“I cannot wonder; I am astonished myself. But, Susan, I think I shall
carry in my resignation to-morrow, and you had better have a written
application ready.”
Susan bit her lips with vexation, and even wondered that she had not
been fool enough to give her money to Mrs. Weston, instead of the
missionary society.
“I think on the whole, Louise, that I shall not become a teacher at
present,” said she, as she turned, and abruptly left the room.
In the fall Mr. Rogers and Louise were married. The parsonage is the
home of peace, love, and charity. Mrs. Rogers is a model minister’s
wife, and though the missionary cause receives an earnest support, she
still believes, and acts upon the belief, that “CHARITY BEGINS AT HOME.”
“OUT NIGHTS;”
OR,
BELONGING TO THE “SONS.”
_CHAPTER I._
“Don’t go out to-night, Charles,” said Mrs. Prescott, a pretty,
sweet-smiling lady, who had been married just six months, to her
husband.
“Really, Carrie, I am very sorry; but I do not see how I can be absent
from the meeting to-night,” replied the young husband, as he brought
his great-coat from the entry.
“You always say so. I wish you did not belong to the ‘Sons.’ Can’t you
leave them?”
“I could, my dear, if I desired; I have no wish to do so.”
“Wouldn’t you do it to please me?” said the lady smiling so sweetly
that one could have found it in his heart to do almost any thing for
her.
“You do not seriously wish me to do so.”
“Nay, I do.”
“Think, Carrie.”
“I am jealous of that society.”
“Fie!”
“You leave me here all alone, and you can’t think how lonesome I am.”
“I am very sorry to leave you; but, really, I feel it to be my duty to
sustain so good an association as the ‘Sons of Temperance.’”
“There are enough without you.”
“All might, with equal propriety, say so.”
“They do not all leave a wife alone at home.”
“Perhaps not.”
“Can’t you belong to them without going to the meetings every night?”
“I should not wish to do that. To be a merely nominal member of the
Order, is to be nothing at all.”
“You would be giving your name and influence to the cause of temperance
just as much as you do by attending the meetings.”
“What is the cause of temperance, Carrie? I fear you give it a very
vague construction, like many others in the community.”
“Why, preventing and curing intemperance.”
“Preventing and curing it in whom?”
“Every body, I suppose--all your friends and neighbors.”
“But not yourself.”
“There is no danger of you, Charles.”
“But I joined the Sons quite as much for my own sake, as for that of
others.”
“You don’t think you are in any danger of becoming a drunkard, do you?”
asked Mrs. Prescott, with a smile of incredulity.
“Not while I am as strongly fortified against the vice of drinking as I
am now.”
“Pooh! I would risk you, even if you did not belong to the Sons.”
“Suppose I should abandon them, and permit myself to be influenced by
the example of those around me--of your brother Frank, for example?
Suppose I should shake off my allegiance to the principle of total
abstinence, how long would it take me to get rid of all my scruples
against drinking a glass of wine?”
“Can’t you adhere to the principle without belonging to a society?”
“Association strengthens principle.”
“You don’t steal, Charles; but is it necessary that you should belong
to an anti thieving society?” and the pretty young wife’s features wore
an expression of triumph.
“Drinking is a fashionable vice; stealing is not. When the community
regards the fashionable wine bibber as it does the thief, there will be
no occasion for associated effort to restrain it. Popular opinion will
do the work which the Sons are now doing.”
“But I don’t think there is any need of going so constantly,” replied
the wife. “_Do_ stay with me to-night; I feel so lonesome.”
“The Order acts upon some particular business to-night, and----”
“Particular business again!” exclaimed Mrs. Prescott, with a
good-natured laugh.
“It does indeed.”
“Always so.”
“Besides, I am W. P., you know.”
“W. T., you mean.”
“What’s that?”
“Wife tormentor.”
“Nay, Carrie----”
“Go along; I will excuse you to-night; but don’t stay late.”
“No, dear.”
“It was eleven o’clock before you got home last Saturday night.”
“I will be home by ten to-night;” and Charles Prescott kissed his
pretty, smiling wife--we beg the reader to remember that they had been
married but six months--and left the house.
_CHAPTER II._
Mrs. Prescott did not appear to be half so lonesome as she had
pretended she was; for, as her little white hand delicately and
daintily grasped the needle, the same involuntary smile played on her
pretty lips that had been there while her husband was present.
