The note dropped from her hand, and she sank into a chair, overcome
with a feeling of strong disappointment. To wait until eight or nine
o'clock in the evening, before she should see him, when the morning
had appeared lengthened to a day! O, it seemed as if she could not
endure the wearisome interval!
As for Wilmer, the truth was, he found himself so much under the
influence of the liberal quantity of brandy which he had taken, that
he dared not go home to Constance. He would not have appeared before
her as he was, for the world. It was under the consciousness of his
condition, that he wrote the billet, which his young wife had
received. After doing so, he went to bed at a public house, and
slept until towards evening. When he awoke, Arnold was sitting in
the chamber. Some feelings of bitter regret for the pains which his
absence must have caused his young wife, passed through his mind, as
he aroused himself. These were soon drowned by a few glasses of
wine, which his friend had already ordered to be sent up. That
friend, let it here be remarked, was not a professed gambler--nor
had he any sinister designs in urging on Wilmer as he was doing. But
he was a man of loose morals, and, therefore, really believed that
he was doing him a service in urging him to make an effort to get
upon his feet by means of the gambling-table. Knowing the young
man's high-toned feelings--and how utterly he must, from his
character, condemn anything like play, he had purposely sought to
obscure his perceptions by inducing him to drink freely. In this, he
had succeeded.
As soon as night had thrown her dark shadows over the city, the two
young men took their steps towards one of those haunts, known, too
appropriately, by the name of "hells." At eight o'clock, Theodore
went in, with two hundred dollars in his pocket--all the money he
possessed;--and at ten o'clock, came out penniless.
Lonely and long was the afternoon to the young bride, giving
opportunity to many thoughts of a sober, and even saddening nature.
Evening came at last, and then night with its deeper gloom. Eight
o'clock arrived, and nine, but her husband did not return. And then
the minutes slowly passed, until the clock struck ten.
"O, where can he be!" Constance ejaculated, rising to her feet, and
beginning to pace the room to and fro, pausing every moment to
listen to the sound of passing footsteps. Thus she continued for the
space of something like half an hour, when she sunk exhausted upon a
chair. It was twelve o'clock when he at length came in. As he opened
the door, his young wife sprung to his side, exclaiming--
"O, Theodore! Theodore! Why have you staid away so very long?"
As she said this, he staggered against her, almost throwing her
over, and then passed on to the parlors without a word in return to
her earnest and affectionate greeting.
Poor Constance was stunned for the moment. But she quickly
recovered, her woman's heart nerving itself involuntarily, and
followed after her husband. He had thrown himself upon a sofa, and
sat, half-reclining, with his head upon his bosom.
"Are you sick, dear Theodore?" his young wife asked, in a tone of
deep and earnest affection, laying her hand upon him, and bending
down and kissing his forehead.
"Yes, I am sick, Constance," was the half-stupid reply--
"Come, then, let me assist you up to bed. A good night's rest will
do you good," she said, gently urging him to rise.
She understood perfectly his condition. She knew that it was
intoxication. But while it pained her young heart deeply, it awoke
in her bosom no feelings of alarm. She felt convinced that it was
the result of accident, and had no expectation of ever again seeing
its recurrence. She asked him if he were sick, to spare him the
mortification of knowing that she perceived the true nature of his
indisposition.
Thus urged, he at once arose, and supported by the weak arm of his
young wife, slowly ascended the stairs, and entered his chamber. It
was not many minutes before his senses were locked in profound
slumber.
Not so, however, Constance. The earnestness with which she had
looked for evening to come, that she might again see the face, and
hear the voice of her husband, had greatly excited her mind. This
excitement was increased by the condition in which he had so
unexpectedly returned. The effect was, to keep her awake, in spite
of strong efforts to sink away into sleep. Many sad and desponding
thoughts forced themselves upon her, as she lay, hour after hour, in
a state of half-waking consciousness. It was nearly day-dawn, when,
from all this, she found relief in a deep slumber.
The next day was one of heart-aching reflections to Theodore Wilmer.
In his eager, but half-insane effort to elevate himself rapidly for
the sake of his young wife, he had sunk into actual want, and not
only forfeited his own self-respect, but degraded himself, he felt,
in the eyes of her whose love was dearer to him than life.
