SAILS FOR AMERICA, AND MEETS A KINDLY WELCOME.
Ruth was now suffering keenly. She loved her husband with such an
intense passion that even his folly did not cool its ardor, and
when others denounced him in the harshest terms she spoke only in
tenderness. And when many of her friends went so far as to advise
her to leave him, and so save to herself and children some remnant
of her fortune, she indignantly protested against their giving her
any such advice. She said she would remain faithful to her
marriage vow, no matter what suffering and obloquy it might
involve. Not but her idol had fallen very low. She had been so
proud of him, proud of his manly bearing, his strength of
character. Proud of his ability, which, to her, seemed to enter
the regions of genius. "Oh!" she said, as she mourned over her
blasted hopes, her vanished dream of bliss, "I never expected
this." She suffered as only such a sensitive, noble, cultured
woman could suffer, and suffered the more because she would give
voice to no complaint. The heart was at high pressure, and the
valve was close shut.
But she did not give up her endeavors to save him. She tried by
gentle endearing tenderness to win him from destruction; and when
she found this did not avail she passionately appealed to him to
stop ere he had involved them all in ruin.
"Oh Richard!" she would say, "Why do you drink? You know your
business is now nearly ruined. Your friends have nearly all
deserted you. You are fast losing your self-respect, wrecking your
health, and dragging your wife and children down with you.
Consider, my darling, what you are sacrificing, and don't be
tempted to drink again!"
She might have reminded him of how he formerly boasted of his
strength, and denounced the weakness of the habitual drunkard, but
she refrained from so doing. She determined, no matter what she
suffered, never to madden him by a taunt or unkind word, but to
save him if possible by love and gentleness. He as yet, though
harsh and peevish to others, had never spoken an unkind word to
her. He had once or twice been unnecessarily severe to the
children, which caused pain to her mother's heart, but she had by
a quiet word thrown oil upon the troubled waters of her husband's
soul, and applied a balm to the wounded hearts of her children.
Sometimes, when she with tears in her eyes appealed to him, he
would promise not to drink again. There is no doubt but it was his
intention to keep his word, but yet it was invariably broken. The
fact was he had become a slave to drink, such a slave that neither
what he owed to wife, nor children, nor man, nor God, could
restrain him. His word was broken; his honor stained, his wife and
children ruined, his God sinned against, and he had become that
thing which formerly he so despised--a poor, miserable drunkard.
His friends had seen this for some time, and now he himself could
not fail to recognize his awful situation; for his thirst for
spirituous liquor had become so strong that he would sacrifice
everything he held dear on earth to obtain it--in fact, it had
become a raging, burning fever, which nothing but rum could allay.
Reader, do not be too strong in your words of scorn and
condemnation. You may never have been tried. People who boast of
their purity and strength may never have been environed by
temptation. "Let him that is without fault cast the first stone."
A few weeks after he had expressed to his wife his determination
to sell out and go to America, two men, who were mutual friends of
his, and who were members of the "Liberal Club," casually met on
the street. After the usual compliments, one said to the other:
"By-the-bye, Saunders, did you hear that Ashton had sold out to
Adams and was going to sail for America next week?"
"No; is that so? Well, I expected something would happen. The
poor fellow has been going to the bad very rapidly of late. Who
would have thought he was so weak? I take it that a man who
cannot drink a social glass with a friend without degenerating
into a sot has very little original strength of character."
"It is all very well to talk, Bell; I have frequently heard Ashton
express himself in the same manner, and yet you see what he is
to-day. There was not a member of the Club his equal when it was
first formed. In fact, he was the master spirit of the society.
Not one of all the members could approach him in culture, in
brilliancy, or in legislative ability. You remember that in a
former conversation we thought it strange he should associate with
us, when he would be welcomed as a peer by those who, at least,
consider themselves our betters; and you expressed it as your
opinion that he, like Milton's Satan, would rather reign in hell
than serve in heaven."
"But, Charley, is he completely bankrupt?"
"Well, I guess I might almost say so, for it is reported he has
used up all the capital which was left him by his father and has
drawn heavily on his wife's means. From what I hear, I would
conclude he has but a few hundred pounds left to take him to
America. I pity his wife. She was a charming girl, so beautiful,
so clever, and yet so modest. Many a man envied Ashton his prize.
And you know that many an eligible girl would like to have stood
in her shoes and been the bride of Richard Ashton, for he was
considered one of the best catches in the matrimonial market. Such
is life; then it was high noon with him, and all smiled upon him;
now, none so poor as to do him reverence."
This conversation gives a true outline of the actual state of
affairs. Richard Ashton, at the date of which we are speaking,
found absolute ruin staring him in the face, and he now knew he
must either sell or be sold out. He wisely chose the former
alternative, while there was some chance of saving a little for
himself.
