"HOW beautiful!" ejaculated Mary Graham, as she fixed her eyes
intently on the western sky, rich with the many-coloured clouds of a
brilliant sunset in June.
"Beautiful indeed!" responded her sister Anna.
"I could gaze on it for ever!" Ellen, a younger and more
enthusiastic sister remarked, with fervent admiration. "Look, Ma!
was ever anything more gorgeous than that pure white cloud, fringed
with brilliant gold, and relieved by the translucent and sparkling
sky beyond?"
"It is indeed very beautiful, Ellen," Mrs. Graham replied. But there
was an abstraction in her manner, that indicated, too plainly, that
something weighed upon her mind.
"You don't seem to enjoy a rich sunset as much as you used to do,
Ma," Anna said, for she felt the tone and manner in which her mother
had expressed her admiration of the scene.
"You only think so, perhaps," Mrs. Graham rejoined, endeavouring to
arouse herself, and to feel interested in the brilliant exhibition
of nature to which her daughter had alluded. "The scene is, indeed,
very beautiful, Anna, and reminds me strongly of some of
Wordsworth's exquisite descriptions, so full of power to awaken the
heart's deepest and purest emotions. You all remember this:
"'Calm is the evening air, and loth to lose
Day's grateful warmth, though moist with falling dews
Look for the stars, you'll say that there are none;
Look up a second time, and, one by one,
You mark them twinkling out with silvery light,
And wonder how they could elude the sight.'"
"And this:
"'No sound is uttered,--but a deep
And solemn harmony pervades
The hollow vale from steep to steep,
And penetrates the glades.
Far distant images draw nigh,
Called forth by wondrous potency
Of beamy radiance, that imbues
Whate'er it strikes with gem-like hues!
In vision exquisitely clear,
Herds range along the mountain-side;
And glistening antlers are descried;
And gilded flocks appear.
Thine is the tranquil hour, purpureal Eve!
But long as god-like wish, or hope divine,
Informs my spirit, ne'er can I believe
That this magnificence is wholly thine!
From worlds not quickened by the sun
A portion of the gift is won.'"
"How calm and elevating to the heart, like the hour he describes,"
Ellen said, in a musing tone, as she sat with her eyes fixed
intently on the slow-fading glories of the many-coloured clouds.
The influence of the tranquil hour gradually subdued them into
silence; and as the twilight began to fall, each sat in the
enjoyment of a pure and refined pleasure, consequent upon a true
appreciation of the beautiful in nature, combined with highly
cultivated tastes, and innocent and elevated thoughts.
"There comes Pa, I believe," Anna remarked, breaking the silence, as
the hall door opened and then closed with a heavy jar; and the
well-known sound of her father's footsteps was heard along the
passage and on the stairs.
None of her children observed the hushed intensity with which Mrs.
Graham listened, as their father ascended to the chamber. But they
noticed that she became silent and more thoughtful than at first. In
about ten minutes she arose and left the room.
"Something seems to trouble Ma, of late," Ellen observed, as soon as
their mother had retired.
"So I have thought. She is certainly, to all appearance, less
cheerful, "Mary replied.
"What can be the cause of it?"
"I hardly think there can be any very serious cause. We are none of
us always in the same state of mind."
"But I have noticed a change, in Ma, for some months past--and
particularly in the last few weeks," Anna said. "She is not happy."
"I remember, now, that I overheard her, about six weeks ago, talking
to Alfred about something--the company he kept, I believe--and that
he seemed angry, and spoke to her, I thought, unkindly. Since that
time she has not seemed so cheerful;" Ellen said.
"That may be the cause; but still I hardly think that it is," Anna
replied. "Alfred's principal associates are William Gray and Charles
Williams; and they belong to our first families. Pa, you know, is
very intimate with both Mr. Gray and Mr. Williams."
"It was to William Gray and Charles Williams, I believe, however,
that Ma particularly objected."
"Upon what ground?"
"Upon the ground of their habits, I think, she said."
"Their habits? What of their habits, I wonder?"
"I do not know, I am sure. I only remember having heard Ma object to
them on that account."
"That is strange!" was the remark of Anna. "I am sure that I have
never seen anything out of the way, in either of them; and, as to
William Gray, I have always esteemed him very highly."
"So have I," Mary said. "Both of them are intelligent, agreeable
young men; and such, as it seems to me, are in every way fitted to
be companions for our brother."
But Mrs. Graham had seen more of the world than her daughters, and
knew how to judge from appearances far better than they. Some recent
circumstances, likewise, had quickened her perceptions of danger,
and made them doubly acute. In the two young men alluded to, now
about the ages of eighteen and twenty, she had been pained to
observe strong indications of a growing want of strict moral
restraints, combined with a tendency towards dissipation; and, what
was still more painful, an exhibition of like perversions in her
only son, now on the verge of manhood,--that deeply responsible and
dangerous period, when parental authority and control subside in a
degree, and the individual, inexperienced yet self-confident,
assumes the task of guiding himself.
When Mrs. Graham left the room, she proceeded slowly up to the
chamber into which her husband had gone, where all had been silent
since his entrance. She found him lying upon the bed, and already in
a sound sleep. The moment she bent over him, she perceived the truth
to be that which her trembling and sinking heart so much dreaded. He
was intoxicated!