The events of two years must now be passed over, with but a brief
notice. There will be enough in the after history of Wilmer and his
young wife, to awaken the reader's keenest sympathies, without
unveiling the particular incidents of this period.
Suffice it, then, to say,--that the first night's experience at the
gambling-table was not enough to satisfy Wilmer, that it was neither
the right way, nor the most successful way of elevating himself in
the world. So anxious did he feel on account of Constance, that be
borrowed money of his false friend Arnold, on the evening of the
very next day, and after drinking, freely, to nerve himself up,
sought again the gambling-table. At ten o'clock, he left, the winner
by fifty dollars. He left thus early on account of his wife, who
would be, he knew, anxiously looking for his return. This encouraged
him to go on, and he did go on. But he could never feel sanguine of
success, or be able to still the troubled whispers within, until he
had drunken freely. Of course, he was every day more or less under
the influence of liquor. For a year, he managed, in this way, to
keep up the style of living in which he had commenced, but he could
get nothing ahead. None could imagine how this was done, for the
young man was exceedingly cautious. He looked to some good turn of
fortune by which he should be enabled to abandon for ever a course
of life that he hated and despised. No such lucky turn, however, met
his anxious expectations. After the first year of this course of
life, his health, which had never been very good, began rapidly to
fail. His cheeks became hollow, and a racking cough began to show
itself. Still he went on keeping late hours, and drinking more and
more freely, while his mind was all the time upon the rack. Towards
the close of the second year, he was taken down with a severe
illness, the result of all this abuse of mind and body. He lingered
long upon the brink of the grave; but the little energy which his
system retained, rallied at last, and he began slowly to recover.
During convalescence, he had full time for reflection. For full two
years, he had been almost constantly so much under the influence of
brandy, as really to be unable to think rationally upon any subject,
and he had, in consequence, pursued a course of life, injurious,
both to his own moral and physical health, and to the happiness of
her for whom he would, at any moment of that time, have sacrificed
everything, even life itself. In rising from that bed of sickness,
it was with a solemn vow never again to enter a gaming-house, and
never again to touch the bewildering poison that had been the
secondary, if not, indeed, the primary cause of two years'
folly--nay, madness.
And Constance, what of her, all that time? the reader asks. It would
be a difficult task to give even a feeble idea of all she patiently
endured, and of all she suffered. Not once in that long period did
she either see, or hear from her parents. Three or four times had
she written to them, but no answer was returned. At last she
ventured under the yearning anxiety that she felt once more to see
her mother, and to hear the voice that lingered in her memory like
old familiar music to go to her, and ask her forgiveness and her
love. But she was coldly and cruelly repulsed--not even being
permitted to gain her mother's presence.
In regard to her husband, her love was like a deep, pure stream. Its
course was never troubled by passion, or obstructed in its onward
course. Though he would come home often and often in a state of
stupor from drink--though it was rarely earlier than midnight when
he returned to make glad with his presence her watching and waiting
heart, she never felt a reproaching thought. And to her, his words
and tones, and manner, were ever full of tenderness. Deeply did he
love her--and for her sake more than for his own, was he struggling
thus against a powerful current daily exhausting his strength,
without moving onward.
Thus much, briefly, of those two years of toil, and struggle, and
pain. On recovering, with a shattered constitution, from the serious
attack of illness that had resulted from the abuse of himself during
that period, Wilmer felt compelled to give up his fondly-cherished
ideas of rising with Constance to the position from which he had
dragged her down, and to be content with a humbler lot. He,
therefore, sought, and obtained a situation as a clerk at a salary
of eight hundred dollars per annum. Already he had been compelled to
move into a smaller house than the one at first taken, and in this
he was now able to remain.
But seeing, with a clearer vision than before, Wilmer perceived that
much of the bloom had faded from his wife's young cheek, and that
her heart had not ceased to yearn for the home and loved ones of her
earlier years.
Another year passed away, and during the whole of that time not one
word of kindness or censure reached the ears of Constance from her
parents. They seemed to have not only cast her off, abut to have
forgotten the fact of her existence. To a mind like that of Theodore
Wilmer's, any condition in which a beloved one was made to suffer
keenly, and as he believed, alone through him, could not be endured
without serious inroads upon a shattered constitution; and much to
his alarm, by the end of the year he found that he was less able
than usual to attend through the whole day to the fatiguing duties
of the counting-room. Frequently he would return home at night with
a pain in his breast, that often continued accompanied by a
troublesome cough through a greater part of the night. The morning,
too, often found him feverish and debilitated, and with no appetite.