Poor Ruth, it almost broke her heart. Her guardian had died before
her husband had so utterly fallen, and his wife had preceded him
to the grave. She had now lost every near relative, with the
exception of her husband and children. But every one who had been
at all intimate with her was her friend, and ready to give
sympathy and help. She felt grateful for the many expressions of
kindness she had received, and it was a severe trial to sever the
cords which bound her to those whom she had known so long, and to
leave her dear native land and old home to go among strangers who
were thousands of miles away. But though it was hard to part, she
thought it would be for the best--it could scarcely be for the
worse. She was rashly advised by some not to go, as they said,
"there was no knowing how utterly he might fall, and then, if she
were among strangers, she and her children might be brought down
to the deepest depths of poverty and woe." But she nobly replied,
"he is my husband and the father of my children, and no matter how
he is despised by others he is inexpressibly dear to me, and I
will never forsake him 'till death do us part,' no matter what may
befall."
Soon after the conversation I have just narrated ensued, Richard
Ashton settled up his business gathered the small remnant of his
fortune together, and he and his family set sail for that land of
promise--America. It was with sad forebodings that Ruth bade her
friends a long, and, as it proved to be, a final farewell.
She stood upon the deck of the gallant vessel that bore them away,
and as she saw the land she loved so well slowly fade from view
and grow dimmer and dimmer as the distance lengthened, until it
seemed as a haze upon the dreary waste of waters, there was a
feeling of inexpressible sadness took possession of her. She
involuntarily drew closer to her husband, and gave expression to
the emotions of her soul by sobbing as though her heart would
break. He lovingly threw his arm around her waist and drew her
closely to him, soothing her sorrow by loving caresses. As the old
look shone in his eye, he gently whispered, "God helping me, my
darling, I will be a better man, and, as far as I can, I will
redeem the past."
After landing in New York he remained there a short time to visit
some old friends, and then pushed through to the beautiful city of
Rochester, where a relative of his resided. Here he purchased an
unpretentious but cozy little cottage, situated not far from Mt.
Hope. It had a latticed porch, which was in summer-time covered
with honeysuckles; and the cottage was embosed in flowering trees
and morning glories. It had at the back a very fine garden, which
also contained numerous peach trees and a delightful snuggery of a
summer-house, whose sides were covered with lattice-work, over
which clambered the vine, and through whose interstices, in their
season, hung bunches of luscious grapes. In the front there was a
nice lawn, with circular flower beds; in attending to which Ruth
and her two children (Eddie and Allie) spent many happy hours.
After a short delay, he, through the influence of his friends,
obtained employment as book-keeper for a large dry goods firm in
the city. When he first began his engagement, his salary was
comparatively small; but when his capabilities were recognized,
his employer, who was a man of gentlemanly instincts, and was also
generous in his dealings with those of his employees who were
capable and industrious, raised his salary to an amount which not
only enabled them to live respectably, but also to deposit
something in the savings-bank each week, preparatory for a rainy
day.
Ruth's face began to wear the old radiant look of calm peace, if
not exuberant joy, which shone in her eye in the days of yore, and
she, for two years, was able to send home to her friends in the
old home land "glad tidings of great joy." But, alas! the dream
was short as it was blissful. He met one day an old companion of
his, with whom he had associated in his native town, and was
induced by him, after much persuasion, to join in a friendly glass
for the sake of "Auld Lang Syne." He met Ruth when she ran to the
gate to welcome him that night with what seemed to her loving
heart a cold repulse, for he was drunk--yes, my dear reader--crazily,
brutally drunk. His poor wife was as much stunned as if
he had been brought home dead. She stood pale as death, with lips
tightly pressed, with wide open eyes staring wildly. Poor little
Eddie and Allie ran to their mother and nestled close to her for
protection, as birdlings run to the cover of the mother in seasons
of danger. And even poor little Mamie, for they had been blessed
by a little girl, whom they had thus named, shortly after they
arrived in Rochester, cuddled her head more closely to her
mother's bosom, and clung to her as if in mortal terror of one
whom she usually greeted with the fondest tokens of welcome.
From that time forward his descent to Avernus was very rapid. He
soon lost his situation and was unable to secure another. He also
became dissatisfied with the country. It is generally men who are
their own worst enemies, who become agitators against the existing
order of things.
The time of which I am writing was immediately after the American
War, and, at that period, there was a great deal of dissatisfaction
felt and expressed against England, because there were so many
of her citizens who sympathized with the Southern cause. And if any
of the more ignorant discovered a man to be an Englishman, he was
almost certain to seize the opportunity to rail against his country.
Ashton had to endure a great deal of this; for, in the hotels he met
a great many returned soldiers, among whom there was a large
percentage of the Fenian element; for the majority of the rank and
file of these miscreants were tavern loafers. Their denunciation of
England was not only strong, but blatant and couched in language both
blasphemous and obscene. This Ashton felt he could not endure,
this land of freedom was far too free for him. He said he loved
liberty, but not license, and, therefore, stimulated by the spirit of
patriotism, and by another spirit, which in his case was far the more
potent, he resolved to move to Canada, to shelter again under the
protecting folds of the "Union Jack." I have already given the reader
to understand, in another chapter, that he acted upon that
resolution.