Shrinking away from the bed-side, she retired to a far corner of the
room, where she seated herself by a table, and burying her face in
her arms, gave way to the most gloomy, heart-aching thoughts and
feelings. Tears brought her no relief from these; for something of
hopelessness in her sorrow, gave no room for the blessing of tears.
Mr. Graham was a merchant of high standing in Philadelphia, where,
for many years, he had been engaged extensively in the East India
trade. Six beautiful ships floated for years upon the ocean,
returning at regular intervals, freighted with the rich produce of
the East, and filling his coffers, until they overflowed, with
accumulating wealth. But it was not wealth alone that gave to Mr.
Graham the elevated social position that he held. His strong
intelligence, and the high moral tone of his character, gave him an
influence and an estimation far above what he derived from his great
riches. In the education of his children, four in number, he had
been governed by a wise regard to the effect which that education
would have upon them as members of society. He early instilled into
their minds a desire to be useful to others, and taught them the
difference between an estimation of individuals, founded upon their
wealth and position in society, and an estimation derived from
intrinsic excellence of character. The consequence of, all this was,
to make him beloved by his family--purely and tenderly beloved,
because there was added to the natural affection for one in his
position, the power of a deep respect for his character and
principles.
At the time of his introduction to the reader, Mr. Graham was
forty-five years old. Alfred, his oldest child, was twenty-one;
Mary, nineteen; Ellen, eighteen; and Anna just entering her
sixteenth year. Up to this time, or nearly to this time, a happier
family circled no hearth in the city. But now an evil wing was
hovering over them, the shadow from which had already been perceived
by the mother's heart, as it fell coldly and darkly upon it, causing
it to shrink and tremble with gloomy apprehensions. From early
manhood up, it had been the custom of Mr. Graham to use wines and
brandies as liberally as he desired, without, the most remote
suspicion once crossing his mind that any danger to him could attend
the indulgence. But to the eye of his wife, whose suspicions had of
late been aroused, and her perceptions rendered, in consequence,
doubly acute, it had become apparent that the habit was gaining a
fatal predominance over him. She noted, with painful emotions, that
as each evening returned, there were to her eye too evident
indications that he had been indulging so freely in the use of
liquors, as to have his mind greatly obscured. His disposition, too,
was changing; and he was becoming less cheerful in his family, and
less interested in the pleasures and pursuits of his children.
Alfred, whom he had, up to this time, regarded with an earnest and
careful solicitude, was now almost entirely left to his own
guidance, at an age, too, when he needed more than ever the
direction of his father's matured experience.
All these exhibitions of a change so unlooked for, and so terrible
for a wife and mother to contemplate, might well depress the spirits
of Mrs. Graham, and fill her with deep and anxious solicitude. For
some weeks previous to the evening on which our story opens, Mr.
Graham had shown strong symptoms almost every day--symptoms
apparent, however, in the family, only to the eye of his wife--of
drunkenness. Towards the close of each day, as the hour for his
return from business drew near her feelings would become oppressed
under the fearful apprehension that when he came home, it would be
in a state of intoxication. This she dreaded on many accounts.
Particularly was she anxious to conceal the father's aberrations
from his children. She could not bear the thought that respect for
one now so deeply honoured by them, should be diminished in their
bosoms. She felt, too, keenly, the reproach that would rest upon his
name, should the vice that was now entangling, obtain full
possession of him, and entirely destroy his manly, rational freedom
of action. Of consequences to herself and children, resulting from
changed external circumstances, she did not dream. Her husband's
wealth was immense; and, therefore, even if he should so far abandon
himself as to have to relinquish business, there would be enough,
and more than enough, to sustain them in any position in society
they might choose to occupy.
On the occasion to which we have already referred, her heart was
throbbing with suspense as the hour drew nigh for his return, when,
sooner than she expected him, Mr. Graham opened the hall-door, and
instead of entering the parlour, as usual, proceeded at once to his
chamber. The quick ear of his wife detected something wrong in the
sound of his footsteps--the cause she knew too well. Oh, how deeply
wretched she felt, though she strove all in her power to seem
unmoved while in the presence of her children! Anxious to know the
worst, she soon retired, as has been seen, from the parlours, and
went up to the chamber above. Alas! how sadly were her worst fears
realized! The loved and honoured partner of many happy years, the
father of her children, lay before her, slumbering, heavily, in the
sleep of intoxication. It seemed, for a time, as if she could not
bear up under the trial. While seated, far from the bed-side,
brooding in sad despondency over the evil that had fallen upon
them--an evil of such a character that it had never been feared--it
seemed to her that she could not endure it. Her thoughts grew
bewildered, and reason for a time seemed trembling. Then her mind
settled into a gloomy calmness that, was even more terrible, for it
had about it something approaching the hopelessness of despair.
Thoughts of her children at last aroused her, as the gathering night
darkened the chamber in which she sat, and she endeavoured to rally
herself, and to assume a calmness that she was far from feeling. A
reason would have to be given for the father's non-appearance at the
tea-table. That could easily be done. Fatigue and a slight
indisposition had caused him to lie down: and as he had fallen
asleep, it was thought best not to awaken him. Such a tale was
readily told, and as readily received. The hardest task was to
school her feelings into submission, and so control the expression
of her face, and the tone of her voice, as to cause none to suspect
that there was anything wrong.
