boyhood, Harry—your friend in other years, your chum in college?”
“What!” gasped Seaburn, startling back aghast, for a glimmer of the truth burst upon him. “This is not Alec Lomberg?”
“All that is left of him, my Hal,” returned the poor fellow, putting forth his wasted, skeleton hand, and smiling a faint, quivering, dying smile.
“Alexander Lomberg?” said Henry, gazing into the bloated, disfigured face before him.
“You wouldn’t have know me, Hal?”
“Indeed, no!”
“I know I am altered.”
“But, Alec,” cried Seaburn, “how is this? Why are you here?”
“Rum, my Hal—RUM! I’m about done for. But I wanted to see you. They told me you lived not far away, and I would look upon one friend before I died.”
“But I heard you were practicing in your profession, Alec, and doing well.”
“So I did do well when I practiced, Hal. I have made some pleas, but I have given up all that.”
“And your father—where is he?”
“Don’t mention him; he taught me to drink! Ah, he taught me! and then turned the cold shoulder upon me when I drank too much! But I’m going, Hal—going, going!”
Henry Seaburn gazed into that terrible face, and remembered what its owner had been—the son of wealthy parents; the idol of a fond mother; the favorite at school, at play, and at college; a light of intellect and physical beauty, and a noble, generous friend. And now, alas! “Alec, can I help you?”
“Yes.” And the poor fellow started higher up from his pillow, and something of the light struggled for a moment in his eyes. “Pray for me, Hal. Pray for my soul! for my mother’s sake. Oh! she was a good mother, Hal. Thank God she didn’t live to see this! Pray for me—pray—pray!”
As the wasted man sank back he fell to weeping, and in a moment more, one of his245paroxysms came on, and he began to rave. He thought Harry was his father, and he cursed him; and cursed the habit that had been fastened upon him under that father’s influence. But Henry could not stop to listen. With an aching heart he turned away and left the hospital. He could not go home to dinner then; he went down town, and got dinner there. At night he went to the hospital again. He would inquire after his friend, if he did not see him.
“Poor fellow!” said the physician, “he never came out of that fit; he died in half an hour after you went out.”
It was dark when Henry Seaburn reached home. “You didn’t tell Bridget where to put those demijohns, Henry,” said his wife. She had not noticed his face, for the gas was burning but dimly.
“Ah! I forgot. Come down with me, Cora, and we’ll find a place for them.”
His wife followed him down into the basement, and one by one he took the demijohns and carried them into the rear yard, there he emptied their contents into the sewer. Then he broke the vessels in pieces with his foot, and bade Bridget have the dirtman take the246fragments away in the morning. Not one word had he spoken to his wife all the while, nor did she speak to him. He returned to the sitting room, where his boys were at their books, and took a seat on the sofa. He called his wife and children about him, and then told the story of Alec Lomberg.
“And now, my loved ones,” he added, laying his hand upon the heads of his boys, “I have made a solemn vow that henceforth my children shall find no such influence at their home. They shall never have the occasion to curse the example of their father. I will touch the wine-cup no more forever! What say you, my boys—will you join me in that pledge?”
They joined him with glad willingness; for their hearts were full, and their sympathies all turned, by a mother’s careful love, to right.
“And you Cora?”
“Yes, yes!” she cried. “And may the holy lesson of this hour never be forgotten. O God! let it rest, as an angel of mercy, upon my boys! and so shall they bless through life the influence they carry with them from their home?”