Mrs. Graham and her two daughters had nearly finished their evening meal, at the close of the day alluded to some pages back, when the sound of rapidly hurrying footsteps was heard on the pavement. In a moment after, a heavy blow was given just at their door, and some one fell with a groan against it. The weight of the body forced it open, and the son and brother rolled in upon the floor, with the blood gushing from a ghastly wound in his forehead. His assailant instantly fled. Bloated, disfigured, in coarse and worn clothing, how different, even when moving about, was he from the genteel, well-dressed young man of a few years back! Idleness and dissipation had wrought as great a change upon him as it had upon his father, while he was living. Now he presented a shocking and loathsome appearance.
The first impulse of Mary was to run for a physician, while the mother and Anna attempted to stanch the flow of blood, that had already formed a pool upon the floor. Assistance was speedily obtained, and the wound dressed; but the young man remained insensible. As the physician turned from the door, Mrs. Graham sank fainting upon her bed. Over-tried nature could bear up no longer.
"Doctor, what do you think of him?" asked the mother, anxiously, three days after, as the physician came out of Alfred's room. Since the injury he had received, he had lain in a stupor, but with much fever.
"His case, Madam, is an extremely critical one. I have tried in vain to control that fever."
"Do you think him very dangerous, Doctor?" Mary asked, in a husky voice.
"I certainly do. And, to speak to you the honest truth, have, myself, no hope of his recovery. I think it right that you should know this."
"No hope, Doctor!" Mrs. Graham said, laying her hand upon the physician's arm, while her face grew deadly pale. "No hope!—My only son die thus!—O! Doctor, can you not save him?"
"I wish it were in my power, Madam. But I will not flatter you with false hopes. It will be little less than a miracle should he survive."
The mother and sisters turned away with an air of hopelessness from the physician, and he retired slowly, and with oppressed feelings.
When they returned to the sick chamber, a great change had already taken place in Alfred. The prediction of the physician, it was evident to each, as all bent eagerly over him, was about to be too surely and too suddenly realized. His face, from being slightly flushed with fever, had become sunken, and ghastly pale, and his respiration so feeble that it was almost imperceptible.
The last and saddest trial of this ruined family had come. The son and brother, for whom now rushed back upon their hearts the tender and confiding affection of earlier years, was lingering upon life's extremest verge. It seemed that they could not give him up. They felt that, even though he were neglectful of them, they could not do without him. He was a son and brother; and, while he lived, there was still hope of his restoration. The strength of that hope, entertained by each in the silent chambers of affection, was unknown before—its trial revealed its power over each crushed and sinking heart.
But the passage of each moment brought plainer and more palpable evidence of approaching dissolution. For about ten minutes he had lain so still, that they were suddenly aroused by the fear that he might be already dead Softly did the mother lay her hand upon his forehead. Its cold and clammy touch sent an icy thrill to her heart Then she bent her ear to catch even the feeblest breath—but she could distinguish none.
"He is dead!" she murmured, sinking down and burying her face in the bed-clothes.
The cup of their sorrow was, at last, full—full and running over!
THE RUINED FAMILY
PART SECOND
STUNNED by this new affliction, which seemed harder to bear than any of the terrible ones that had gone before, Mrs. Graham sunk into a state of half unconsciousness; but Anna still lingered over the insensible body of her brother, and though reason told her that the spirit had taken its everlasting departure, her heart still hoped that it might not be so,—that a spark yet remained which would rekindle.
The pressure of her warm hand upon his cold, damp forehead, mocked her hopes. His motionless chest told of the vanity of her fond anticipations of seeing his heart again quicken into living activity. And yet, she could not give him up. She could not believe that he was dead. As she still hung over him, it seemed to her that there was a slight twitching of the muscles about the neck. How suddenly did her heart bound and throb until its strong pulsations pained her! Eagerly did she bend down upon him, watching for some more palpable sign of returning animation. But nothing met either her eye or her ear that strengthened the newly awakened hope.
After waiting, vainly, for some minutes, until the feeble hope she had entertained began to fail, Anna stepped quickly to the mantelpiece, and lifted from it a small looking-glass, with which she returned to the bedside. Holding this close to the face of her brother, she watched the surface with an eager anxiety that almost caused the beating of her heart to cease. As a slight mist slowly gathered upon the glass and obscured its surface, Anna cried out with a voice that thrilled the bosoms of her mother and sister—
"He lives! he lives!" and gave way to a gush of tears.
