BARTON'S DESPAIR, AND WHAT IT LED TO.
It would be impossible to give an analysis of William Barton's
feelings as he walked rapidly away from the Sealy residence upon
the night in question.
In the evening he had gone to the home of one whom he had looked
upon as his betrothed bride, with calm confidence. True, he had
not as yet asked her to be his wife, though he had vowed again and
again he would do so; and had determined that very evening he
would get her to give the pledge that should bind them for ever.
He had no misgivings as to her answer. He had, however, lately
been somewhat pained by Mrs. Sealy's not receiving him with the
cordiality that she once did; but he had not thought there would
be serious opposition to his suit. He argued: "Luella certainly
loves me, and will be as true as the needle to the pole, and her
mother will give way when she is convinced that if she does not
she will be sacrificing her daughter's happiness." But when he
left, this calm assurance had been succeeded by positive fear; his
joy by agonizing doubt; and dread and disgust, jealousy and fierce
hatred, reigned supreme in his soul.
"To think" he soliloquized, "they would bring her down to the
level of that disgusting brute; that they should actually scheme
to entrap him as a husband for Luella, while they have driven me
away from their home by slights so little concealed that I would
be a fool if I did not take them; and I have either to give her up
or else become the rival of that degraded being. I will never do
it. I will see Luella, and tell her she must decide at once
between us, and take a decisive stand in the matter. I saw a sneer
upon the licentious mouth and a leer in the bloodshot eye of the
reptile as he saw me treated so cavalierly. If I had him here for
about five minutes I would settle this matter with him. And then I
thought Luella's parting was not as warm as usual. Was it my
jealous fears, or has she really been influenced? Her failing is
that she is too easily persuaded; and if her father and mother
are very strong in their opposition to me, may she not yield? Oh,
this would be the crowning sorrow of all! How could I bear up
under it? How can a mother become so forgetful of her own bright
youth as to sacrifice a pure, lovely daughter on the altar of
brutal lust, in order to satisfy a shallow and selfish vanity?"
William Barton's estimation of the woman whose daughter he
passionately loved, was anything but flattering to her. He did not
attach the same blame to Mr. Sealy, because he believed the latter
had been influenced by his wife, and in this he was correct; for
Mr. Sealy had no ambitious designs when he first introduced
Stanley Ginsling to his home; but after his wife had unfolded her
plans to him, he approved of them. What had considerable influence
with him was the fact that he had learned, through Ginsling's
lawyer, that the former had inherited a considerable fortune by
the death of a maiden aunt, and, therefore, was not only a
gentleman by birth, but would have the wealth to maintain a style
essential to that dignity. Neither of the worthy pair ever
considered for a moment the pain it would cause the young man whom
they had received, at least without disapproval, and had, by so
doing, to a certain extent encouraged. Nor did they even for a
moment consider that their daughter might also be involved in that
suffering. They only thought of working out their own selfish
schemes, as thousands of other selfish parents have done, and no
doubt are still doing. Mr. Sealy at first had some misgivings, as
he well knew Ginsling was, as he put it, "addicted to drink." "I
know," he said, "he is far from being perfect, yet he is much the
same as society men in general, and I am not a model of propriety
myself. No doubt but a few years will tone him down and make him a
model husband."
Barton walked rapidly on, he scarcely knew or cared whither. The
excited state of his mind seemed to propel him to celerity of
flight. This quickness of movement acted as a safety-valve, and
let off some of the pressure.
He came at last to a small hotel on the opposite side of the town
from whence he started. It was situated in a cosy little bower
in the outskirts, and was called "The Retreat." And rumor had it
that many of the so-called gentlemen of Bayton were wont to resort
thither to get on a genteel debauch, and to engage in the innocent
diversions of euchre, poker, and whist, and it was said a great
deal of money changed hands here on certain occasions.
Barton was well acquainted with the proprietor--Joe Tims by name.
He certainly would not have been mistaken for a teetotaler. He
was, however, considered a model landlord, because he would not
sell liquor to a man after he was drunk; though he never hesitated
to furnish him with as much as he would pay for until that stage
was reached. Barton had frequently been there before; for he was a
young man who would take a glass with a friend, and had once or
twice in his life been intoxicated. In fact, he belonged to the
great army of moderate drinkers.
When he came in front of the hotel he heard voices within, and
acting upon the impulse of the moment, he opened the door and
entered.
As he stepped in he found several young men, with many of whom he
was well acquainted, standing in front of the bar, glasses in
hand, just about to drink. The one who was "standing treat" hailed
him with, "Come, Barton, take something," and, being in a reckless
mood, he said, "I will take brandy." The decanter was handed to
him, and he filled his glass more than half full, which was
noticed by the landlord and young men present, and thought for him
very singular.
After he had drained his glass, he said, "Come, boys, it's my
treat now! What will you have?"
They again stepped up to the bar and each took his glass. "I will
have some more brandy," he said, and he again took twice the
quantity that is usually taken.
"Be careful, Barton, my boy," said Tims; "that brandy is 'the real
old stingo,' and will set you up before you know where you are. I
don't want you to think I care how much you take, but would not
like you to do something for which you will be sorry afterwards."
"I guess his girl has gone back on him," remarked a young man by
the name of William Stewart. "I hear that English snob, Ginsling,
is now shining round there, and that pa' and ma' favor his
suit."
Several of the others, with the same want of good taste as had
been manifested by Stewart, joined him in giving expression to a
number of coarse jokes and vulgar witticisms.
Barton stood as if stunned for a moment, and then, with a frown,
said: "Gentlemen, you will oblige me by changing the subject."
As he requested, the subject was allowed to drop by those present,
but not before they had stung poor Barton almost to madness.
"My God," he thought, "then it has come to this, that she for whom
I would sacrifice my life, through the folly of her parents has
become the object of the coarse, vulgar witticisms of bar-room
loafers! The thought is almost unendurable."
William Barton was too sensitively organized to pass through his
present fiery ordeal without terrible suffering. We have already
said he was kindly and gentle, but under this he had an intensely
passionate nature; which, combined with an extreme sensitiveness
and a rather weak will, constituted him, of all persons, less
calculated to endure the peculiar trial to which he was now
subjected. He was, in fact, one who, under such circumstances,
would display his weakness, and give a man with a cold, selfish,
unfeeling nature, every advantage over him. The night in question
he drank until Tims positively refused to give him any more.
"No, Barton," he kindly said, when the former had taken his fifth
or sixth glass and asked for another; "no! you are not yourself
tonight, and have taken more than is good for you. I am now using
you as I would have another deal with my own son under similar
circumstances."
Barton became wild and foolish; in fact, if he had carefully
thought out the best mode of procedure to give his enemies the
advantage over him, he could not have improved upon his present
course.
He was assisted to his home that night in a state of maudlin
intoxication, to awaken next morning with an aching head and
remorse gnawing at his heart, for he had, to his other sorrows,
added the thought that he had disgraced his manhood and lost his
self-respect.