Her thoughts must have been very pleasant, or she could not have worn
that bewitching smile. Her soft, gazelle-like eye, too, beamed forth
the language of a pure and beautiful soul--a soul at rest among the
flowers of its own tender rearing.
She was thinking, and her thoughts were full of joy. What a happy wife
she was! But perhaps her view of matrimony was mingled with something
of sentiment--a few grains of that amiable moonshine which strews
flowers and perfumes in the pathway of the young wife.
Alas that the blight of coldness should ever come to wither those
flowers which the young and loving wife scatters in her pathway! Alas
that the cares and trials of life should ever come and cast a great,
broad shadow over that moon of her dreams.
Mrs. Prescott was happy, and she was _thinking_ how happy she was.
Charles was all love and devotion. He was industrious, frugal, and
temperate; and, though they lived in a humble house and in a humble
street, she sighed not for the fine things her neighbors had.
They lived comfortably; and, while her husband loved her, she cared not
for tapestry carpets and velvet-covered lounges.
Charles had only one failing; and that was, an earnest devotion to the
Order of the Sons of Temperance, which drew him away from her side
every Saturday night. He never left the house any other evening without
her; and undoubtedly he would have insisted on her joining the order,
only that it was a _secret_ society; consequently no women could be
tolerated within its pale.
Mrs. Prescott could not see why her husband should be a “Son;” he was
strictly temperate in his habits. Poor wife! She neglected to inquire
into the reason of his being so.
She plied her needle, and smiled forth the joy that was in her heart.
She was so happy and contented that there was only one thing left her
to wish for--that her husband was with her.
About half an hour after Charles had gone, her brother Frank, who had
been married nearly a year, called with his wife.
“I have got to go down to the store and post up the books, Carrie, and
I have brought Lucy to stay with you; she was afraid to stay alone,”
said Frank Winslow, after the two wives had kissed each other, and said
sundry pretty things about the weather and the walking.
“I am glad you did; I am all alone myself.”
“Where’s Charley?”
“Gone to the lodge.”
“What lodge?”
“I don’t mean the lodge--the meeting of the ‘Sons.’”
“Bah!”
“He goes every Saturday night.”
“What a pity! Charley is a good fellow, and it is a great shame that he
should herd with those fanatics,” said Frank Winslow.
“Don’t you talk so about my husband, Frank,” interposed the loving
wife. “He is not half so much of a fanatic on temperance, as you are on
cognac and sherry.”
“Fie, sis! I believe in all sorts of good things; and being a Son is,
in my opinion, the next thing to being a fool.”
“Why don’t you tell him so?”
“I would if he were here. You don’t think I am afraid of him, do you?”
“No; but the last time you argued the question with him----”
“Bah!” exclaimed Frank, impatiently.
Promising to call for his wife by ten o’clock, he left the house.
“I hope our husbands won’t quarrel over this temperance question,” said
Mrs. Winslow.
“I hope not.”
“But this ‘Sons’ business does seem so silly to me that I cannot wonder
Frank laughs at him.”
“Well, I don’t care any thing about it, only that Charles is out so
late every night at the meetings.”
“And leaves you all alone?” asked Mrs. Winslow.
“Yes.”
“I wouldn’t let him! It is a shame! Why, I should go into fits if
my husband left me alone till eleven o’clock!” and Mrs. Winslow was
horrified at the very thought.
“I have said a good deal about it.”
“Said! Why, I would tip the house over before I would submit to it.”
“He is so deeply interested in it.”
“He ought to be deeply interested in his wife, too.”
“Nay, nay, Lucy, you wrong him. He loves me with all his soul.”
“And leaves you alone till eleven o’clock?”
“I’m not afraid to stay alone.”
“Why, it’s almost as bad as having a drunken husband to sit up for.”
“O, no, I’m sure it is not.”
Charles Prescott was warmly condemned by the visitor, and warmly
defended by the wife, who, poor thing, though she wished he would stay
at home, could not bear to hear a word said against him.
_CHAPTER III._
Before ten o’clock, the two ladies had settled the question of
Charles’s defection, and passed naturally enough into mousse de laines,
laces, and the newest fashions. Mrs. Winslow did not like to say that
he was a monster in the hearing of his wife; but she fully believed it;
and Mrs. Prescott, moved by the arguments of her friend, concluded that
she was used much more hardly than she had ever suspected.
Punctual to his appointed hour, Charles came home. Mrs. Winslow
playfully upbraided him for his want of constancy in leaving his wife
to spend the evening alone; but the husband made a “moral question” of
it, and proceeded to discuss the topic at length.