This sudden exclamation, of course, brought Mrs. Graham and Mary to the bedside, who instantly comprehended the experiment which Anna had been making and understood the result. The mother, in turn, with trembling hands, lifted the mirror, and held it close to the face of her son. In a moment or two, its surface was obscured, plainly indicating that respiration, though almost imperceptible, was still going on,—that life still lingered in the feeble body before them.
Gradually, now, the flame that had well-nigh gone out, kindled up again, but so slowly, that for many hours the mother and sisters were in doubt whether it were really brightening or not. The fever that had continued for several days, exhausting the energies of the young man's system, had let go its hold, because scarcely enough vital energy remained for it to subsist upon. In its subsidence, life trembled on the verge of extinction. But there was yet sufficient stamina for it to rally upon; and it did rally, and gradually, but very slowly, gained strength.
In an earnest spirit of thankfulness for this restoration of Alfred, did the mother and sisters look up to the Giver of all good, and with tearful devotion pray that there might ensue a moral as well as a physical restoration. For years, they had not felt towards him the deep and yearning tenderness that now warmed their bosoms. They longed to rescue him, not for their sakes, but for his own, from the horrible pit and the miry clay into which he had fallen.
"O, if we could but save him, sister!" Anna said, as she sat conversing with Mary, after all doubt of his recovery had been removed. "If we could only do some. thing to restore our brother to himself, how glad I should be!"
"I would do anything in my power," Mary replied, "and sacrifice everything that it was right to sacrifice, if, by so doing, I could help Alfred to conquer his besetting evils. I cannot tell you how I feel about it. It seems as if it would break my heart to have him return again into his old habits of life: and yet, what have we to found a hope upon, that he will not so return?"
"I feel just as you do about it, Mary," her sister said. "The same yearning desire to save him, and the same hopelessness as to the means."
"There is one way, it seems to me, in which we might influence him."
"What is that, Mary?"
"Let us manifest towards him, fully, the real affection that we feel; perhaps that may awaken a chord in this own bosom, and thus lead him, for our sakes, to enter upon a new course of life."
"We can at least try, Mary. It can do no harm, and may result in good."
With the end of his reformation in view, the two sisters, during his convalescence, attended him with the most assiduous and affectionate care. The moment Anna would come home from the store at night, she would repair with a smiling countenance to his bedside, and although usually so fatigued as to be compelled to rally her spirits with an effort, she would seem so interested and cheerful and active to minister in some way to his pleasure, that Alfred began to look forward every day as the evening approached, with a lively interest, for her return. This Mary observed, and it gave her hope.
Three weeks soon passed away, when Alfred was so far recovered as to be able to walk out.
"Do not walk far, brother," Mary said, laying her hand gently upon his arm, and looking him with affectionate earnestness in the face. "You are very weak, and the fatigue might bring on a relapse."
"I shall only walk a little way, Mary," he replied, as he opened the door and went out.
Neither the mother nor sister could utter the fear that each felt, lest Alfred should meet with and fall in temptation before he returned. This fear grew stronger and stronger, as the minutes began to accumulate, and lengthen to an hour. A period of ten or fifteen minutes was as long as they had any idea of his remaining away. Where could he be? Had he been taken sick; or was he again yielding to the seductions of a depraved and degrading appetite? The suspense became agonizing to their hearts, as not only one, but two, and even three hours passed, bringing the dim twilight, and yet he returned not.
In the meantime, the young man, whose appearance the careful hand of Mary and her sister had been rendered far superior to what it had been for years past, went out from his mother's humble dwelling, and took his way slowly down one of the streets, leading to the main portion of the city, with many thoughts of a painful character passing through his mind. The few weeks that he had been confined to the house, and in constant association with his mother, and one or both of his sisters, who were at home, had startled his mind into reflection. He could not but contrast their constant and affectionate devotion to him, with his own shameful and criminal neglect of them. Conceal her real feelings as she would, it did not escape his notice, that when Anna came home at night, she was so much exhausted as to be hardly able to sit up; and as for Mary, often when she dreamed not that he was observing her, had he noticed her air of languor and exhaustion, and her half-stifled expression of pain,—as she bent resolutely over her needle-work. Never before had he felt so indignant towards Ellen's husband for his neglect and abuse of her, his once favourite sister; and, indeed, the favourite of the whole family.