To do this fully, however, was impossible. Her manner was too
evidently changed; and her face wore too dreamy and sad an
expression to deceive her daughters, who inquired, with much
tenderness and solicitude, whether she was not well, or whether
anything troubled her.
"I am only a little indisposed," was her evasive reply to her
children's kind interrogatories.
"Can't I do something for you?" inquired Ellen, with an earnest
affection in her manner.
"No, dear," was her mother's brief response; and then followed a
silence, oppressive to all, which remained unbroken until the tea
things were removed.
"Alfred is again away at tea-time," Mrs. Graham at length said, as
they all arose from the table.
"He went out this afternoon with Charles Williams," Mary replied.
"Did he?" the mother rejoined quickly, and with something of
displeasure in her tone.
"Yes. Charles called for him in his buggy about four o'clock, and
they rode out together. I thought you knew it."
"No. I was lying down about that time."
"You do not seem to like Charles Williams much."
"I certainly do not, Anna, as a companion for Alfred. He is too fond
of pleasure and sporting, and I am very much afraid will lead your
brother astray."
"I never saw anything wrong about him, Ma."
"Perhaps not. But I have learned to be a much closer observer in
these matters than you, Mary. I have seen too many young men at
Alfred's age led away, not to feel a deep and careful solicitude for
him."
As the subject seemed to give their mother pain, her daughters did
not reply; and then another, and still more troubled silence
followed.
A chill being thrown thus over the feelings of all, the family
separated at an early hour. But Mrs. Graham did not retire to bed.
She could not, for she was strangely uneasy about her son. It was
about twelve o'clock when Alfred came in. His mother opened her door
as he passed it, to speak to him--but her tongue refused to give
utterance to the words that trembled upon it. He, too, was
intoxicated!
Brief were the hours given to sleep that night, and troubled the
slumber that locked her senses in forgetfulness. On the next
morning, the trembling hand of her husband, as he lifted his cup to
his lips, and the unrefreshed and jaded appearance of her son, told
but too plainly their abuse of nature's best energies. With her
husband, Mrs. Graham could not bring herself to speak upon the
subject. But she felt that her duty as a mother was involved in
regard to her son, and therefore she early took occasion to draw him
aside, and remonstrate against the course of folly upon which he was
entering.
"You were out late last night, Alfred," she said, in a mild tone.
"I was in at twelve, Ma."
"But that was too late, Alfred."
"I don't know, Ma. Other young men are out as late, and even later,
every night," the young man said, in a respectful tone. "I rode out
with Charles Williams in the afternoon, and then went with him to a
wine party at night."
"I must tell you frankly, Alfred, that I like neither your companion
in the afternoon, nor your company in the evening."
"You certainly do not object to Charles Williams. He stands as high
in society as I do."
"His family is one of respectability and standing. But his habits, I
fear, Alfred, are such as will, ere long, destroy all of his title
to respectful estimation."
"You judge harshly," the young man said, colouring deeply.
"I believe not, Alfred. And what is more, I am convinced that you
stand in imminent danger from your association with him."
"How?" was the quick interrogatory.
"Through him, for instance, you were induced to go to a wine party
last night."
"Well?"
"And there induced to drink too much."
"Mother!"
"I saw you when you came in, Alfred. You were in a sad condition."
For a few moments the young man looked his mother in the face, while
an expression of grief and mortification passed over his own.
"It is true," he at length said, in a subdued tone, "that I did
drink to excess, last evening. But do not be alarmed on that
account. I will be more guarded, in future. And let me now assure
you, most earnestly, that I am in no danger: that I am not fond of
wine. I was led to drink too much, last evening, from being in a
company where wine was circulated as freely as water. I thought you
looked troubled, this morning, but did not dream that it was on my
account. Let me, then, urge you to banish from your mind all fears
in regard to me."
"I cannot banish such fears, my son, so long as I know that you have
dangerous associates. No one is led off, no one is corrupted
suddenly."
"But I do not think that I have dangerous associates."
"I am sure you have, Alfred. If they had not been such, you would
not have been led astray, last night. Go not into the way of
temptation. Shun the very beginnings of evil. Remember Pope's
warning declaration:--
"'Vice, to be hated, needs but to be seen,' &c."
"Indeed, indeed, Ma, you are far too serious about this matter."
"No, my son, I cannot be!"
"Well, perhaps not. But, as I know the nature of my associations far
better than you possibly can, you must pardon me for thinking that
they involve no danger. I have arrived to years of discretion, and
certainly think that I am, or at least ought to be, able to judge
for my self."
There was that in the words and tone of the young man, that made the
mother feel conscious that it would be no use for her to urge the
matter further, at that time. She merely replied--
"For your mother's sake, Alfred, guard yourself more carefully, in
future."
It is wonderful, sometimes, how rapidly a downward course is run.
The barrier, against which the waters have been driven for years, is
rapidly washed away, so soon as even the smallest breach is made. A
breach had been made in Mr. Graham's resolution to be only a sober
drinker of intoxicating liquors; and the consequence was, that he
had less power to resist the strong inclination to drink, that had
become almost like a second nature to him. A few weeks only elapsed,
before he came home so drunk as to expose himself in the street, and
before his children and servants, in a most disgusting and degrading
manner.