An hour was used up in the unprofitable argument, and the clock struck
eleven.
Mrs. Winslow yawned, and wondered why Frank did not come--began to
think the books must have gotten into a snarl to keep him so late.
It was half past eleven before he came.
“How are ye, old boy?” said he, grasping the hand of Prescott. “How are
the Sons to-night?”
“As usual--thriving.”
“What makes you so late, Frank?” asked Mrs. Winslow. “You promised to
come at ten o’clock.”
“The books got a little twisted. But sit down, Suke; I want to talk
with Charley;” and Frank threw himself into a rocking chair before the
fire.
“No, no, Frank; it is almost twelve o’clock.”
“Never mind; sit down. They say there is more liquor drank since the
Maine law was made than ever before,” said Frank, turning to Charles
Prescott.
“And there is more cheating, killing, and stealing since the ten
commandments were made than ever before. What does that prove?”
“Bah!”
“You refer to the golden calf?”
“Seriously, Charley, in my opinion, the fanatics, who made that law
ought to be held responsible for half the drunkenness in the community.”
“And Paul, Peter, and John for half the sins the gospel was intended to
prevent.”
“You talk like one of the fanatics,” said Frank, his cheek reddening
with anger.
“I merely change the application of the principles which your remarks
cover.”
“You distort them. A fanatic can’t argue the question fairly. Come,
Suke, let’s go home.”
Frank Winslow rose from his chair, but instantly sank back again.
“What is the matter, Frank?” asked his wife.
“Nothing; don’t you see?” and he attempted to rise again, but without
success.
“What ails you? How strange you act!”
“Your Sons and your Maine laws are a humbug, Charley; there’s no
rubbing that out. Tell me about your--hic--Maine law!”
“O Heavens!” groaned the poor wife.
“What the deuse’s the--hic--matter now?”
It was too plain to be longer concealed; Frank Winslow was drunk!
The heat of the room was revealing the terrible truth to the poor
wife, to the fond sister, that the husband and brother was helplessly
intoxicated!
Charles Prescott was shocked; Carrie’s cheek was pale, and her frame
trembled; that smile was gone, for the loving brother was a drunkard!
It was an agonizing moment to the fond wife. Mountains of sombre clouds
came rolling down before her bewildered senses, and the future was dark
with poverty, woe, disgrace, and death. The drunkard’s grave yawned
like a cavern of hell in the path of her husband.
“O, Frank, Frank!” exclaimed she, throwing herself into his arms, and
bathing his brow with her woman’s tears.
“What in ---- ails you all?” said Frank, gazing round him with a
drunken leer.
Charles attempted to get him upon his feet; but he was utterly helpless.
“Let me--hic--alone. I am none of your cussed--hic--fanatics, that
can’t go alone;” and he fell at full length upon the floor.
Mrs. Winslow threw herself into a chair, and sobbed in bitterness of
spirit. Carrie wept upon her bosom. It was a sad sight, that group of
weepers over the drunken body of a noble-hearted, generous young man.
Angels weep over such pitiable objects.
With much difficulty Charles Prescott succeeded in putting him to bed;
but, to all save the besotted inebriate, it was a sleepless night.
Tears stained the pillow of the wife and sister, and silent prayers
rose to heaven for the preservation of the erring young man.
Morning came, and Frank had slept off his debauch. He was conscious of
his position, and with shame and humiliation he presented himself in
the breakfast room of his friend. The pale, anxious faces, the red and
swollen eyes of his wife and sister, told him what they had suffered.
Like a true man, he acknowledged his fault, and promised to amend.
Charles pointed out the necessity of making a principle of abstinence,
to which he assented, and promised to connect himself with the Sons. He
kept his promise, and in a few weeks was initiated.
Mrs. Prescott, after the impressive lesson she had received from the
experience of her brother, was convinced that active membership in a
temperance society, or at least a cherished _principle_ of abstinence,
was necessary in these degenerate days for the salvation of the young
man.
Her husband had resisted temptation through the salutary influence of
the “Sons;” and she could not but reflect how unreasonable she had been
in attempting to lure him away from the fountain of his principle.
Even Mrs. Winslow has so far overcome her timidity as to be content to
stay alone every Saturday night, while her husband attends the meetings
of the Order. It is a blessed thing for the wife to be assured that,
while he is away from her in those hours which properly belong to her,
he is fortifying his soul against the temptations that every where
beset him.
