suspicion; I couldn't do it. People told me I was a fool; it was true,
I knew it, but I went on trusting. David said in his haste, `all men
are liars.' I said in my haste, or rather my folly, `all men are true.'
They might lie to others, but I thought they couldn't, or wouldn't, or
didn't lie to me. At any rate I'd trust them; it was so sad to think
that a being made in God's image could go about wilfully deceiving
others. I'd take a brighter view of my fellow-men and women. I never
could abide your shrewd, knowing people, who seemed to be always living
with a wink in their eyes, and a grin on their lips, as if they believed
in nobody and nothing but their own sharpness. I loathed them, and I
loathe them still. But I wasn't wise. I had to smart for it. I had
plenty of money when I came of age, and I had plenty of friends, or
rather acquaintances, who knew it. But I was shy, and not over fond of
many companions; my weakness wasn't in that direction. I had sense
enough to see through your common gold-hunters. I was never over fond
of sugar-candy; coarse flattery made me sick, and I had no taste for
patching up the holes in the purses of profligates and spendthrifts. I
never was a worshipper of money, but I knew its value, and wasn't
disposed to make ducks and drakes of it, nor partridges and pheasants
either. So the summer flies, after buzzing about me a little, flew off
to sunnier spots; all except one. He puzzled me a bit at first, but I
blamed myself for having a shadow of suspicion of him. All seemed so
open about him, open hands, open eyes, open brow; he wound himself round
my heart before I knew where I was. Mine was a fair estate (it will be
yours one day, Mary, my child, I trust; John's and yours together). I'd
lived away from home many years before I came into it, for both my
parents died while I was young, and when I came of age, my nearest
relations were only distant. I never had brother nor sister. When I
came to reside on my property the neighbours called, and I returned
their calls, and it didn't go much beyond that. They thought me cold
and unfeeling, but they were mistaken. But I must go back and take up
my dropped thread. I said there was one man who got hold of my heart.
I had a good stout fence of prejudices, and an inner paling of reserve
about that heart of mine, but he contrived to climb over both, and get
inside. I could have done anything for him, but he did not seem to want
anything but my affection; so I thought. He had a sister: well, what
shall I say? I'm a poor, weak, old fool; it is all past and gone now.
I must go straight on; but it is like ploughing up my heart into a
thousand deep furrows with my own hand. But; well, he had a sister;
I'll not tell you her name, nor his either: at least not now. He
brought her with him to call on me one day. She had never been in the
neighbourhood before, for her brother was only a recent settler in the
place. I was charmed with her; the more so because she was so like her
brother, so bright and so open; so thoroughly transparent. She beamed
upon me like a flood of sunshine, and gilded my cloudy reserve with her
own radiance, so that I shone out myself in her company; so they told
me, and I believed it. I was young then, you'll remember. I wasn't the
wrinkled old pilgrim that I am now. We got attached to one another, it
would seem, at once; others may _fall_ in love; _we leapt_ into it; I
never thought to ask myself whether she loved God. I was content to
know that she loved _me_. I was aware that I had a heart, but at that
time I hadn't learnt that I had a soul. Well, my friend (shall I drop
the `r,' and call him `fiend'? 'Twould be truer); he did all he could
to hasten on our marriage. He did it very quietly, so openly, too. He
was so radiant with joy at the thoughts of my coming happiness. `She
was such a sister,' he said, `she would be such a wife to me.' I never
had any misgivings but once, and then the shadow was but as the passing
of a white cloud before summer's noonday sunshine. I was going from
home for a week, but unexpected business detained me for another day. I
walked over to my future brother-in-law's in the afternoon. It was
summer time. I went in, as was my habit, by the garden door, and was
crossing the lawn, when I heard sounds of wild laughter proceeding from
a little summer-house; they were sounds of boisterous and almost idiotic
mirth. There was a duet of merriment, in which a male and female each
took a part. I hardly knew what I was doing, or whether to go back or
advance. As I hesitated, all was hushed. I saw a female figure dart
like lightning into the house, and then my friend (I must call him so
for want of a better title) came forward, and holding out both his hands
to me, said `Welcome, welcome, this is an unexpected pleasure. I
thought you were far away on your journey before now; my sister and I
have been almost dying with laughter over a book lent to us by a friend.