It was, to his own mind, a mystery how he ever could have sunk so low, and become so utterly regardless of his mother and sisters.
"Wretch! wretch! miserable wretch that I am!" he would, sometimes, mentally exclaim, turning his face to the wall as he lay reviewing, involuntarily, his past life. Uniformly it happened, that following such a crisis in his feelings, would be some affectionate word or kind attention from Mary or his mother, smiting upon his heart with emotions of the keenest remorse.
It was under the influence of such feelings that he went out on the afternoon just alluded to. Still, no settled plan of reformation had been formed in his mind, for the discouraging question would constantly arise while pondering gloomily over his condition and the condition of the family.
"What can I do?" To this, he could find no satisfactory answer. Three or four years of debasing drunkenness, had utterly separated him from those who had it in their power to encourage and strengthen his good desires,—and to put him in the way of providing for himself and his family, by an industrious application to some kind of business.
He had walked slowly on, in painful abstraction, for about five minutes, when a hand was laid on his arm, and a familiar voice said—
"Is this you, Graham! Where in the name of Pluto have you been, for the last three weeks? Why, how blue you look about the gills! Havn't been sick, I hope?"
"Indeed I have, Harry," Alfred replied, in a feeble voices. "It came very near being all over with me."
"Indeed! Well, what was the matter?"
Raising his hat, and displaying a long and still angry-looking wound on the side of his head, from which the hair had been carefully cut away, he said—
"Do you see that?"
"I reckon I do."
"Well, that came very near doing the business for me."
"How did it happen?"
"I hardly know, myself. I was drunk, I suppose, and quarrelled with some one, or insulted some one in the street—and this was the consequence."
"Really, Graham, you have made a narrow escape."
"Havn't I? It kept me in bed for nearly three weeks, and now, I can just totter about. This is the first time I have been outside of the house since it happened."
"You certainly do look weak and feeble enough," replied his old friend and crony, who added, in a moment after,
"But come! take a drink with me at the tavern across here. You stand in need of something."
"No objection, and thank you," Alfred rejoined, at once moving over towards a well-known, low tavern, quenching in imagination a morbid thirst that seemed instantly created, by a draught of sweetened liquor.
"What will you take?" asked his friend, as the two came up to the counter.
"I'll take a mint sling," Alfred replied.
"Two mint slings," said his companion, giving his orders to the bar-keeper.
"Hallo, Graham! Is this you?" exclaimed one or two loungers, coming forward, and shaking him heartily by the hand. "We had just made up our minds that you had joined the cold-water army."
"Indeed!" suddenly ejaculated Graham, an instant consciousness of what he was, where he was, and what he was about to do, flashing over his mind. "I wish to heaven your conclusion had been true!"
This sudden charge in his manner, and his earnestly, indeed solemnly expressed wish, were received with a burst of laughter.
"Here Dan," said one, to the bar-keeper, "havn't you a pledge for him to sign."
"O, yes! Bring a pledge! Bring a pledge! Has no one a pledge?" rejoined another, in a tone of ridicule.
"Yes, here is one," said a man in a firm tone, entering the shop at the moment. "Who wants to sign the pledge?"
"I do!" Graham said, in a calm voice.
"Then here it is," the stranger replied, drawing a sheet of paper from his pocket, and unrolling it.
"Give me a pen Dan," Alfred said, turning to the barkeeper.
"Indeed, then, and I won't," retorted that individual, "I'm not going to lend a stick to break my own head."
"O, never mind, young man, I can supply pen and ink," said the stranger, drawing forth a pocket inkstand.
Alfred eagerly seized the pen that was offered to him, and instantly subscribed the total abstinence pledge.
"Another fool caught!" sneered one.
"Ha! ha! ha! What a ridiculous farce!" chimed in another.
"He'll be rolling in the gutter before three days, feeling upwards for the ground," added a third.
"Why, I don't believe he can see through a ladder now;" the first speaker said, with his contemptuous sneer. "Look here, mister," to the stranger who had appeared so opportunely. "This is all gammon! He's been fooling you."