Terrible indeed was the shock to his children--especially to Mary,
Ellen and Anna. His sudden death could not have been a more fearful
affliction. Then, they would have sorrowed in filial respect and
esteem, made sacred by an event that would embalm the memory of
their father in the permanent regard of a whole community: now, he
stood degraded in their eyes; and they felt that he was degraded in
the eyes of all. In his presence they experienced restraint, and
they looked for his coming with a shrinking fear. It was, indeed, an
awful affliction--such as few can realize in imagination; and
especially for them, as they occupied a conspicuous position in
society, and were conscious that all eyes were upon them, and that
all tongues would be busy with the story of their father's
degradation.
It is wonderful, we have said, how rapidly a downward course is
sometimes run. In the case of Mr. Graham, many circumstances
combined to hasten his ruin. It was nearly a year after he had given
way to the regular indulgence of drink, so far as to be kept almost
constantly in a state of half-intoxication through the business
hours of almost every day, that he received news of the loss of a
vessel richly laden with teas from China. At the proper time he
presented the requisite documents to his underwriters, and claimed
the loss, amounting, on ship and cargo, to one hundred and
twenty-five thousand dollars. On account of alleged improper conduct
on the part of the captain, united with informality in the papers,
the underwriters refused to pay the loss. A suit at law was the
consequence, in which the underwriters were sustained. An appeal was
made, but the same result followed-thus sweeping away, at a single
blow, property to the amount of over one hundred thousand dollars.
During the progress of the trial, Mr. Graham was much excited, and
drank more freely than ever. When the result was finally
ascertained, he sank down into a kind of morose inactivity for some
months, neglecting his large and important business, and indulging,
during the time, more deeply than ever in his favourite potations.
It was in vain that his distressed family endeavoured to rouse him
into activity. All their efforts were met by an irritability and a
moroseness of temper so unlike what he had been used to exhibit
towards them, that they gave up all idea of influencing him in
despair.
A second heavy loss, of nearly equal amount, altogether consequent
upon this neglect of business, seemed to awaken up the latent
energies of his character, and he returned to himself with something
of his former clear-sighted energy of character. But his affairs had
already become, to him, strangely entangled. The machinery of his
extensive operations had been interrupted; and now, in attempting to
make the wheels move on again, it was too apparent that much of it
had become deranged, and the parts no longer moved in harmonious
action with the whole. The more these difficulties pressed upon him,
the deeper did he drink, as a kind of relief, and, in consequence,
the more unfit to extricate himself from his troubles did he become.
Every struggle, like the efforts of a large animal in a quagmire,
only tended to involve him deeper and deeper in inextricable
embarrassment.
This downward tendency continued for about three years, when his
family was suddenly stunned by the shock of his failure. It seemed
impossible for them to realize the truth--and, indeed, almost
impossible for the whole community to realize it. It was only three
or four years previous that his wealth was estimated, and truly so,
at a million and a half. He was known to have met with heavy losses,
but where so much could have gone, puzzled every one. It seems
almost incredible that any man could have run through such an estate
by mismanagement, in so brief a period. But such was really the
case. Accustomed to heavy operations, he continued to engage in only
the most liberal transactions, every loss in which was a matter of
serious moment. And towards the last, as his mind grew more and more
bewildered in consequence of is drinking deeper and deeper, he
scarcely got up a single voyage, that did not result in loss; until,
finally, he was driven to an utter abandonment of business--but not
until he had involved his whole estate in ruin.
The beautiful family mansion on Chestnut-street had to be given
up--the carriage and elegant furniture sold under the hammer, while
the family retired, overwhelmed with distress, to an humble dwelling
in an obscure part of the city.
Seven years from the day on which Mrs. Graham and her children were
thus thrown suddenly down from their elevation, and driven into
obscurity, that lady sat alone, near the window of a
meanly-furnished room in a house on the suburbs of the city,
overlooking the Schuylkill. It was near the hour of sunset.
Gradually the day declined, and the dusky shadows of evening fell
gloomily around. Still Mrs. Graham sat leaning her head upon her
hand, in deep abstraction of mind. Alas! seven years had wrought a
sad change in her appearance, and a sadder one in her feelings. Her
deeply-sunken eye, and pale, thin face, told a tale of wretchedness
and suffering, whose silent appeal made the very heart ache. Her
garments, too, were old and faded, and antiquated in style.
She sat thus for about half-an-hour, when the door of the room was
opened slowly, and a young woman entered, carrying on her arm a
small basket. She seemed, at first sight, not over twenty-three or
four years of age; but, when observed more closely, her hollow
cheek, pale face, and languid motions, indicated the passage of
either many more years over her head, or the painful inroads of
disease and sorrow. Mrs. Graham looked up, but did not speak, as the
young woman entered, and, after placing her basket on a table, laid
aside her bonnet and faded shawl.
"How did you find Ellen, to-day?" she at length said.
"Bad enough!" was the mournful reply. "It makes my heart ache, Ma,
whenever I go to see her."
"Was her husband at home?"
"Yes, and as drunk and ill-natured as ever."
"How is the babe, Mary?"
"Not well. Dear little innocent creature! it has seen the light of
this dreary world in an evil time. Ellen has scarcely any milk for
it; and I could not get it to feed, try all I could. It nestles in
her breast, and frets and cries almost incessantly, with pain and
hunger. Although it is now six weeks old, yet Ellen seems to have
gained scarcely any strength at all. She has no appetite, and creeps
about with the utmost difficulty. With three little children hanging
about her, and the youngest that helpless babe, her condition is
wretched indeed. It would be bad enough, were her husband kind to
her. But cross, drunken and idle, scarcely furnishing his family
with food enough to sustain existence, her life with him is one of
painful trial and suffering. Indeed, I wonder, with her sensitive
disposition and delicate body, how she can endure such a life for a
week."
