Yea, mine own familiar friend, in whom I trusted, ... hath lifted up
his heel against me.”
The largest church in Jonesville was well filled that Sabbath, for it
was communion day, and the eloquent Mr. Barnes was to fill the pulpit,
and officiate with the pastor at the Lord’s table.
The congregation was very select,--in fact, it was mostly composed of
the well-to-do residents of the town; and the Master’s words, “The
poor ye have always with you,” would hardly have seemed an appropriate
text--especially on this particular morning.
But there was one gentle little woman, with a child in her arms and a
little girl by her side, who sat in a pew far up in front, toward the
right of the altar, in whose dark eyes there lurked a shadow, and in
whose heart had entered a terrible fear.
The man who sat beside her was a noble looking fellow, broad
of shoulder, strong of limb, stalwart of frame. But to a close
observer there still appeared marks of past dissipation and reckless
intemperance, which had left there unmistakable tokens on cheek and
brow,--tokens which even the charitable hand of time must be many
years in effacing altogether.
And it had been only one little year since Burton Holbrook had been
plucked even as a brand from the burning; but in all the year, not once
had the accursed cup touched his lips.
Burton Holbrook could not remember when he had first learned to love
the cup; the terrible heritage had been his from birth,--a heritage
bequeathed him by his poor father, whose drunken carousals had made his
childhood miserable.
And so the heritage of thirst had been his; and he had fought it
manfully, bravely all the years. But the record of the years had been
filled with shameful defeat so often that the little woman by his side
had been well nigh discouraged many times.
But in the past few months a new hope had been born,--a hope bright
with anticipation and big with promise.
For Burton Holbrook had been converted and joined the church.
“You can never conquer in your own strength,” she had said; and her
prayers had ascended day and night unceasingly. And one glad day he had
come to her, with a new light in his eyes and a new song upon his lips.
Then, almost as if by magic, prosperity seemed to come to them by leaps
and bounds; friends multiplied; a position was offered him, lucrative
beyond his wildest dreams. Within the year, the humble home had been
exchanged for a pleasant cottage on one of the better streets, and
from this cottage ascended night and morning, songs and prayers of
thanksgiving and praise.
And this Sabbath he was attending communion service for the first time.
Strange that sad thoughts should intrude,--that unwelcome fears, and
dim, shadowy forebodings should come trooping into the heart of the
little woman by his side,--to-day of _all_ days,--to-day, when her cup
of joy was full to the brim!
[Illustration: “_Songs of thanksgiving and praise_”]
In the very beginning of the services, she had suddenly remembered that
it was communion day,--yes, yes, she had known that, all the time. But
now she realized with a dull pain at her heart, that there would be
wine. There must be; and it would be the wine that intoxicates!
Ah! too well she knew the demons that forever dogged her husband’s
footsteps! Given the slightest opportunity, and they were about him in
troops. Was there, then, no spot too sacred for them to invade? Was
there to be no safety, even within the sacred courts of the house of
the Lord?
In her perfect happiness, she had not given it a thought; but now, she
wondered vaguely why she had not remembered. Ah, once before, in those
awful days that seemed so long, long ago,--once before, a single taste
of red wine had been his undoing!
How helpless she felt, as she sat by his side and glanced timidly up
into his handsome face--her noble husband! And she reflected that she
had urged him to unite with the church long before he had thought of
offering himself. She had told him that this would be such a source of
strength to him! And now she shuddered.
Why had no one cared for his soul? Why had no voice been raised in
protest? And then she remembered hearing Mrs. Jones, the deaconess,
once say that she had protested against this thing; but the pastor had
only smiled and treated the matter lightly,--in fact he had gone so
far as to insinuate that “it would be casting a reflection upon the
respectability” of his eminently respectable congregation, to offer
them new wine at communion, when they had always been accustomed to the
old!
So it would have been of no use for her to protest. The pastor would
have scorned her husband as a weakling--her strong, noble husband.
But see, the red wine has already been uncovered; the blessing has been
pronounced,--ah, surely it is only the emblem of the spilled blood of
the Man of Sorrows!
Burton Holbrook starts. His face is white as chiseled marble. His
breath comes in quick, hard gasps. Already the subtle scent of the red
wine is in his nostrils.
The little woman marks with strange distinctness, the white, delicate
fingers of the pastor, as he offers the glass to her husband,--for they
are in the pew near the altar. The words which the minister had read
that morning, ring in her ears: “Yea, mine own familiar friend, in whom
I trusted, ... hath lifted up his heel against me.”
She turns her eyes in sickening fear upon the man. His face is gray
and drawn, the muscles of his neck are working, and the blue veins are
standing out upon his forehead. He turns his eyes in piteous appeal
toward his wife, then toward the pastor. Then over his haggard face
there flits an expression of mad desire. The fiends of darkness are
tapping upon his forehead and beckoning to him insistently.
Even the pastor starts with alarm as Burton Holbrook reaches his
trembling fingers toward the glass. A fire like the smouldering fires
of the pit leaps into his dark eyes,--and the glass is drained.
There was an uneasy, expectant rustle in the congregation. The minister
turned his eyes for a moment. It was enough. Burton Holbrook sprang
like a famished tiger and snatched at the pitcher. In a moment more, it
was empty.
[Illustration: “_Down the long aisle rushed a frenzied, hatless man_”]
Then, down the long aisle of horrified, frightened faces, and out into
the quiet streets, rushed a frenzied, hatless man.
* * * * *
Over at the saloon on the nearest corner, lingered a few of the former
companions of Burton Holbrook, discussing their old comrade, over their
cups:--
“Been almost a year, I think, hasn’t it, since Holbrook last favored us
with his company?” questioned the bartender sneeringly, as he handed a
foaming glass to a young man whose trembling hand and thick speech told
a pitiful story of disease and dissipation.
“Considers himself mighty good, I reckon,” was the reply.
“I’ve done everything I could to get him to give up those high and
lofty notions of his,” shamelessly admitted another.
“I’m right glad I don’t have to sell _my_ liberty,” blustered Jack
Hartwell, “and I told him so the other day; but he had an answer ready,
of course. Real, reg’lar parson, Burt’s got to be, since he’s quit us.”
“That makes me think,” stammered an old man from across the room,
“Holbrook’s gone and joined the church, so they say,--got clear off
the devil’s ground, I s’pose he thinks, now,--but,--” and the old man
lowered his voice, while a hateful grin distorted his bloated face,
“but we’ll see--we’ll see. He’s no whit better than the rest of us,
that he should,--”
“No,” interrupted the bartender, with an oath, “somebody’s likely been
preachin’ to him. But if he thinks he’s safe, just because--”
But the bartender never finished his speech. Into the midst of them
rushed a man, breathless and hatless, with haggard face and wild,
hollow eyes.
“Let me drink, man! let me drink! I’ve sold my soul for it. The demons
of hell have got me this time! I have held my own against them for a
year,--but they caught me,--caught me in the church,--and--and I _will
die_, but I _must_ have my drink!”
* * * * *
Within another month, delirium tremens, with its unspeakable horrors,
had claimed its victim.
But I am glad to say that now there is _one_ church in Jonesville,
which offers nothing but pure, sweet, new wine at communion.
But still a poor, heartbroken little woman murmurs over and over again,
“‘Woe unto him that giveth his neighbor drink!’”
[Illustration]