"Come along, my friend," was all the stranger said, drawing his arm within that of the penitent young man, as he did so,—"this is no place for you."
And the two walked slowly out, amid the laughter, sneers, and open ridicule of the brutal company. Once again in the open air, Alfred breathed more freely.
"O, sir," he said, grasping the hand of the individual who had appeared so opportunely—"you have saved me from my last temptation, into which I was led so naturally, that I had not an idea of danger. If I had fallen then, as I fear I should have fallen but for you, I must have gone down, rapidly, to irretrievable ruin. How can I express to you the grateful emotions that I now feel?"
"Express them not to me, young man," the stranger said, in a solemn voice; "but to him, who in his merciful providence, sent me just at the right moment to meet your last extremity. Look up to him, and, whenever tempted, let your conscious weakness repose in his strength, and no evil power can prevail against you. Be true to the resolution of this hour—to your pledge—to those who have claims upon you, for such, I know there must be, and you shall yet fill that position of usefulness in society, which no one else but you can occupy. And now let me advise you to go home, and ponder well this act, and your future course. No matter how dark all may now seem, light will spring up. If you are anxious to walk in a right path, and to minister to those who have claims upon you, the way will be made plain. This encouragement I can give you with confidence; for twelve months ago, I trembled on the brink of ruin, as you have just been trembling. I was once a slave to the same wild infatuation that has held you in bondage. Hope, then, with a vigorous hope, and that hope will be a guarantee for your future elevation!"
And so saying, the stranger shook the hand of Alfred heartily, and, turning, walked hastily away.
The young man had proceeded only a few paces when he observed his old friend and companion, Charles Williams, driving along towards him. No one had done so much towards corrupting his morals, and enticing him away from virtue, as that individual. But he had checked himself in his course of dissipation, long before, while Alfred had sunk rapidly downward. Years had passed since any intercourse had taken place between them, for their condition in life had long been as different as their habits. Charles had entered into business with his father, and was now active and enterprising, increasing the income of the firm by his energy and industry.
His eye rested upon Graham, the moment he came near enough to observe him. There was something familiar about his gait and manner, that attracted the young man's attention. At first, he did not distinguish, through the disguise that sickness and self-imposed poverty had thrown over Alfred, his old companion. But, suddenly, as he was about passing, he recognised him, and instantly reined up his horse.
"It is only a few minutes since I was thinking about you, Alfred," he said. "How are you? But you do not look well. Have you been sick?"
"I have been very ill, lately," Alfred Graham replied, in a mournful tone; former thoughts and feelings rushing back upon him in consequence of this unexpected interview, and quite subduing him.
"I am really sorry to hear it," the young man said, sympathizingly.
"What has been the matter?"
"A slow fever. This is the first time I have been out for weeks."
"A ride, then, will be of use to you. Get up, and let me drive you out into the country. The pure air will benefit you, I am sure."
For a moment or two, Alfred stood irresolute. He could not believe that he had heard aright.
"Come," urged Williams. "We have often ridden before, and let us have one more ride, if we should never go out again together. I wish to have some talk with you."
Thus urged, Alfred, with the assistance of Charles Williams, got up into the light wagon, in which the latter was riding, and in a moment after was dashing off with him behind a spirited horse.
It was on the morning of a day, nearly a week previous to this time,
that Mary Williams, or rather Mrs. Harwood,—for Anna and Mary
Graham's old friend had become a married woman—entered the store of
Mrs.—on Chestnut-street, for the purchase of some goods.
While one of the girls in attendance was waiting upon her, she observed a young woman, neatly, but poorly clad, whom she had often seen there before, come in, and go back to the far end of the store. In a little while, Mrs.—joined her, and received from her a small package, handing her some money in return, when the young woman retired, and walked quickly away. This very operation Mrs. Harwood had several times seen repeated before, and each time she had felt much interested in the timid and retiring stranger, a glance at whose face she had never been able to gain.
"Who is that young woman?" she asked of the individual in attendance.
"She's a poor girl, that Mrs.—buys fine work from, out of mere charity, she says."
"Do you know her name?"
"I have heard it, ma'am, but forget it."