The engrossing love of a mother for her first-born, relieved, during
this year, in a great degree, the aching void of Constance Wilmer's
breast. The face of her sweet babe often reflected a smile of deep,
heart-felt happiness, lighting up, ere it faded away into the sober
cast of thought, a feeble ray upon the face of her husband. The
steady lapse of days, and weeks, and months, brought a steady
development of the mind and body of their little one. He was the
miniature image of his father, with eyes, in which Wilmer could see
all the deep love which lay in the dark depths of those that had won
his first affections. Happy would they have been but (who would not
be happy were it not for that little word?) for one yearning desire
in the heart of Constance for the lost love of her mother--but for
the trembling fear of want that stared Theodore daily in the face.
His salary as clerk was small, and to live in New York cost them no
trifle. At last, owing to the failure of the house by which he was
employed, the dreaded event came. He was out of a situation, and
found it impossible to obtain one. the failure had been a very bad
one, and there was a strong suspicion of unfair dealing. The
prejudice against the house, extended even to the clerks, and
several of them, finding it very difficult to get other places that
suited them, left New York for other cities. One of them, a friend
to Wilmer, came to Baltimore, and got into a large house; a vacancy
soon occurring, he recommended Wilmer, who was sent for. He came at
once, for neither to him nor his wife was there anything attractive
in New York. His salary was to be five hundred dollars.
In removing to Baltimore, he took with him the greater part of the
furniture that he had at first purchased, some of which was of a
superior quality. There he rented a small house, and endeavoured by
the closest economy to make his meagre salary sufficient to meet
every want. But this seemed impossible.
Gradually, every year he found himself getting behind-hand, from
fifty to sixty dollars. The birth of a second child added to his
expenses; and, the failing health of his wife, increased then still
more. Finally, he got in arrears with the agent of Mr. Moneylove,
his landlord. At this time, an apparently rapid decline had become
developed in the system of his wife, and on the night on which he
had appealed to this person's feelings of humanity, as mentioned in
the opening of the story, he found her, on his return, extremely
ill. A high fever had set in, and she was suffering. much from
difficult respiration. The physician must, of course, be called in,
even though but the day before he had put off his collector for the
tenth time. Sad, from many causes, he turned again from the door of
his dwelling, and sought the physician.
He rang the bell, and waited with a throbbing heart, for the
appearance of the man he earnestly desired, and yet dreaded to; see.
When he heard his step upon the stairs, his cheek began to burn, and
he even trembled as a criminal might be supposed to tremble in the
presence of his judge. For a moment he thought only of his unpaid
bill, in the next of his suffering wife. The physician entered.
Theodore hesitated, and spoke in a low, timid voice, as he requested
a call that night upon his wife.
"Is Mrs. Wilmer very ill?" inquired the physician, in a kind voice.
"I fear seriously so, sir."
"How long has she been sick?"
"It has been several weeks since she complained of a pain in her
side; and all that time she has been troubled with a hard cough. For
the last few days she has hardly been able to move about, and
to-night she is in a high fever, and finds great difficulty in
breathing."
"Then she must be attended to, at once. Why did you not call before,
Mr. Wilmer? Such delays, you know, are very dangerous."
"I do--I do--but"--Wilmer hesitated, and looked troubled and
confused.
"But what, Mr. Wilmer?" urged the physician in the kindest manner.
"I--I--I have not been able to pay your last bill, much as I have
desired it. My salary is small, and I find it very difficult to get
along."
"Still, my dear sir, health and life are of great value. And
besides, if you had called in a physician at the earliest stage of
Mrs. Wilmer's illness, you might have saved much expense, as well as
spared her much suffering. But cheer up, sir; bright sunshine always
succeeds the cloud and the storm. I shall be glad to have my bill
when it is convenient, and not before. Don't let it cause you an
uneasy moment."
The kind manner of the physicians soothed his feelings, and the
prompt visit, and prompt relief given softened the stern anguish of
his troubled spirit. The bruised reed is never broken. When the
stricken heart is tried, it is never beyond the point of endurance.