A deep sigh, or rather moan, was the mother's only response. Her
daughter continued,
"Bad as I myself feel with this constant cough, pain in my side, and
weakness, I must go over again to-morrow and stay with her. She
ought not to be left alone. The dear children, too, require a great
deal of attention that she cannot possibly give to them."
"You had better bring little Ellen home with you, had you not, Mary?
I could attend to her much better than Ellen can."
"I was thinking of that myself, Ma. But you seemed so poorly, that I
did not feel like saying anything about it just now."
"O yes. Bring her home with you to-morrow evening, by all means. It
will take that much off of poor Ellen's hands."
"Then I will do so, Ma; at least if Ellen is willing," Mary said, in
a lighter tone--the idea of even that relief being extended to her
overburdened sister causing her mind to rise in a momentary
buoyancy.
"Anna is late to-night," she remarked, after a pause of a few
moments.
As she said this, the door opened, and the sister of whom she spoke
entered.
"You are late to-night, Anna," her mother said.
"Yes, rather later than usual. I had to take a few small articles
home for a lady, after I left the store, who lives in Sixth near
Spring Garden."
"In Sixth near Spring Garden!"
"Yes. The lad who takes home goods had gone, and the lady was
particular about having them sent home this evening."
"Do you not feel very tired?"
"Indeed I do," the poor girl said, sinking into a chair. "I feel,
sometimes, as if I must give up. No one in our store is allowed to
sit down from morning till night. The other girls don't appear to
mind it much; but before evening, it seems as if I must drop to the
floor. But I won't complain," she added, endeavouring to rally
herself, and put on a cheerful countenance. "How have you been
to-day, Ma?"
"If you won't complain, I am sure that I have no right to, Anna."
"You cannot be happy, of course, Ma; that I know too well. None of
us, I fear, will ever be again happy in this world!" Anna said, in a
tone of despondency, her spirits again sinking.
No one replied to this; and a gloomy silence of many minutes
followed--a quiet almost as oppressive as the stillness that reigns
in the chamber of death. Then Mary commenced busying herself about
the evening meal.
"Tea is ready, Ma and Anna," she at length said, after their frugal
repast had been placed upon the table.
"Has not Alfred returned yet?" Anna asked.
"No," was the brief answer.
"Hadn't we better wait for him?"
"He knows that it is tea-time, and ought to be here, if he wants
any," the mother said. "You are tired and hungry, and we will not,
of course, wait."
The little family, three in number, gathered around the table, but
no one eat with an appetite of the food that was placed before them.
There were two vacant places at the board. The husband and son--the
father and brother--where were they?
In regard to the former, the presentation of a scene which occurred
a few weeks previous will explain all. First, however, a brief
review of the past seven years is necessary. After Mr. Graham's
failure in business, he gave himself up to drink, and sunk, with his
whole family, down into want and obscurity with almost unprecedented
rapidity. He seemed at once to become strangely indifferent to his
wife and children--to lose all regard for their welfare. In fact, he
had become, in a degree, insane from the sudden reverses which had
overtaken him, combined with the bewildering effects of strong
drinks, under whose influence he was constantly labouring.
Thus left to struggle on against the pressure of absolute want,
suddenly and unexpectedly brought upon them, and with no internal or
external resources upon which to fall promptly back, Mrs. Graham and
her daughters were for a time overwhelmed with despair. Alfred, to
whom they should have looked for aid, advice, and sustenance, in
this hour of severe trial, left almost entirely to himself, as far
as his father had been concerned, for some two years, had sunk into
habits of dissipation from which even this terrible shock had not
the power to arouse him. Having made himself angry in his opposition
to, and resistance of, all his mother's admonitions, warnings, and
persuasions, he seemed to have lost all affection for her and his
sisters. So that a sense of their destitute and distressed condition
had no influence over him--at least, not sufficient to arouse him
into active exertions for their support. Thus were they left utterly
dependent upon their own resources--and what was worse, were
burdened with the support of both father and brother.
The little that each had been able to save from the general wreck,
was, as a means of sustenance, but small. Two or three gold watches
and chains, with various articles of (sic) jewelery, fancy
work-boxes, and a number of trifles, more valued than valuable, made
up, besides a remnant of household furniture, the aggregate of their
little wealth. Of course, the mother and daughters were driven, at
once, to some expedient for keeping the family together. A
boarding-house, that first resort of nearly all destitute females,
upon whom families are dependent, especially of those who have
occupied an elevated position in society, was opened, as the only
means of support that presented itself. The result of this
experiment, continued for a year and a half, was a debt of several
hundred dollars, which was liquidated by the seizure of Mrs.
Graham's furniture. But worse than this, a specious young man, one
of the boarders, had won upon the affections of Ellen, and induced
her to marry him. He, too soon, proved himself to have neither a
true affection for her, nor to have sound moral principles. He was,
moreover, idle, and fond of gay company.
