MORNING found little Ella, though much exhausted by the severe struggle
through which she had passed, so far restored that her parents ceased
to feel that anxiety with which for hours, as they hung over her, their
hearts had been painfully oppressed.
It could not but be that a shadow would rest on the gentle face of Mrs.
Wilkinson, as she met her husband at the breakfast table; for it was
impossible to obliterate the memory of such a night of trial and alarm
as the one through which she had just passed. And yet, with a strong
effort, she strove to appear cheerful, and when she spoke to her
husband, it was with a forced smile and a tone of tenderness that
touched and subdued his feelings; for he well understood that, in a
certain sense, she was merely acting.
But few words passed between them during the brief morning meal. As the
hour was later than usual, Wilkinson found it necessary to hurry off to
his place of business; so, rising before his wife left the table, he
kissed her pale lips, and, without venturing to make a remark, left the
room.
The door had scarcely closed upon him, ere a tear stole out from the
sad eyes of Mrs. Wilkinson. A few moments she sat in statue-like
stillness, then there was a quick glancing of her eye upwards, while
the motion of her lips showed that she asked strength for herself, or
protection for one whom she loved better than herself.
It was a regular custom with Wilkinson to stop at a drinking-house on
his way to his store, and get a glass of brandy. This was an afternoon
as well as a morning custom, which had been continued so long that it
was now a habit. Yet he was not aware of this fact, and, if he had
thought about the custom, would have regarded it as one easily
abandoned. He had a glimpse of his error on the present occasion.
To do a thing by habit is to do it without reflection; and herein lies
the dangerous power of habit; for, when we act from confirmed habit, it
is without thought as to the good or evil to result from our action.
Thus had Wilkinson been acting for months as regards his regular glass
of brandy in the morning and afternoon, while passing from his dwelling
to his store. Not until now was he in the least conscious that habit
was gaining an undue power over him.
As the eyes of Wilkinson rested upon the form of a certain elegant
coloured glass lamp standing in front of a well-known drinking-house,
he was conscious of a desire for his accustomed draught of brandy and
water; but, at the same instant, there came a remembrance of the
painful occurrences of the evening previous, and he said to
himself--"One such lesson ought to make me hate brandy, and every thing
else that can rob me of a true regard for the happiness of Mary."
Yet, even as he said this, habit, disturbed in the stronghold of its
power, aroused itself, and furnished him with an argument that
instantly broke down his forming resolution. This argument was his loss
of rest, the consequent debility arising therefrom, and the actual need
of his system for something stimulating, in order to enable him to
enter properly upon the business of the day.
So habit triumphed. Wilkinson, without even pausing at the door,
entered the drinking-house and obtained his accustomed glass of brandy.
"I feel a hundred per cent. better," said he, as he emerged from the
bar-room and took his way to his store. "That was just what my system
wanted."
Yet, if he felt, for a little while, better as regarded his bodily
sensations, the act did not leave him more comfortable in mind. His
instinctive consciousness of having done wrong in yielding to the
desire for brandy, troubled him.
"I shall have to break up this habit entirely," he remarked to himself
during the morning, as his thought returned, again and again, to the
subject. "I don't believe I'm in any particular danger; but, then, it
troubles Mary; and I can't bear to see her troubled."
While he thus communed with himself, his friend Ellis dropped in.
"I meant to have called earlier," said Ellis, "to ask about your sick
child, but was prevented by a customer. She is better, I hope?"
"Oh, yes, much better, thank you."
"What was the matter?" inquired Ellis.
"She is teething, and was thrown into convulsions."
"Ah! yes. Well, I never was so startled in my life as by the appearance
of Mrs. Wilkinson. And the child is better?"
"When I came away this morning, I left her sleeping calmly and sweetly;
and, what is more, the points of two teeth had made their way through
the red and swollen gums."
"All right, then. But how is Mary?"
"Not very well, of course. How could she be, after such a night of
anxiety and alarm? The fact is, Harry, I was to blame for having left
her alone during the evening, knowing, as I did, that Ella was not very
well."
Ellis shrugged his shoulders, as he replied--"Not much excuse for you,
I must admit. I only wish the attraction at my home was as strong as it
is at yours: Parker's would not see me often. As for you, my old
friend, if I speak what I think, I must say that your inclination to go
out in the evening needs correcting. I spend most of my evenings from
home, because home is made unpleasant; you leave your wife, because a
love of conviviality and gay company entices you away. Such company I
know to be dangerous, and especially so for you. There now, as a
friend, I have talked out plainly. What do you think of it? Ain't I
right?"
"I don't know," replied Wilkinson, musingly. "Perhaps you are. I have
thought as much, sometimes, myself."
"I know I'm right," said Ellis, positively. "So take a friend's advice,
and never go out after sundown, except in company with your wife."
There was a change from gravity to mock seriousness in the voice of
Ellis as he closed this sentence. Wilkinson compressed his lips and
shook his head.
"Can't always be tied to my wife's apron-string. Oh, no! haven't come
to that."
"With such a wife, and your temperament, it is the best place for you,"
said Ellis, laughing.
"May be it is; but, for all that, I like good company too well to spend
all my time with her."
"Isn't she good company?"
"Oh, yes; but, then, variety is the very spice of life, you know."
"True enough. Well, we'll not quarrel about the matter. Come! let's go
and take a drink; I'm as dry as a fish."
"I don't care if I do," was the instinctive reply of Wilkinson, who
took up his hat as he spoke.
The two men left the store, and were, a little while after, taking a
lunch at a public house, and chatting over their brandy and water.
At the usual dinner hour, Wilkinson returned home. He did not fully
understand the expression of his wife's face, as she looked at him on
his entrance: it was a look of anxious inquiry. She sat with Ella upon
her lap: the child was sleeping.
"How is our little pet?" he asked, as he bent over, first kissing his
wife, and then touching his lips lightly to the babe's forehead.
"She's been in a heavy sleep for most of the time since morning,"
replied Mrs. Wilkinson, turning her face aside, so that her husband
could not see its changed expression.
Mr. Wilkinson's habitual use of brandy had long been a source of
trouble to his wife. In reviewing the painful incidents of the previous
evening, a hope had sprung up in her heart that the effect would be to
awaken his mind to a sense of his danger, cause him to reflect, and
lead to a change of habit. Alas! how like a fairy frost-work fabric
melted this hope away, as the strong breath of her husband fell upon
her face. She turned away and sighed--sighed in her spirit, but not
audibly; for, even in her pain and disappointment, active love prompted
to concealment, lest the shadow that came over her should repel the one
she so earnestly sought to win from his path of danger.
Ah, who can tell the effort it cost that true-hearted wife to call up
the smile with which, scarcely a moment afterwards, she looked into her
husband's face!
"It is no worse, if no better," was her sustaining thought; and she
leaned upon it, fragile reed as it was.