I do think I never read anything so irresistibly ludicrous in all my
life.' I hardly knew what to say in reply, I was so completely taken
aback. I was turning, however, towards the summer-house in which I just
caught a glance of a table with a bottle and glasses on it, when my
companion, catching my arm in his, hurried me away to another part of
the garden, where, he said, he was going to make some improvements,
about which he must have my judgment and suggestions. As we afterwards
went into the house, we again passed the summer-house, but the glasses
and bottle were gone. We entered into one of the sitting-rooms, and the
servant came to tell us that her mistress had just been sent for to see
a poor sick cottager, who wanted her immediately. This led her brother
to break out into raptures about his sister's benevolence, self-denial,
and charity! Indeed, I never heard him so eloquent on any subject
before. I left, however, in a little while, for he seemed unnaturally
restless and excited during my stay, and a cloud lowered upon me all the
way home, but it had melted away by the next morning. But I must hasten
on. We were married soon after this, and I settled a handsome allowance
on my wife for her own private use. She had no parents living, but had
kept house for another brother before she came to reside in our
neighbourhood. I wished to suppose myself happy as a married man, but,
somehow or other, I was not. My wife made large professions of
affection, but, spite of myself, I mistrusted them. Her brother, too,
seldom came now to see me, unless he had some private business with his
sister; and they were often closeted together alone for an hour or more.
Then she would come out to me, radiant with smiles, and full of
excitement; and her brother would rattle on, hurrying from one topic to
another, so as to leave me no power to collect my thoughts, or shape any
questions which I was anxious to ask him. I am given to trust, as I
have told you, and ever shall be, if I live to be a dozen centuries old.
Still, I couldn't help having my doubts, my grievous doubts. Well, one
morning, my brother-in-law called; he seemed agitated, and in much
distress, saying that he must give up his house and join his brother,
with whom he was in partnership; as he found his presence was required
for the investigation, and, he feared it might be, the winding-up of
their affairs. I pitied him, and offered him help. He refused it
almost with indignation, but I pressed it, and he accepted a loan,
merely as a loan, he said, of a thousand pounds, for which I gave him a
cheque on the spot. With tears in his eyes, and a warm pressure of the
hand, he was gone. I never saw him again. A _few_ mornings after this;
it was about six months after we were married; my wife and I were
sitting at breakfast when she threw a paper to me across the table,
saying, `I suppose you'll see to that.' It was a bill for a
considerable amount, contracted by herself before our marriage, and for
articles which were certainly no part of a lady's toilet or wardrobe,
nor could be of any possible use to one of her sex. I was astonished;
but she treated the matter very coolly, or appeared to do so. When I
asked for an explanation, she avoided my eye, and turned the matter off;
and when I pressed her on the subject, she said, `Well, it is no use my
entering into explanations now; you'll find it all right.' I was
greatly disturbed, for there was something in her manner that showed me
she was ill at ease, though she endeavoured to wear a nonchalant air.
There was a wild light, too, in her eyes, which distressed and almost
alarmed me, and a suspicion came over me which almost made me faint.
She left the breakfast table abruptly, and I saw no more of her till
luncheon time; but when I went to my library, I found a packet on my
table which I had not noticed there before. I opened it; it was full of
unpaid bills, all made out to my wife in her maiden name, and most,
indeed nearly all of them, for articles unsuited for female use. A
horrible suspicion flashed across my mind. Could it possibly be that
these were her brother's debts: that he had got these articles in her
name, and had had the bills sent in to her? And could it be that
brother and sister had been in league together, and that he with all his
assumption of openness and candour and large-heartedness, had entrapped
me into this marriage that I might liquidate the debts of an abandoned
and reckless profligate? And could it be, farther, (madden ing
thought!) that the _whole_ extravagance was not his, and that numerous
unpaid accounts for wine and spirits were, partly, for what she had
taken as well as her brother? Then I thought of the scene in the
garden, of the wild laughter, of her sudden disappearance, of the signs
of drinking in the summer-house. Oh! My heart turned sick; was I
tricked, deceived, ruined in my peace for ever? I paced up and down my
library, more like a lunatic than a sane man. Luncheon time came: we
met: she threw herself into my arms, and wept and laughed and implored;
but I felt that a drunkard was embracing me, and I flung her from me,
and rushed out of the house. O misery! Whither should I go, what
should I do? It was all too true: her brother was the basest of men:
she did love _him_, I believe, it was the only unselfish thing about
her. Well, I had to go back home; _home_! Vilest of names to me then!