On the day that Mrs. Graham broke up her boardinghouse, Markland,
her daughter's husband, was discharged from his situation as clerk,
on account of inefficiency. For six months previous, the time he had
been married, he had paid no boarding, thus adding himself as a dead
weight to the already overburdened family. As he had no house to
which he could take Ellen, he very naturally felt himself authorized
to share the house to which the distressed family of her mother
retired, seemingly regardless of how or by whom the food he daily
consumed was provided.
But Mrs. Graham was soon reduced to such extremities, that he was
driven off from her, with his wife, and forced to obtain employment
by which to support himself and her. As for the old man, he had
managed, in the wreck of affairs, to retain a large proportion of
his wines, and other choice liquors; and these, which no pressure of
want in his family could drive him to sell, afforded the means of
gratifying his inordinate love of drink. His clothes gradually
became old and rusty--but this seemed to give him no concern. He
wandered listlessly in his old business haunts, or lounged about the
house in a state of half stupor, drinking regularly all through the
day, at frequent periods, and going to bed, usually, at nights, in a
state of stupefaction.
When the boarding-house was given up, poor Mrs. Graham, whose health
and spirits had both rapidly declined in the past two years, felt
utterly at a loss what to do. But pressing necessities required
immediate action.
"Anna, child, what are we to do," she said, rousing herself, one
evening, while sitting alone with her daughters in gloomy
abstraction.
"Indeed, Ma, I am as much at a loss as you are. I have been thinking
and thinking about it, until my min--has become beclouded and
bewildered."
"I have been thinking, too," said Mary, "and it strikes me that Anna
and I might do something in the way of ornamental needlework. Both
of us, you know, are fond of it."
"Do you think that we can sell it, after it is done?" Anna asked,
with a lively interest in her tone.
"I certainly do. We see plenty of such work in the shops; and they
must buy it, of course."
"Let us try, then, Mary," her sister said with animation.
A week spent in untiring industry, produced two elegantly wrought
capes, equal to the finest French embroidery.
"And, now, where shall we sell them?" Anna inquired, in a tone of
concern.
"Mrs.--would, no doubt, buy them; but I, for one, cannot bear the
thought of going there."
"Nor I. But, driven by necessity, I believe that I could brave to go
there, or anywhere else, even though I have not been in
Chestnut-street for nearly two years."
"Will you go, then, Mary?" Anna asked, in an earnest, appealing
tone.
"Yes, Anna, as you seem so shrinkingly reluctant, I will go."
And forthwith Mary prepared herself; and rolling up the two elegant
capes, proceeded with them to the store of Mrs.--, in
Chestnut-street. It was crowded with customers when she entered, and
so she shrunk away to the back part of the store, until
Mrs.--should be more at leisure, and she could bargain with her
without attracting attention. She had stood there only a few
moments,--when her ear caught the sound of a familiar voice--that of
Mary Williams, one of her former most intimate associates. Her first
impulse was to spring forward, but a remembrance of her changed
condition instantly recurring to her, she turned more away from the
light, so as to effectually conceal herself from the young lady's
observation. This she was enabled to do, although Mary Williams came
once or twice so near as to brush her garments. How oppressively did
her heart beat, at such moments! Old thoughts and old feelings came
rushing back upon her, and in the contrast they occasioned between
the past and the present, she was almost overwhelmed with
despondency. Customer after customer came in, as one and another
retired, many of whose faces were familiar to Mary as old friends
and acquaintances. At last, however, after waiting nearly two hours,
she made out to get an interview with Mrs.--.
"Well, Miss, what do you want?" asked that personage, as Mary came
up before her where she still stood at the counter, for she had
observed her waiting in the store for some time. Mrs.--either did
not remember, or cared not to remember, her old customer, who had
spent, with her sisters, many hundreds of dollars in her store, in
times past.
"I have a couple of fine wrought capes that I should like to sell,"
Mary said, in a timid, hesitating voice, unrolling, at the same
time, the articles she named.
"Are they French?" asked Mrs.--, without pausing in her employment
of rolling up some goods, to take and examine the articles proffered
her.
"No, ma'am; they are some of my own and sister's work."
"They won't do, then, Miss. Nothing in the way of fine collars and
capes will sell, unless they are French."
Mary felt chilled at heart as Mrs.--said this, and commenced
slowly rolling up her capes, faint with disappointment. As she was
about turning from the counter, Mrs.--said, in rather an
indifferent tone,
"Suppose you let me look at them."
"I am sure you will think them very beautiful," Mary replied,
quickly unrolling her little bundle. "They have been wrought with
great care."'
"Sure enough, they are quite well done," Mrs.--said, coldly, as
she glanced her eyes over the capes. "Almost equal in appearance to
the French. But they are only domestic; and domestic embroidered
work won't bring scarcely anything. What do you ask for these?"
"We have set no price upon them; but think that they are richly
worth five or six dollars apiece."
"Five or six dollars!" ejaculated Mrs.--, in well feigned
surprise, handing back; suddenly, the capes. "O! no, Miss;--American
goods don't bring arty such prices."
"Then what will you give for them, Madam?"
"If you feel like taking two dollars apiece for them, you can leave
them. But I am not particular," Mrs.--said, in a careless tone.
"Two dollars!" repeated Mary, in surprise. "Surely, Mrs.--, they
are worth more than two dollars apiece!"
"I'm not at all anxious to give you even that for them," said
Mrs.--. "Not at all; for I am by no means sure that I shall ever
get my money back again."