"Have you any very fine French worked capes, Mrs.—," asked Mrs. Harwood, as the individual she addressed came up to that part of the counter where she was standing, still holding in her hand the small package which had been received from the young woman. This Mrs. Harwood noticed.
"O, yes, ma'am, some of the most beautiful in the city."
"Let me see them, if you please."
A box was brought, and its contents, consisting of a number of very rich patterns of the article asked for, displayed.
"What is the price of this?" asked Mrs. Harwood, lifting one, the pattern of which pleased her fancy.
"That is a little damaged," Mrs.—replied. "But here is one of the same pattern," unrolling the small parcel she had still continued to hold in her hand, "which has just been returned by a lady, to whom I sent it for examination, this morning."
"It is the same pattern, but much more beautifully wrought," Mrs. Harwood said, as she examined it carefully. "These are all French, you say?"
"Of course, ma'am. None but French goods come of such exquisite fineness."
"What do you ask for this?"
"It is worth fifteen dollars, ma'am. The pattern is a rich one, and the work unusually fine."
"Fifteen dollars! That is a pretty high price, is it not, Mrs.—?"
"O, no, indeed, Mrs. Harwood! It cost me very nearly fourteen dollars—and a dollar is a small profit to make on such articles."
After hesitating for a moment or two, Mrs. Harwood said—
"Well, I suppose I must give you that for it, as it pleases me."'
And she took out her purse, and paid the price that Mrs.—had asked. She still stood musing by the side of the counter, when the young woman who had awakened her interest a short time before, re-entered, and came up to Mrs.—, who was near her.
"I have a favour to ask, Mrs.—," she overheard her say, in a half tremulous, and evidently reluctant tone.
"Well, what is it?" Mrs.—coldly asked.
"I want six dollars more than I have got, for a very particular purpose. Won't you advance me the price of three capes, and I will bring you in one a week, until I have made it up."
"No, miss," was the prompt and decisive answer—"I never pay any one for work not done. Pay beforehand, and never pay, are the two worst kinds of pay!"
All this was distinctly heard by Mrs. Harwood, and her very heart ached, as she saw the poor girl turn, with a disappointed air, away, and walk slowly out of the store.
"That's just the way with these people," ejaculated Mrs.—, in affected indignation, meant to mislead Mrs. Harwood, who, she feared, had overheard what the young woman had said. "They're always trying in some way or other, to get the advantage of you."
"How so?" asked Mrs. Harwood, wishing to learn all she could about the stranger who had interested her feelings.
"Why, you see, I pay that girl a good price for doing a certain kind of work for me, and the money is always ready for her, the moment her work is done. But, not satisfied with that, she wanted me, just now, to advance her the price of three weeks' work. If I had been foolish enough to have done it, it would have been the last I ever should have seen of either money, work, or seamstress."
"Perhaps not," Mrs. Harwood ventured to remark.
"You don't know these kind of people as well as I do, Mrs. Harwood.
I've been tricked too often in my time."
"Of course not," was the quiet reply. Then after a pause,
"What kind of sewing did she do for you, Mrs.—?"
"Nothing very particular; only a little fine work. I employ her, more out of charity, than anything else."
"Do you know anything about her?"
"She's old Graham's daughter, I believe. I'm told he died in the
Alms-house, a few weeks ago."
"What old Graham?" Mrs. Harwood asked, in a quick voice.
"Why, old Graham, the rich merchant that was, a few years ago. Quite a tumble-down their pride has had, I reckon! Why, I remember when nothing in my store was good enough for them. But they are glad enough now to work for me at any price I choose to pay them."
For a few moments, Mrs. Harwood was so shocked that she could not reply. At length she asked—
"Which of the girls was it that I saw here, just now?"
"That was Mary."
"Do you know anything of Anna?"
"Yes. She stands in a store in Second-street."
"And Ellen?"
"Married to a drunken, worthless fellow, who abuses and half starves her. But that's the way; pride must have a fall!"
"Where do they live?" pursued Mrs. Harwood.
"Indeed, and that's more than I know," Mrs.—replied, tossing her head.
Unable to gain any further information, Mrs. Harwood left the store,
well convinced that the richly-wrought cape, for which she had paid
Mrs.—fifteen dollars, had been worked by the hands of Mary
Graham, for which she received but a mere pittance.