`home, _bitter_ home!' And yet I loved that poor guilty, fallen
creature. There was a terrible light in her eyes as we sat opposite one
another at dinner. We had to play a part before the footman. Oh! What
a dreadful meal that was! I seemed to be feeding on ashes, and drinking
wormwood. I felt as if every morsel would choke me. We spoke to one
another in measured terms. Would the miserable farce of a dinner never
be over? It came to an end at last. And then she came to me trembling
and penitent, and, laying her head on my shoulder, wept till tears would
fall no longer. She was sober then; she had taken nothing but water at
dinner. She unburdened her heart to me (so I thought), and confessed
all. She told me how she and her brother had been brought up, as
children, in habits of self-indulgence, especially in having free access
to the wine and spirits. She told me that she and her unworthy brother
had been all in all to one another, that gambling and drink had brought
him into difficulties, and that she had allowed him to run up accounts
in her name. She declared that he really loved and valued me, and that
the thought of hurrying on our marriage for any selfish object, was
quite a recent idea, suggested by distress under pecuniary
embarrassment. She asserted passionately that she truly loved me; she
implored me to overlook the past, and promised, with solemn appeal to
Heaven, that she would renounce the drink from that hour, and give me no
more uneasiness. Ay, she promised; a drunkard's promise! Lighter than
the lightest gossamer; brittle as the ice of an April morning. I
believed her: did she believe herself? I fear not. But the worst was
to come, the shadows were deepening, the storm was gathering. A year
had passed over our wedded life, when a little girl was given to us.
Every cord of my heart that had been untwined or slackened of late wound
itself fast round that blessed little one."
CHAPTER TWELVE.
MR. TANKARDEW'S STORY FINISHED.
"All was joy for a time. We called our little one Mary; it was a name I
loved. I had not lived as a total abstainer; though, as I told you
once, my mother, whom I can only recollect as a widow, had banished all
intoxicants from our table. But I was young when she died, and I
became, and continued for many years a moderate drinker. But now when
our little girl was born, I had swept the house clear of all alcoholic
drinks; we hadn't a drop in the place from cellar to attics, so I
thought. And my wife agreed with me that our little one should never
know the taste of the strong drink. We had not many friends, for I was
shy and reserved still, and my home was my world and society; at least I
wished it to be so. Sometimes I thought my wife strangely excited, it
looked very like the old misery, but she solemnly declared that she
never tasted anything intoxicating. I hoped she spoke the truth, even
against the evidence of my senses. After a while she persuaded me that
I wanted change, that I was rusting out in my loneliness. She would
have me accept an invitation to a friend's house now and then: it would
do me good. _She_ was happy in her home, she said, only she should be
happier still if she could see me gaining spirits by occasional
intercourse with like-minded friends. Not that she wished me to leave
her; it was for my own good she said it, and she should be delighting in
the thoughts of the good it would do me, and should find abundance to
cheer her in my absence, in the care of our darling child. She said all
this so openly, so artlessly, that I believed her. I thought she might
be right; so I went now and then from home for a few days, and, by
degrees, more and more frequently. And my wife encouraged it. She said
it did me so much good, and the benefit I reaped in improved health,
spirits, and intelligence quite reconciled her to the separation. We
went on so till our Mary was five years old; I could not say that my
wife was ever manifestly intemperate, but painful suspicions hung like a
black cloud over me. At last one summer's day, one miserable day: I can
never forget it: I set out to pay a week's visit to a friend, who lived
some ten miles distant from my home. I drove myself in a light, open
carriage; my horse was young and rather shy. I was just going round a
bend in the road, when a boy jumped suddenly over a hedge, right in
front of us. Away went my horse at the top of his speed, and soon