"You will have to take them, then, I suppose," Mary replied, in a
disappointed and desponding tone.
"Very well, Miss, I will give you what I said." And Mrs.--took the
capes, and handed Mary Graham four dollars in payment.
"If we should conclude to work any more, may we calculate on getting
the same money for them?"
"I can't say positively, Miss; but I think that you may calculate on
that price for as many as you will bring."
Mary took the money, and turned away. It was only half an hour
after, that Mrs.--sold one of them, as "French," for twelve
dollars!
Sadly, indeed, were the sisters disappointed at this result. But
nothing better offering that they could do, they devoted themselves,
late and early, to their needles, the proceeds of which rarely went
over five dollars per week; for two years they continued to labour
thus.
At the end of that period, Anna sunk under her self-imposed task,
and lay ill for many weeks. Especially forbidden by the physician,
on her recovery, to enter again upon sedentary employments, Anna
cast earnestly about her for some other means whereby to earn
something for the common stock. Necessity, during the past two
years, had driven her frequently into business parts of the city for
the purchase of materials such as they used. Her changed lot gave
her new eyes, and her observations were necessarily made upon a new
class of facts. She had seen shop-girls often enough before, but she
had never felt any sympathy with them, nor thought of gaining any
information about them. They might receive one dollar a week, or
twenty, or work for nothing--it was all the same to her. Even if any
one had given her correct information on the subject, she would have
forgotten it in ten minutes. But now, it was a matter of interest to
know how much they could make--and she had obtained a knowledge of
the fact, that they earned from three to six and seven dollars a
week, according to their capacities or the responsibility of their
stations.
When, therefore, her shattered health precluded her from longer
plying her needle, much as she shrank from the publicity and
exposure of the position, she resolutely set about endeavouring to
obtain a situation as saleswoman in some retail dry-goods store. One
of the girls in Mrs.--'s store, who knew all about her family, and
deeply commiserated her condition, interested herself for her, and
succeeded in getting her a situation, at four dollars a week, in
Second-street. To enter upon the employment that now awaited her,
was indeed a severe trial; but she went resolutely forward, in the
way that duty called.
The sudden change from a sedentary life to one of activity, where
she had to be on her feet all day, tried her feeble strength
severely. It was with difficulty that she could sometimes keep up at
all, and she went home frequently at night in a burning fever. But
she gradually acquired a kind of power of endurance, that kept her
up. She did not seem to suffer less, but had more strength, as it
were, to bear up, and hold on with unflinching resolution.
Thus she had gone on for two or three years, at the time she was
again introduced, with her mother and sister, to the reader.
As for their father, his whole stock of liquors had been exhausted
for nearly two years, and, during that time, he had resorted to many
expedients to obtain the potations he so much loved. Finally, he
became so lost to all sense of right or feeling, that he would take
money, or anything he could carry off from the house, for the
purpose of obtaining liquor. This system had stripped them of many
necessary articles, as well as money, and added very greatly to
their distress, as well as embarrassments.
At last, everything that he could take had been taken, and as
neither his wife nor daughters would give him any money, his supply
of stimulus was cut off, and he became almost mad with the
intolerable desire that was burning within him for the fiery poison
which had robbed him of rationality and freedom.
"Give me some money!" he said, in an excited tone, to his wife,
coming in hurriedly from the street, one day about this time. His
face was dark and red, as if there were a congestion of the blood in
the veins of the skin, while his hands trembled, and his whole frame
was strongly agitated. Those who had been familiar with that old
man, years before, would hardly have recognized him now, in his old
worn and faded garments.
"I have no money for you," his wife replied. "You have already
stripped us of nearly everything."
"Buy me some brandy, then."
"No. I cannot do that either. Brandy has cursed you and your family.
Why do you not abandon it for ever?"
"I must have brandy, or die! Give me something to drink, in the name
of heaven!"
The wild look that her husband threw upon her, alarmed Mrs. Graham,
and she hesitated no longer, but handed him a small piece of money.
Quick as thought, he turned away and darted from the house.
It was, perhaps, after the lapse of about half an hour that he
returned. He opened the door, when he did so, quietly, and stood
looking into the room for a few moments. Then he turned his head
quickly from the right to the left, glancing fearfully behind him
once or twice. In a moment or two afterwards he started forward,
with a strong expression of alarm upon his countenance, and seated
himself close beside Mrs. Graham, evidently in the hope of receiving
her protection from some dreaded evil.
"What is the matter?" quickly exclaimed Mrs. Graham, starting up
with a frightened look.
"It is really dreadful!" he said. "What can it all mean?"
"What is dreadful?" asked his wife, her heart throbbing with an
unknown terror.
"There! Did you ever see such an awful sight? Ugh!" and he shrunk
behind her chair, and covered his eyes with his hands.
"I see nothing, Mr. Graham," his wife said, after a few moments of
hurried thought, in which she began to comprehend the fact that her
husband's mind was wandering.
"There is nothing here that will hurt you, father," Mary added,
coming up to him, as her own mind arrived at a conclusion similar to
her mother's.
"Nothing to hurt me!" suddenly screamed the old man, springing to
his feet, and throwing himself backwards half across the room; "and
that horrible creature already twining himself about my neck, and
strangling me! Take it off! take it off!" he continued, in a wild
cry of terror, making strong efforts to tear something away from his
throat.