In no instance had Wilmer drawn from his employers more than his
regular salary, no matter how pressing were his necessities. Beyond
the contract he had entertained no desire to go, but strove, in
everything, to keep down his expenses to his slender income. Now,
however, in view of the threat made by the collector of rents, after
having thought and thought about it until bewildered with a
distressing sense of his almost hopeless condition, he came to the
resolution to ask an advance of fifty dollars, to be kept back from
his regular wages, at the rate of five dollars a month. For some
hours he pondered this plan in his mind, and obtained much relief
from the imaginary execution of it, But when the moment came to ask
the favour, his heart sank within him, and his lips were sealed. In
alternate struggles like this, the morning of the first day passed,
after his interview with Mr. Money. love, and still he had not been
able to prefer his humble request. When he went home to dine, in
consequence of the continued perturbation of his mind for hours, he
was pale and nervous, with no inclination for food. To add to his
distress of mind, his oldest child, now a fine boy of four summers,
had been taken extremely ill since morning, and the anxiety
consequent upon it, had painfully excited the feeble system of his
wife. Another visit from the physician became necessary, and was
promptly made.
Frequently, in consequence of pressing calls at home, he had been
almost forced to remain longer away from his place of business at
dinner-time, than was customary for the clerks. On this day, two
hours had glided by when his hasty foot entered the store, on his
return from dinner. His fears of a distraint for rent were greatly
heightened in consequence of the increased illness of his family,
and as the only way to prevent it that had occurred to his mind, was
to obtain from his employers a loan of fifty dollars as just
mentioned, he had fully made up his mind to waive all feeling and at
once name his request. Two hours we have said had expired since he
went home to dine. On his entering the counting-room, the senior
partner of the house drew out his watch, and remarked, rather
angrily, that he could not permit such neglect of duty in a clerk,
and that unless he kept better hours, he must look for another
place.
It was some time before the confusion of his mind, consequent upon
this censure and threat, subsided sufficiently to allow him to feel
keenly the utter prostration of the last expectation for help, that
had arisen like an angel of hope, in what seemed the darkest hour of
his fate. And bitter indeed, were then his thoughts. Those who have
never felt it, cannot imagine the awful distress which the mind
feels, while contemplating the wants of those who are dearer than
all the world, without possessing the means of relieving them. At
times, there is a wild excitement, an imaginary consciousness of
power to do all things; too quickly, alas! succeeded by the chilling
certainty that honestly and honourably it _can do nothing_.
Slowly and painfully passed the hours until nightfall, and then
Wilmer again sought with hasty steps the nest that sheltered his
beloved ones. Alas! the spoiler had been there. True to his threat,
the agent of Mr. Moneylove had taken quick means to get his own. All
of his furniture had been seized, and not only seized, but nearly
everything, except a bed and a few chairs, removed in his absence.
"O, Constance, _what_ is the meaning of this?" was his agonized
question, to his weeping wife, who met him ill as she was at the
door, and hid her face in his bosom, like a dove seeking protection.
"I cannot tell, Theodore. Everything has been carried off under
distraint for rent, so they said, who came here. But you do not owe
any rent, do you? I am sure you never mentioned it."
"It is too true--too true," was his only answer. Carefully had
Wilmer concealed from his wife all his troubles. He could not think
of adding one pang more to the heart that had already suffered so
much on his account. Wisely he did not act in this, but few can
blame the weakness that shrunk from giving pain to a beloved object.
There are few who have not, sometime in life, found themselves in
situations of trial and distress, in which nothing was left them but
submission. In that very condition did this lonely family, strangers
in a strange place, find themselves on this night of strong trial.
They experienced a ray of comfort, and that was the apparent health
re-action in the system of their sick child. With this to cheer
them, they gathered their two little ones with them in their only
bed, and slept soundly through the night.
Their servant had left them the day before, and they were spared the
mortification of having such a witness of their humiliation. Mrs.
