When I stated what he had said, my sisters were in a transport of
mingled anger and disappointment, and gave utterance to many unkind
remarks against our good, indulgent father. As for my oldest sister,
she declared that she would go in spite of him, and proposed our
visiting the store of a well-known merchant, where we often made
purchases, and buying all we wanted, leaving directions to have the
bill sent in. But I was now on my father's side, and resolutely opposed
all suggestions of disobedience. His manner and words had touched me,
causing some scales to drop from my vision, so that I could see in a
new light, and perceive things in a new aspect.
We waited past the usual time for my father's coming on that day, and
then dined without him. A good deal to our surprise he came home about
four o'clock, entering with an unusual quiet manner, and going up to
his own room without speaking to any one of the family.
"Was that your father?" We were sitting together, still discussing the
question of Saratoga and Newport. It was my mother who asked the
question. We had heard the street door open and close, and had also
heard footsteps along the passage and up the stairs.
"It is too early for him to come home," I answered.
My mother looked at her watch, and remarked, as a shade of concern
flitted over her face,
"It certainly was your father. I cannot be mistaken in his step. What
can have brought him home so early? I hope he is not sick." And she
arose and went hastily from the room. I followed, for a sudden fear
came into my heart.
"Edward! what ails you? Are you sick?" I heard my mother ask, in an
alarmed voice, as I came into her room. My father had laid himself
across the bed, and his face was concealed by a pillow, into which it
was buried deeply.
"Edward! Edward! Husband! What is the matter? Are you ill?"
"Oh, father! dear father!" I cried, adding my voice to my mother's, and
bursting into tears. I grasped his hand; it was very cold. I leaned
over, and, pressing down the pillow, touched his face. It was cold
also, and clammy with perspiration.
"Send James for the doctor, instantly," said my mother.
"No, no--don't." My father partially aroused himself at this, speaking
in a thick, unnatural voice.
"Go!" My mother repeated the injunction, and I flew down stairs with
the order for James, our waiter, to go in all haste for the family
physician. When I returned, my mother, her face wet with tears, was
endeavoring to remove some of my father's outer garments. Together we
took off his coat, waistcoat and boots, he making no resistance, and
appearing to be in partial stupor, as if under the influence of some
drug. We chafed his hands and feet, and bathed his face, that wore a
deathly aspect, and used all the means in our power to rekindle the
failing spark of life. But he seemed to grow less and less conscious of
external things every moment.
When the physician came, he had many questions to ask as to the cause
of the state in which he found my father. But we could answer none of
them. I watched his face intently, noting every varying expression, but
saw nothing to inspire confidence. He seemed both troubled and
perplexed. Almost his first act was to bleed copiously.
Twice, before the physician came, had my father been inquired for at
the door, a thing altogether unusual at that hour of the day. Indeed,
his presence in the house at that hour was something which had not
occurred within a year.
"A gentleman is in the parlor, and says that he must see Mr. W----,"
said the waiter, speaking to me in a whisper, soon after the
physician's arrival.
"Did you tell him that father was very ill," said I.
"Yes; but he says that he must see him, sick or well."
"Go down and tell him that father is not in a state to be seen by any
one."
The waiter returned in a few moments, and beckoned me to the chamber
door.
"The man says that he is not going to leave the house until he sees
your father. I wish you would go down to him. He acts so strangely."
Without stopping to reflect, I left the apartment, and hurried down to
the parlor. I found a man walking the floor in a very excited manner.
"I wish to see Mr. W.----," said he, abruptly, and in an imperative way.
"He is very ill, sir," I replied, "and cannot be seen."
"I must see him, sick or well." His manner was excited.
"Impossible, sir."
The door bell rang again at this moment, and with some violence. I
paused, and stood listening until the servant answered the summons,
while the man strode twice the full length of the parlor.
"I wish to see Mr. W----." It was the voice of a man.
"He is sick," the servant replied.
"Give him my name--Mr. Walton--and say that I must see him for just a
moment." And this new visitor came in past the waiter, and entered the
parlor.
"Mr. Arnold!" he ejaculated, in evident surprise.
"Humph! This a nice business!" remarked the first visitor, in a rude
way, entirely indifferent to my presence or feelings. "A nice business,
I must confess!"
"Have you seen Mr. W.----?" was inquired.
"No. They say he's sick."
There was an unconcealed doubt in the voice that uttered this.
"Gentlemen," said I, stung into indignant courage, "this is an outrage!
What do you mean by it?"
"We wish to see your father," said the last comer, his manner changing,
and his voice respectful.
"You have both been told," was my firm reply, "that my father is too
ill to be seen."
"It isn't an hour, as I am told, since he left his store," said the
first visitor, "and I hardly think his illness has progressed so
rapidly up to this time as to make an interview dangerous. We do not
wish to be rude or uncourteous, Miss W----, but our business with your
father is imperative, and we must see him. I, for one, do not intend
leaving the house until I meet him face to face!"
"Will you walk up stairs?" I had the presence of mind and decision to
say, and I moved from the parlor into the passage. The men followed,
and I led them up to the chamber where our distressed family were
gathered around my father. As we entered the hushed apartment the men
pressed forward somewhat eagerly, but their steps were suddenly
arrested. The sight was one to make its own impression. My father's
face, deathly in its hue, was turned towards the door, and from his
bared arm a stream of dark blood was flowing sluggishly. The physician
had just opened a vein.
"Come! This is no place for us," I heard one of the men whisper to the
other, and they withdrew as unceremoniously as they had entered.
Scarcely had they gone ere the loud ringing of the door bell sounded
through the house again.
"What does all this mean!" whispered my distressed mother.
"I cannot tell. Something is wrong," was all that I could answer; and a
vague, terrible fear took possession of my heart.
In the midst of our confusion, uncertainty and distress, my uncle, the
only relative of my mother, arrived, and from him we learned the
crushing fact that my father's paper had been that day dishonored at
bank. In other words, that he had failed in business.
The blow, long suspended over his head; and as I afterwards learned,
long dreaded, and long averted by the most desperate expedients to save
himself from ruin, when it did fall, was too heavy for him. It crushed
the life out of his enfeebled system. That fearful night he died!
It is not my purpose to draw towards the survivors any sympathy, by
picturing the changes in their fortunes and modes of life that followed
this sad event. They have all endured much and suffered much. But how
light has it been to what my father must have endured and suffered in
his long struggle to sustain the thoughtless extravagance of his
family--to supply them with comforts and luxuries, none of which he
could himself enjoy! Ever before me is the image of his gradually
wasting form, and pale, sober, anxious face. His voice, always mild,
now comes to my ears, in memory, burdened with a most touching sadness.
What could we have been thinking about? Oh, youth! how blindly selfish
thou art! How unjust in thy thoughtlessness! What would I not give to
have my father back again! This daily toil for bread, those hours of
labor, prolonged often far into the night season--how cheerful would I
be if they ministered to my father's comfort. Ah! if we had been loving
and just to him, we might have had him still. But we were neither
loving nor just. While he gathered with hard toil, we scattered. Daily
we saw him go forth hurried to his business, and nightly we saw him
come home exhausted; and we never put forth a hand to lighten his
burdens; but, to gratify our idle and vain pleasures, laid new ones
upon his stooping shoulders, until, at last, the cruel weight crushed
him to the earth!
My father! Oh, my father! If grief and tearful repentance could have
restored you to our broken circle, long since you would have returned
to us. But tears and repentance are vain. The rest and peace of
eternity is yours!