[Illustration]
BRING FLOWERS;
OR,
GOING INTO MOURNING.
_CHAPTER I._
“I am sure they cannot care much for their sister, for not one of
them had even a black ribbon on her bonnet,” said Mabel Grant, to her
invalid sister.
“Nay, Mabel, you must not judge them harshly.”
“But only think of it! Even her mother did not so much as change her
bonnet.”
“Probably they have views and opinions of their own upon the subject,”
replied Mary Grant, feebly, for she was in the last stage of
consumption,--that dreadful scourge of our northern clime,--and even
the exertion of speaking a few words was exceedingly tiresome.
“And poor Ellen Lawson, our dear friend and schoolmate, one of the
fairest and truest girls in the village--to think that she should go
down to her early grave without even a show of mourning in her own
family. It looks like sacrilege to me.”
“Nay, Mabel, your respect for a mere custom causes you to disregard the
plainest dictates of charity.”
“I do not mean to be uncharitable.”
“I know it, Mabel; but you must remember that the practice of putting
on mourning is only a custom; and there is no sacrifice of love or
principle in disregarding the custom.”
“Well, I don’t know; I cannot think they loved poor Ellen as she
deserved to be loved.”
“Why not?”
“Because, if they had, they would at least have shown a decent respect
for her while they stood around her bier.”
“Did they seem to be cold, indifferent?” asked the invalid, with a
great deal of interest.
“No; Mrs. Lawson was very much affected while in the cemetery. She
sobbed as though her heart would break.”
“Indeed!”
“But it did not seem to be real, her dress was so inappropriate.”
“You wrong her, Mabel.”
“I hope I do.”
“You cannot see into the heart.”
“And her sisters, too, if they had not worn white bonnets, would have
seemed like real mourners.”
“The heart weeps, Mabel, not the dress, nor even the tearful eye. Many
a one in sable weeds has felt no sorrow for the loss of a parent or a
friend.”
“That may be; but don’t you think yourself that white bonnets and blue
dresses are very improper at the funeral of a near friend?”
“It would not be my taste, Mabel,” replied Mary with a faint smile.
“But I wish to accord to every one the privilege of doing as they
please in a matter of this kind.”
“So do I; of course they have the right to wear what they please.”
“You censure them, though.”
“Not censure them, Mary; I only say that it looks as though they did
not care much for poor Ellen.”
“You impugn their motives; you ought to be charitable to them, however
strange they may seem to act.”
“I will, sister; but if I had lost a friend, I should feel as though I
was deficient in respect to the memory of that friend, if I did not put
on mourning.”
Mary sighed; she knew not how soon that dear sister would be called
upon to put on mourning for her. Even another day of existence might
not be permitted her. She was calmly waiting the hour that would bear
her from the scenes of earth to that brighter realm beyond the dark
grave. Already she heard the music of the angel’s fluttering wing, and
was ready to lay her head upon the lap of earth.
Mabel penetrated her sister’s thoughts, and turned away to hide a tear,
which sprung unbidden to her eye.
“There are many things to be considered, Mabel, in relation to the
custom of wearing mourning. For my part I think it would be far better
if the practice was entirely discontinued.”
“Why, Mary! how strange you talk!”
“You can conceive how very disagreeable it must be for those who are
waiting to consign the remains of a dear friend to the tomb, to be
compelled to attend upon mantuamakers and milliners.”
Mabel had never thought of that before.
“No sooner has the spirit taken its flight, than the house of death
is made the scene of commotion and confusion, by the preparations to
appear in black. That holy sorrow, which craves solitude, is broken in
upon by the cares of business--by the necessity of conforming to a mere
fashion which requires the mourner to make a vain show.”
“Perhaps you are right, Mary; pray, do not talk any more. You are quite
exhausted.”
Mary said no more. A shade of deep thought rested upon her pallid
features. She was thinking how much more soothing it would be, when her
redeemed spirit sped its flight, if her friends could only think of her
while her lifeless clay remained with them, without the intrusion of
milliners and dressmakers.
_CHAPTER II._
It was spring time, and the joyous birds sung their cheerful notes upon
the blossoming trees. The flowers were blooming upon the hill side, and
Nature was assuming her verdant robes.
Under the influence of the mild, balmy air of the spring, Mary Grant
seemed to revive. Her strength appeared to return with the opening
buds, and her friends dared to hope that she might be spared to behold
the profusion of another summer, the glories of another autumn. But the
disease was deceptive. While hope smiles, the destroyer comes.