Poor Mary returned home disappointed and deeply troubled in mind. She had about three dollars in money, besides the two which Mrs.—had paid her. If the six she had asked for had only been advanced, as she fondly hoped would be the case, the aggregate sum, eleven dollars, added to three which Anna had saved, would have enabled them to purchase a coat and hat for their brother, who would be ready in a few days to go out. They were anxious to do, this, under the hope, that by providing him with clothes of a more respectable appearance than he had been used to wearing, he would be led to think more of himself, seek better company, and thus be further removed from danger. At her first interview with Mrs.—, Mary's heart had failed her—and it was only after she had left the store and walked some squares homeward, that she could rally herself sufficiently to return and make her request. It was refused, as has been seen.
"Did Mrs.—grant your request?" was almost the first question that Anna asked of her sister that evening, when she returned from the store.
"No, Anna, I was positively refused," Mary replied, the tears rising and almost gushing over her cheeks.
"Then we will only have to do the best we can with what little we have. We shall not be able to get him a new coat; but we can have his old one done up, with a new collar and buttons,—I priced a pair of pantaloons at one of the clothing-stores, in Market-street, as I came up this evening, and the man said three dollars and a half. They looked pretty well. There was a vest, too, for a dollar. I heard one of the young men in the store say, two or three days ago, that he had sold his old hat, which was a very good one, to the hatter, from whom he had bought a new one—or rather, that the hatter had taken the old one on account, valued at a dollar. I asked him a question or two, and learned that many hatters do this, and sell the old hats at the same that they have allowed for them. One of these I will try to get,—even if a good deal worn; it will look far better than the one he has at present."
"In that case, then," Mary said, brightening up, "we can still get him fitted up respectably. O, how glad I shall be! Don't you think, sister, that we have good reason to hope for him?"
"I try to think so, Mary. But my heart often trembles with fearful apprehensions when I think of his going out among his old associates again. It will be little less than a miracle if he should not fall."
"Don't give way to desponding thoughts, sister. Let us hope so strongly for the best, that our very hope shall compass its own fruition. He cannot, he must not, go back!"
Anna did not reply. Her own feelings were inclined to droop and despond, but she did not wish to have her sister's droop and despond likewise. One reason for her saddened feelings arose from the fact, that she had a painful consciousness that she should not long be able to retain her present situation. Her health was sinking so rapidly, that it was only by the aid of strong resolutions, which lifted her mind up and sustained her in spite of bodily weakness, that she was at all enabled to get through with her duties. This she was conscious could not last long.
On the next morning, when she attempted to rise from her bed, she became so faint and sick that she was compelled to lie down again. The feeling of alarm that instantly thrilled through her bosom, lest she should no longer be able to minister to the wants of her mother, and especially of her brother at this important crisis in his life, acted as a stimulant to exhausted nature, and endowed her with a degree of artificial strength that enabled her to make another and more successful effort to resume her wearying toil.
But so weak did she feel, even after she had forced herself to take a few mouthfuls of food at breakfast time, that she lingered for nearly half an hour longer than her usual time of starting in order to allow her system to get a little braced up, so that she could stand the long walk she had to take.
"Good by, brother," she said in a cheerful tone, coming up to the bed upon which Alfred lay, and stooping down and kissing him. "You must try and sit up as much as you can to-day."
"Good by, Anna. I wish you didn't have to go away and stay so long."
To this, Anna could not trust herself to reply. She only pressed tightly the hand she held in her own, and then turned quickly away.
It was nearly three quarters of an hour later than the time the different clerks were required to be at the store, when Anna came in, her side and head both paining her badly, in consequence of having walked too fast.
"It's three quarters of an hour behind the time," the storekeeper said, with a look and tone of displeasure, as he drew out his watch. "I can't have such irregularity in my store, Miss Graham. This is the third time within a few days, that you have come late."
A reply instantly rose to Anna's tongue, but she felt that it would be useless—and would, perhaps, provoke remarks deeply wounding to her feelings. She paused, therefore, only a moment, with a bowed head, to receive her rebuke, and then passed quickly, and with a meek, subdued air, to her station behind the counter. There were some of her fellow-clerks who felt for and pitied Anna—there were others who experienced a pleasure in hearing her reproved.