landed me in a ditch, and broke away, leaving the carriage with a
fractured shaft behind him. I was not hurt myself, so I got assistance
from the nearest cottage; and, having caught my horse, and found someone
to whom I could trust the repairing of my vehicle, I walked home. It
was afternoon when I arrived. I walked straight in through the back of
the premises, and entered the dining-room; there was no one there. I
was going to ring for one of the servants, when the door opened, and
little Mary toddled (I ought rather to say tottered) up to me. Her
mother was close behind her, but, at the sight of me, she uttered a wild
cry, shut the door violently, and rushed upstairs. I had seen enough in
her face: too much, too much! And the little child, our darling little
Mary, what was amiss with her? Could it be? Had that cruel woman dared
to do such a thing? Yes: it was so indeed: the little child was under
the influence of strong drink; I drew the horrible truth from her by
degrees. The mother had taught that little babe to like the exciting
cup; she had sweetened and made it specially palatable. She had done
this to make the child a willing partaker in her sin, to bribe her to
secrecy, and to use her as a tool for the gratifying of her own vile
appetite. Thus was she deliberately poisoning the body and soul of her
child, and training her in deceit, that she might league that little
one, as she grew up, with herself in procuring the forbidden stimulant,
and in deceiving her own father. O accursed drink, which can thus turn
a mother into the tempter and destroyer of her own guileless and
unsuspecting child! I rushed out of the room, and was about to hurry
upstairs, but I shrank back shivering and heart-sick. Then I went up
slowly and heavily: my bedroom door was bolted; so was the door of my
wife's dressing-room; I came downstairs again, and, taking Mary by the
hand, went into my library. There the storm of trouble did its work,
for it drove me down upon my knees. I poured out my heart in strong
crying to God; I owned that I had lived without Him, and that I had not
loved nor sought Him. I prayed for pardon and a new heart, and that He
would have mercy on my poor wife and child. As I knelt in my agony of
supplication I felt two little hands placed on my own, then mine were
gently pulled from me, and my precious little child, looking up in my
face with streaming eyes, said, `Papa, don't cry; dear papa, don't cry.
I _will_ be a good girl.' I pressed her to my heart, and blessed God
that it was not yet too late. Before nightfall I had driven away with
that dear child, and had placed her with a valued friend whom I could
trust, one of the few who had ever visited at our house, a total
abstainer, and, better still, a devoted Christian. My child had always
loved her, and I felt that I could leave her in such hands with the
utmost confidence. But I had a home still, in name at least, for all
the sunshine had gone out of the word `home' for me. I returned the
next day to our childless house: where was the mother? She lay on the
floor of her dressing-room, crushed in spirit to the dust. I raised her
up; she would not look at me, but hid her face in her hands; her eyes
were dry, she had wept away all her tears. I could not bear her grief,
and I tried to comfort her; all might yet be well. Again she confessed
all, her deceit, her heartlessness; but she laid it to the drink. True,
she was in this a self-deceiver, but how terrible must be the power for
evil in a stimulant which can so utterly degrade the soul, cloud the
intellect, and benumb the conscience! Well, she poured forth a torrent
of vows, promises, and resolutions for the future. I bade her turn them
into prayers, but she did not understand me. However, there was peace
for awhile: our Mary came home again, and I watched her with an
unwearying carefulness. Another year brought us a son: he sits among us
now: John Randolph we call him. There was a sort of truce till John was
ten years old. I knew that my poor unhappy wife still continued to
obtain strong drink, but she did not take it to excess to my knowledge,
and it was never placed upon our table. I was myself, at this time,
practically a total abstainer, but I had signed no pledge. I didn't see
the use of it then, so I had not got my children to sign. My poor wife
_professed_ to take no alcoholic stimulants, yet I could not but know
that she was deceiving herself. She was, alas! Too self-confident.