The physician, after giving the parents of Mary all the encouragement
he could, directed his patient to ride out as often as the weather
would permit.
The invalid was happy in the privilege of once more inhaling the balmy
breezes, of once again visiting the cherished scenes, where, in the
full vigor of health and joy, she had gayly and thoughtlessly roamed.
The village cemetery had always been a hallowed and beautiful spot to
her, and she expressed a desire to visit it again, ere her inanimate
form should be laid away to slumber beneath its peaceful bosom.
With Mabel for her companion, the carriage was slowly driven through
the garden of graves. Mary was silent and thoughtful; and more than
once a tear rose to the eye of Mabel, when she thought how soon she
might be called upon to follow the cold form of the loved one to her
resting-place.
The invalid was thoughtful, but not gloomy. Already the spirit had
reached forward to the glories of that better world where there is no
death, no sorrow. The grave had no terrors to her; it was a place of
rest. Death was not a hideous, quaking skeleton to her imagination, but
a white-winged angel, who would fold her upon his bosom, and bear her
across the dark valley to the “house with many mansions, eternal in the
heavens.”
With introverted thoughts she gazed upon the memorials of the
slumbering dead. The funereal fir, the pendent willow that swept over
the green graves, diffused a heavenly calm in her heart, and she felt
ready to join the great company that slept beneath them.
“There is a new-made grave,” said she, as the carriage turned the angle
of one of the avenues.
“It is the grave of poor Ellen Lawson,” replied Mabel.
Mary requested the driver to stop.
On the grave, over which no marble had yet been reared, were several
bouquets of fresh flowers. Some little white blossoms, which had been
transplanted near the head, were opening their tiny buds.
“Still remembered, Mabel,” said Mary, as she pointed to the flowers.
“They place fresh flowers upon her grave every day.”
“And do you think they did not love her, Mabel?”
“O, sister, I know they did.”
“And wore no black at her funeral?”
“I was wrong, Mary.”
“These are meet emblems of the heart’s remembrance. When I go hence,
may the flowers of spring blossom upon my grave. May some loving hand
place flowers upon the sod that hides me from those I loved on earth.”
“You are sad, sister; do not speak so gloomily.”
“Nay, Mabel, I am not sad; I am happy.”
Mabel shed a flood of tears upon the bosom of her sister.
“Do not weep, Mabel; we shall meet in heaven, and be happy there
forever.”
“You are better, dear sister; do not speak so hopelessly.”
“Only a little while longer, and I shall rest beneath this sod. But do
not be sad; I am happy: I am not afraid to die. I feel as though the
angels were with me now, waiting to bear me to my home in the skies.”
Mabel cast another glance at the flower-decked grave of Ellen Lawson,
as the carriage drove on, and she felt that the heart could more
eloquently express its remembrance of the loved and lost, than by a
display of the sable weeds of the mourner.
_CHAPTER III._
Mary Grant went out of the house no more. In another week her waiting
spirit bade farewell to earth, and winged its way to its native
skies. Calmly and trustingly, while a heavenly smile played upon her
irradiated features, she breathed her last in the arms of Mabel.
She was gone! Her wasted form, from which the undying soul had just
taken its flight, lay in rigid silence before her. She was beautiful
in death--so beautiful that Mabel could hardly believe she was dead;
that those lips, parted in a placid smile, could no more speak gentle
counsel to her; that those eyes, now motionless and sealed, could no
more reflect the love of that affectionate heart upon her.
But a moment before, she had bidden her farewell. Could she be dead?
Was it indeed true that those smiling lips were forever sealed; that
another note of sisterly love could not proceed from them?
Kind friends were waiting to prepare the body for the sepulchre, and
a gentle hand led her away from the inanimate form. Then, then she
realized that her sister was indeed dead, and a torrent of woe swept
wildly into her heart.
Flying to her chamber, she gave free vent to her grief.
“She is gone! She is gone!” sobbed she, as she buried her face beneath
her hands, and trembled in the agony of her emotion.
Mary died as the sun was sinking behind the western hills. Her pure
spirit had fled with the day; but the change bore her to an endless
day, where there is no night and the sun never sets.
Mabel passed a sleepless night. Her pillow was wet with her tears. She
rose in the morning, and hastened to gaze again upon the form of Mary.
She was arrayed for the grave, and as Mabel bent over her, and printed
a kiss upon the pallid, cold lips, the memories of the past rushed
vividly into her heart. Her eyes rained tears upon the marble beauty of
the corpse.