Wilmer found it somewhat difficult to prepare their food on the next
morning, as even her kitchen furniture had nearly all shared the
fate of the rest, and she found herself very feeble. Something like
three hundred dollars worth had been taken for a debt of forty or
fifty. The slender breakfast over, with the reprimand of the day
before painfully fresh in his mind, Wilmer hastened away to the
counting-room. He had only been a few moments at the desk, when the
partner who had spoken to him the day before, came up with the
morning's paper in his hand, and pointing to an advertisement of a
sale of furniture seized for rent due by Theodore Wilmer, asked him
if he was the person named. Wilmer looked at him for some moments,
vainly attempting to reply, his face exhibiting the most painful
emotions--finally, he laid his head upon the desk without a word,
and gave way to tears. It was a weakness, but he was not then
superior to it.
"How much do you owe for rent?"
"Forty dollars."
"Forty dollars! And is it for this sum alone that your furniture has
been taken?"
"That is all I owe for rent."
"Then why did you not let us know your condition? You should have
had more consideration for your family."
"Yesterday, sir," Wilmer replied, somewhat bitterly, "I came here
from dinner, after having been unavoidably detained with a sick
child, resolved to conquer my reluctance, and ask for the loan of
fifty dollars, to be deducted from my salary, at the rate of five
dollars a month. But your reproof for remissness deterred me. And
when I returned home, the work had been done. They have left us but
a bed, a few chairs, and a common table. Oh, sir, it seems as if it
would kill me!"
"But, my dear sir, when I complained, you owed it to yourself, and
you owed it to me, to explain. How could I know your peculiar
situation?"
"Have you ever felt, sir, that no one cared for you? As if even
Heaven had forgotten you? If not, then you cannot understand my
feelings. It may be wrong, but always meaning to act justly towards
every one, I feel so humbled by accusation, that I have no heart to
explain. It seems to me that others should know that I would not
wrong them."
"It certainly is wrong, Mr. Wilmer. Suppose you had simply mentioned
yesterday the illness of your child; I should at once have withdrawn
my censure, and probably have made some kind inquiry; you would then
have been more free to prefer your request, which would have been at
once granted. See what it would have saved your family."
"I see it all. Feeling always obscures the judgment."
"To one in your particular situation, a right knowledge of the truth
you have just uttered is all-important. No matter what may be your
condition, never suffer feeling to become so acute as to dim your
sober thoughts, and paralyze your right actions. But here are a
hundred dollars. Redeem your things, and get on your feet again.
Take them as an advance on your salary for the last year; and draw
six hundred instead of five, in future."
A grateful look told the joy of his heart, as he hastened away. In
one hour the furniture which the day before had been forcibly taken
away, was at his own door.
Relief from present embarrassment, and a fair prospect of a full
support for the future, gave Wilmer a lighter heart than he had
carried in his bosom for many months. The reaction made him for a
time happy. But, while our hearts are evil, we cannot be happy,
except for brief periods. The disease will indicate by pain its
deep-rooted presence.
The drooping form of his wife soon called his thoughts back to
misery. Health had wandered away, and the smiling truant strayed so
long, that hope of her return had almost forsaken them.
Nearly five years had passed since Constance turned away, almost
broken-hearted, from the door-stone of her father's house; and
during all that long, long time, she had received no token of
remembrance. She dared not suffer herself to think even for a moment
on the cruel fact. The sudden, involuntary remembrance of such a
change from the fondest affection to the most studied disregard,
would almost madden her.
As for Wilmer, the recollection of the past was as a thorn in his
pillow, too often driving sleep from a wearied frame, that needed
its health-restoring influence. And often, deep and bitter were his
self-reproaches. But for his fatal and half-insane abandonment of
himself to the vain hope of gaining a foothold by which he might
rapidly elevate his condition for the sake of Constance, he was now
conscious that, slowly, but surely, he would have risen, by the
power of an internal energy of character. And more deeply conscious
was he, that, but for the half-intoxicated condition in which he was
when he consented to go to a gaming-house, he never would have
abandoned himself to gaming and drinking as he did for two long
years of excited hopes, and dark, gloomy despondency. Two years,
that broke down his spirits, and exhausted the energies of his
physical system. Two years, from whose sad effects, neither mind nor
body was ever again able to recover.
But now let us turn from the cast-off, from the forsaken, to the
parents who had estranged themselves from their child.
A foreign arrival had brought letters from Mr. Jackson's agent in
Holland, containing information of a great fall in tobacco. Large
shipments had been made by several houses, and especially by that of
Mr. Jackson, in anticipation of high prices resulting from a
scarcity of the article in the German markets. But the shipments had
been too large, and a serious decline in price was the consequence.