"Take it off'! Why don't you take it off! Don't you see that it is
choking me to death! Oh! oh! oh!" (uttered in a terrific scream.)
Panting, screaming and struggling, he continued in this state of
awful alarm, vainly endeavouring to extricate himself from the toils
of an imaginary monster, that was suffocating him, until he sank
exhausted to the floor.
Happily for his alarmed and distressed family, two or three
neighbours, who had been startled by the old man's screams,--came
hurriedly in, and soon comprehended the nature of his aberration. A
brief consultation among themselves determined them, understanding,
as they did perfectly, the condition of the family, and his relation
to them, to remove him at once to the Alms-House, where he could get
judicious medical treatment, and be out of the sight and hearing of
his wife and children.
One of them briefly explained to Mrs. Graham, and Mary, the nature
of his mental affection, and the absolute necessity that there was
for his being placed where the most skilful and judicious management
of his case could be had. After some time, he gained their reluctant
consent to have him taken to the Alms-House. A carriage was then
obtained, and he forced into it, amid the tears and remonstrances of
the wife and daughter, who had already repented of their
acquiescence in what their judgment had approved. Old affection had
rushed back upon their hearts, and feelings became stronger than
reason.
It was about four o'clock in the afternoon when this occurred. Early
on the next morning, Mrs. Graham, with Mary and Anna, went out to
see him. Their inquiries about his condition were vaguely answered,
and with seeming reluctance, or as it appeared to them, with
indifference. At length the matron of the institution asked them to
go with her, and they followed on, through halls and galleries,
until they came to a room, the door of which she opened, with a
silent indication for them to enter.
They entered alone. Everything was hushed, and the silence that of
the chamber of death. In the centre of the room lay the old man. A
single glance told the fearful tale. He was dead! Dead in the
pauper's home! Seven years before, a millionaire--now sleeping his
last sleep in the dead-room of an Alms-House, and his beggared wife
and children weeping over him in heart-broken and hopeless sorrow.
From that time the energies of Mary and Anna seemed paralyzed; and
it was only with a strong effort that Mrs. Graham could rouse
herself from the stupor of mind and body that had settled upon her.
Mrs. Graham and her two daughters had nearly finished their evening
meal, at the close of the day alluded to some pages back, when the
sound of rapidly hurrying footsteps was heard on the pavement. In a
moment after, a heavy blow was given just at their door, and some
one fell with a groan against it. The weight of the body forced it
open, and the son and brother rolled in upon the floor, with the
blood gushing from a ghastly wound in his forehead. His assailant
instantly fled. Bloated, disfigured, in coarse and worn clothing,
how different, even when moving about, was he from the genteel,
well-dressed young man of a few years back! Idleness and dissipation
had wrought as great a change upon him as it had upon his father,
while he was living. Now he presented a shocking and loathsome
appearance.
The first impulse of Mary was to run for a physician, while the
mother and Anna attempted to stanch the flow of blood, that had
already formed a pool upon the floor. Assistance was speedily
obtained, and the wound dressed; but the young man remained
insensible. As the physician turned from the door, Mrs. Graham sank
fainting upon her bed. Over-tried nature could bear up no longer.
"Doctor, what do you think of him?" asked the mother, anxiously,
three days after, as the physician came out of Alfred's room. Since
the injury he had received, he had lain in a stupor, but with much
fever.
"His case, Madam, is an extremely critical one. I have tried in vain
to control that fever."
"Do you think him very dangerous, Doctor?" Mary asked, in a husky
voice.
"I certainly do. And, to speak to you the honest truth, have,
myself, no hope of his recovery. I think it right that you should
know this."
"No hope, Doctor!" Mrs. Graham said, laying her hand upon the
physician's arm, while her face grew deadly pale. "No hope!--My only
son die thus!--O! Doctor, can you not save him?"
"I wish it were in my power, Madam. But I will not flatter you with
false hopes. It will be little less than a miracle should he
survive."
The mother and sisters turned away with an air of hopelessness from
the physician, and he retired slowly, and with oppressed feelings.
When they returned to the sick chamber, a great change had already
taken place in Alfred. The prediction of the physician, it was
evident to each, as all bent eagerly over him, was about to be too
surely and too suddenly realized. His face, from being slightly
flushed with fever, had become sunken, and ghastly pale, and his
respiration so feeble that it was almost imperceptible.
The last and saddest trial of this ruined family had come. The son
and brother, for whom now rushed back upon their hearts the tender
and confiding affection of earlier years, was lingering upon life's
extremest verge. It seemed that they could not give him up. They
felt that, even though he were neglectful of them, they could not do
without him. He was a son and brother; and, while he lived, there
was still hope of his restoration. The strength of that hope,
entertained by each in the silent chambers of affection, was unknown
before--its trial revealed its power over each crushed and sinking
heart.
But the passage of each moment brought plainer and more palpable
evidence of approaching dissolution. For about ten minutes he had
lain so still, that they were suddenly aroused by the fear that he
might be already dead Softly did the mother lay her hand upon his
forehead. Its cold and clammy touch sent an icy thrill to her heart
Then she bent her ear to catch even the feeblest breath--but she
could distinguish none.
"He is dead!" she murmured, sinking down and burying her face in the
bed-clothes.
The cup of their sorrow was, at last, full--full and running over!