She seemed to think that all danger of _excess_ was now over, and that a
white lie about taking none was no real harm, so long as it satisfied
_me_; but it neither deceived nor satisfied me. At last, one winter's
day, she proposed that John should drive her in her pony-carriage to the
neighbouring village, where there was an old servant of ours who was
ill, whom she wanted to see. The pony was a quiet one, and was used to
John's driving, so I did not object, as I was very busy at the time, and
could not therefore drive myself. It was very late before she came
back; she had kept the poor boy at the cottage door nearly two hours,
and when she returned to the carriage was so excited that he was in fear
and trembling all the way home. That night his miserable mother lay
hopelessly intoxicated on a sofa when I retired to my resting-_place_,
for to rest I certainly did not retire. From that day she utterly broke
down, and became lost to all shame; one appetite, one passion alone,
possessed her; a mad thirst for the drink. We separated by mutual
consent, and I made her an allowance sufficient to supply all her lawful
wants. Alas! Alas! The sad end hurries on. She wrote to me for a
larger allowance; I knew what she wanted it for, and I refused. She
wrote again and I did not reply. Then she wrote to Mary with the same
object. Of course, I need hardly tell you that the children remained
with me. Poor dear Mary loved her mother dearly, and sent her all her
own pocket money. I found it out, and forbade it for the future. Two
more years passed by. From time to time I heard of my miserable wife;
she was sinking lower and lower. At last, in the twilight of an autumn
evening, as Mary was returning home alone, a wild-looking, ragged woman
crept towards her with a strange, undecided step: it was her mother.
She flung herself at her child's feet, imploring her, if she still had
any love for her, to find her the means of gratifying her insatiable
thirst. She must die, she said, if she refused her. Poor Mary, poor
Mary! Terror-stricken, heart-broken, she spoke words of love, of
entreaty, to that miserable creature; she urged her to break off her
sin; she pointed her to Jesus for strength; she told her that she dared
not supply her regularly with money, as she had promised me that she
would not, and it would do her no good. The wretched woman slunk away
without another word. Next day her body was found floating on the
river; she had destroyed herself. Poor, dear Mary never looked up after
that. She connected her mother's awful end with her own refusal to give
her money for the drink, though there could be no blame to her: and so
she faded away, my lovely child, and left me, ere another spring came
round, for the land of eternal summers. I was heart-sick, hopeless;
life seemed objectless; I gave way to despondency, and forgot my duty as
a man and a Christian. I felt that I was no proper guide nor companion
for poor John; so I sent him first to France, where he gained his skill
as an artist and musician; and since then he has, by his own desire,
been a traveller in distant lands. I let my house, and came over to
Hopeworth, to be out of the way of everything and everybody that could
remind me of the past. Yet, I could not forget. You noticed the vacant
space in my sitting-room, where a picture should have been; that empty
space reminded me of what might have been, had my wife, whose portrait
should have been there, been a different wife to me. But light came at
last. When I saw _you_, Mary my child, for the first time, I scarce
knew what to say or think. You were, and are, the very image of my own
loved and lost one, my Mary my beloved child; the portrait behind the
panel is hers. I longed to have you for my own. I determined, however,
to see what you were; I went to the juvenile party merely for that end.
And then, when John came home unexpectedly, I resolved in my heart that,
if I could bring it about, you _should_ be my own dear child. So John
and I talked it over; and John, who is a true branch from the old tree,
a little crotchety or so, was resolved to win you in his own fashion;
and, having learnt a little colonial independence, he wished to look at
you a bit behind the scenes; so he would come before you, not as the
heir of an eccentric old gentleman, with a good estate and plenty of
money to speak for him, but as the travelled artist and music-master.
And now, I think I've pretty well unravelled the greater part of the
tangle; the rest you can easily smooth out for yourselves.
"So you see it has been `nearly lost, but dearly won.' My child, Mary,
you nearly lost old Esau's heart, when you seemed bent on throwing your
own away; but you've won it, and won it dearly, like a dear good child.
You nearly lost your peace to one who would soon have drowned it out of
home, but you won it dearly and bravely, I know, at no little sacrifice.
And John, my son, I once thought you'd nearly lost the noblest and best
of wives; but you've won her, and dearly, too, but she's worth the price
of a little stooping, ay, and of a great deal too. And old Esau
Tankardew nearly lost his peace and his self-respect, in selfish
unsanctified sorrow, but he has won something better than respect,
though it cost him a hard struggle; he has won a daughter who hates that
drink which blotted out light and joy from the old man's home and heart;
and he has won, through grace, a peace that passeth understanding, and
can say, `Thanks be to God, which giveth us the victory through our Lord
Jesus Christ.'"
THE END.
End of Project Gutenberg's Nearly Lost but Dearly Won, by Theodore P. Wilson