Any interruption of trade, by which the expectation of profits
entertained for months is dashed to the ground in a moment, has,
usually, the effect to make the merchant unhappy for a brief period.
It takes some time for the energies of his mind, long directed in
one course, to gather themselves up again, and bend to some new
scheme of profit. The "tobacco speculation" of 18--, had been a
favourite scheme of Mr. Jackson's, and he had entered into it more
largely than any other American house. Its failure necessarily
involved him in a heavy loss.
As evening came quietly down, sobering into a browner mood the
feelings of Mr. Jackson, the merchant turned his steps slowly
towards his home. Naturally, the smiling image of his daughter came
up before his mind, and he quickened his pace instinctively. He
remembered how nearly he had lost even this darling treasure, and
chid himself for being troubled at the loss of a few thousand
dollars, when he was so rich in the love of a lovely child. He rang
the bell with a firmer hand, and stepped more lightly as he entered
the hall, in anticipation of the sweet smile of his heart's darling.
He felt a little disappointed at not finding her in the
sitting-room, but did not ask for her, in expectation of seeing her
enter each moment. So much was he engrossed with her image that he
almost forgot his business troubles. Gradually his mind, from the
over-excitement of the day, became a little fretted, as he listened
in vain for her light foot-fall at the door. When the bell rung for
tea, he started, and asked,--
"Where is Constance?"
"In her room, I suppose," replied Mrs. Jackson, indifferently. They
seated themselves at the tea-table, and waited for a few moments;
but Constance did not come.
"John, run up and call Constance; perhaps she did not hear the
bell."
John returned in a moment with the intelligence that his young
mistress was not there.
"Then, where is she?" asked both the parents at once.
"Don't know," replied John, mechanically.
"Call Sarah."
Sarah came.
"Where is Constance?"
"I don't know, ma'am."
"Did she go out this afternoon?"
"Yes, ma'am. She went out about two hours ago, ma'am."
"That's strange," said her mother. "She always tells me where she is
going."
Both parents left the tea-table, each with a heavy presentiment of
coming trouble about the heart. They went, as by one consent, to
Constance's chamber. The mother proceeded to look into her drawers,
and found to her grief and astonishment that they were nearly all
empty.
For some time, neither spoke a word. The truth had flashed upon the
mind of each at the same moment.
"It may not yet be too late," were the first words spoken, and by
the mother.
"_It is too late,_" was the brief, but meaning response.
From that time her name was not mentioned, and even her portrait was
taken down and thrown into the lumber-room. Her few letters, after
her hasty and imprudent marriage, were burned up without being
opened. So much for wounded family pride! But think not that her
image was really obliterated from their minds. No--no. It was there
an ever constant and living presence.--
Though neither of the parents spoke of, or alluded to her, yet they
could not drive away her spiritual presence.
Year after year glided away, and though the name of Constance had
never passed their lips, and they knew nothing of her destiny; yet
as year after year passed, her image, now a sad, tearful image, grew
more and more distinct before their eyes. In their dreams they often
saw her in suffering and nigh unto death, and when they would
stretch forth their hands to save her, she would be snatched out of
their sight. Still they mentioned not her name; and the world
thought the cold-hearted, unnatural parents had even forgotten their
child.
But what had they now to live for? To such as they, no happiness
resulted from doing good to others, for the love of self had
extinguished all love of the neighbour. The passion for
accumulating, it is true, still remained with the merchant; but
trade had become so broken up and diverted from its old channels,
that he realized small profits, and frequent losses. Finally, he
retired from business, and from the city.
After the marriage of Constance, Mrs. Jackson found herself of far
less consideration in company. Few in high life are altogether
heartless, and all are ready to censure any exhibition of family
pride, which is carried so far as to alienate the parent from the
child. This feeling the mother of Constance found to prevail
wherever she went, and she never attributed the coolness of
fashionable acquaintances, nor the gradual falling away of more
intimate friends, to any other than the right cause. How could she?
In her case the adage was true to the letter--"A guilty conscience
needs no accusation."
