IN DESPAIR
It was early in June when they set sail; and as the vessel floated down
the Channel somewhat slowly against the western wind Ann Holland spent
most of her time on deck, watching, often with dim eyes, the coasts of
England, as they glided past her. She could still hardly realize the
change that had torn her so completely away from her old life. It made
her brain swim to think of Upton, and the old neighbors going about the
streets on their daily business, and the church-clock striking out the
hours; and the sun rising and setting, and the days passing by, and she
not there. It felt all a dream to her; an odd, inexplicable, endless
dream, which never could become as real as the old days had been. Her
thoughts were all busy with the past, recalling faces and events long
ago forgotten; she scarcely ever looked on to the end of the voyage. The
sea was calm, and the soft wind sang low among the rigging, while point
after point along the shores stole by, and were lost to sight almost
unheeded, though she could not turn her steadfast, sorrowful gaze from
them till she could see them no more. Yet when Mr. Chantrey, reproaching
himself for bringing her, asked her if she repented, she was always
ready to say heartily that she would not go back, and leave them, for
the world.
Charlie alone of them all was quite happy in the change. For the last
nine months he had been constantly at school; seldom going home, and
then but for a day or two, when his mother was at her best. The boy
found himself all at once set free from school restraints, restored to
his father and mother, who had no one else to interest them; and with
all the delights of a ship and a voyage added to his other joys. He was
wild with happiness. There was not one thing left him to wish for; for
even his mother's nervous state of health could not cast any gloom upon
his gladness. He had grown accustomed to think of her as a confirmed
invalid; and when she came on deck he would sit quietly beside her for a
little while, and lower his clear young voice in speaking to her,
without feeling that his short-lived self-control damped his pleasure.
But she was not often there long enough to test his devotion too
greatly.
Sophy Chantrey was passing through a season of intense misery, both of
mind and body; more bitter even than the wretchedness she had felt when
she could indulge the craving that had taken so deep a hold upon her.
There was nothing voluntary in her abstinence, and consequently neither
pleasure nor pride in being able to exercise self-command. Her health
was greatly enfeebled; and her mind had been weakened almost to
childishness. She felt as if her husband was treating her cruelly; yet
she could see keenly that it was she who had brought ruin upon his
future prospects, as well as those of her boy. She had never been able
to sink into utter indifference; and she could not forget, strive as she
would, all the happy past, and the unutterably wretched present. Here,
on board ship, there was no chance for her to procure the narcotics,
with which she had lulled her self-reproaches formerly. Her longing for
such stimulants amounted almost to delirium. She could not sleep for
want of them; and all day long she thought of them, and cried for them,
until her husband and Ann Holland could scarcely persevere in refusing
them to her. It seemed to them at times as if she must lose her reason,
the little that remained to her, and become insane, unless they yielded
to her vehement entreaties. Even when, after the first week was gone,
and the craving was in some measure deadened, her spirits did not rally.
She would lie still on deck when her husband carried her there, or on
the narrow berth in their cabin, with eyes closed, and hands listlessly
folded, an image of despair.
"Sophy!" he cried one day, when she had not stirred, or raised her
eyelids for hours; "Sophy, do you wish to kill me?"
"I have killed you," she muttered, still without moving, or looking at
him.
"Sophy," he answered, "you are dreaming Look up, and see me here alive,
beside you Life lies before us yet; for you and me together."
"No," she said, "don't I know it is death to you to be tied to me as you
are? I am a curse to you, and you hate and loathe me, as I do myself.
But we cannot get rid of each other, you and me. Oh! if I could but die,
and set you free!"
"I do not hate you," he answered, tenderly; "you are still very dear to
me. I do not wish to be free from you."
"Then you ought," she cried, with sudden passion; "you ought to hate
that which degrades and shames you. I am dragging you down to ruin; you
and Charlie. Do you think I do not know it? Oh! if I could but die.
Perhaps I may live for many, many years yet; live to be an old woman, a
drunken old wretch! Think what it will be to live for years and years
with a lost creature like me. It is death, and worse than death, for
you."
"But why should you be lost?" he asked; "have you never thought of One
who came to seek and to save that which is lost?"
"Yes; He found me once," she said, in tones of despair, "He found me
once; but I strayed away again, wilfully, in spite of His love, and all
He had done for me. I knew what He had done, and how He loved me; yet I
went away from Him wilfully. I chose ruin; and now He leaves me to my
choice."
"This is the delusion of a sick brain," he answered; "you have no power
to think rightly of our Lord. Listen to what I can tell you about Him,
and His love for you."
"No," she interrupted; "none of you others know, you people who have
never fallen like me. You do not know what it is to feel yourselves
given up and sold to sin. You and Ann Holland think you can save me by
keeping temptation out of my way; but I know that as soon as it comes
again I shall be as weak as water against it."
"Have you no wish to be saved, then?" he asked, his heart sinking within
him at her hopeless words.
"Wish to be saved!" she repeated; "did the rich man in torments wish to
be saved? He only asked for one drop of water to cool his tongue but for
a moment. He knew he could not be saved, and he did not pray for it."
"Do you think that I have no wish for your salvation?" he asked. "Am I
leaving you in your sin? Have I done nothing, given up nothing, to
secure it? Has Ann Holland given up nothing?"
"Oh! you have," she cried. "You are doing all you can for me, but it is
useless."
"Christ has done more," he said. "His love for you passes ours
infinitely. Then if you have not wearied out ours, can you possibly
exhaust his? He can stoop to you in all your misery and sinfulness, if
you will but stretch out your hand toward Him. There is no sin He will
not forgive, and none He cannot conquer, if you will but rouse yourself
to work with Him. Against your own will He cannot save you."
"I will try," she murmured.
Yet time after time the same subject, almost in the same words, was
renewed. Sophy's enfeebled brain could not long retain the thought of a
divine love and power, which was ceaselessly though secretly striving to
reclaim her. There was no opportunity for her to exert her own will, for
she could not be tempted in her present circumstances, and the strength
gained by such an exertion was impossible to her. Again and again, with
untiring patience, did Mr. Chantrey give ear to her despairing
utterances, and meet them with soothing arguments. But often he felt
himself on the verge of despair, doubtful of the truths he was trying so
earnestly to implant again in her heart. In the smooth happy days of
old, both of them had believed them. But now he asked himself, Does God
indeed care? Does He see and know? Is He near at hand, and not afar off?
Their vessel had entered the tropical seas, and a profound unbroken
monotony reigned around them. They had not sighted land since the shores
of England had sunk below the horizon. A waste of waters encircled them,
and a dead calm prevailed. Through the sultry and hazy atmosphere no
rain fell in cooling showers. Day after day the sea was of perfect
stillness, and an oppressive silence, as of death, brooded over the low,
regular heaving of the waters. The dry torrid heat was exhausting, and
the ship with its idle sails made but little way across the quiet sea.
Mr. Chantrey's weakened frame suffered greatly, and even Ann Holland's
brave and cheery spirit almost sank into despondency.
"If it hadn't been for Mrs. Chantrey," she thought mournfully, "we
should all have been at Upton now, as happy as the day's long. The
summer's at its height there, and the harvest is being gathered in. How
cool it would be under the chestnut-trees, or under the church walls!
Mr. Chantrey's sinking, plain enough, and what is to become of us if he
should die before we get to that foreign land? Dear, dear! whoever would
go to sea if they could get only a place to lay their heads on land?"