Nearly ten years had passed away since the parents became worse than
childless. They were living at their country residence near Harlaem,
enduring, but not enjoying life. They had wealth, and every comfort
and luxury that wealth could bring. But the slave who toiled in the
burning sun, and prepared his own coarse food at night in a dirty
hovel, was happier than they. Even unto this time had they not
spoken together of their child, since the day of her departure.
One night in August, a terrible storm swept over New York and its
neighbourhood. Flash after flash of keen lightning blazed across the
sky, and peal after peal of awful thunder rent the air. It came up
about midnight, and continued for more than an hour. Mr. and Mrs.
Jackson were roused from slumber by this terrible war of the
elements. Its noise had troubled their sleep ere it awoke them, and
their dreams were of their child. During its awful continuance,
while they felt themselves more intimately in the hands of the
All-Powerful, their many sins passed rapidly before them, but the
stain that darkened the whole of the last ten years, the one crime
of many years, which made their hearts sick within them with a
strange fear, was their conduct towards their child. But neither
spoke of it. Upon this subject, for several years, they had been
afraid of each other.
The storm passed away, but they could not sleep. Wearied nature
sought, but could find no repose. Each tossed and turned and wished
for the morning, and when the morning began to dawn they closed
their eyes, and almost wished the darkness had continued. A troubled
sleep fell upon the husband, and in it he murmured the name of his
child. The quick ear of the mother caught the word, and it thrilled
through every nerve. Tears stole down her cheeks, and her heart
swelled near to bursting with maternal instincts. The vision of his
child that passed before him had been no pleasant one, and with the
murmur of her name he awoke to consciousness. Lifting himself up, he
saw the tearful face of his wife. He could not mistake the cause.
Why should she weep but for her child? He looked at her for a
moment, when she pronounced the name of Constance, and hid her
tearful face on his breast.
The fountain was now unsealed, and the feelings of the parents
gushed out like the flow of pent-up waters. They talked of
Constance, and blamed themselves, and wept for their lost one. But
where was she? how could they find her?
The sun had scarcely risen, when Mr. Jackson set out to seek for his
child, while his wife remained at home in a state of agonizing
suspense. He knew not whether she were alive or dead; in New York or
elsewhere. The second day brought Mrs. Jackson a letter, it ran as
follows:--
"I have searched in vain for our Constance. But how could it be
otherwise? Who should know more about her than myself? I have asked
some of our old acquaintances if they ever heard of her since her
marriage. They shake their heads and look at me as though they
thought me demented. Laura Wykoff, you know, married some years ago.
I called upon her. She knew little or nothing; but said, she had
heard that her husband who had become dissipated had left her and
gone off to Baltimore. She thought it highly probable that she had
been dead some years. She treated me coldly enough. But I feel
nothing for myself. Poor, dear child! where can thy lot be cast?
Perhaps, how dreadful the thought! she may have dragged her
drooping, dying form past our dwelling, once her peaceful home, and
looked her last look upon the door shut to her for ever, while the
cold winds of winter chilled her heart in its last pulsations. Oh, I
fear we have murdered our poor child! Every meagre-looking,
shrinking female form I pass on the street, makes my heart throb.
'Perhaps that is Constance,' I will say, and hasten to read the
countenance of the forlorn one. But I turn away, and sigh; 'where,
where can she be?'
"Since writing this, I have seen a young man who knew her husband.
He says, that after the failure of a house in which Wilmer was
employed, he went to Baltimore and took Constance with him. He says,
he knows this to be so, because he was well acquainted with Wilmer,
and shook hands with him on the steamboat when he went away. I
hinted to him what I had heard about Wilmer's leaving her. He
repelled the insinuation with warmth, and said, that he, Wilmer,
would have died rather than cause Constance a painful feeling--that
she certainly did go with him, for when he parted with Wilmer,
Constance was leaning on his arm. He says, she looked pale and
troubled; and mentioned that they had with them a sweet little baby.
Oh, how my heart yearns after my child!
"I have since learned the name of the firm in Baltimore in whose
employment he was, shortly after he went there. To-morrow morning I
shall go to that city. You shall hear from me on my arrival."
Nearly a week passed before Mrs. Jackson received further
intelligence from her husband. I will not attempt to describe her
feelings during that long time. In suffering or joy we discover how
relative and artificial are all our ideas of time.