Books: The Lights and Shadows of Real Life

T >> T.S. Arthur >> The Lights and Shadows of Real Life

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The pressure of her warm hand upon his cold, damp forehead, mocked
her hopes. His motionless chest told of the vanity of her fond
anticipations of seeing his heart again quicken into living
activity. And yet, she could not give him up. She could not believe
that he was dead. As she still hung over him, it seemed to her that
there was a slight twitching of the muscles about the neck. How
suddenly did her heart bound and throb until its strong pulsations
pained her! Eagerly did she bend down upon him, watching for some
more palpable sign of returning animation. But nothing met either
her eye or her ear that strengthened the newly awakened hope.

After waiting, vainly, for some minutes, until the feeble hope she
had entertained began to fail, Anna stepped quickly to the
mantelpiece, and lifted from it a small looking-glass, with which
she returned to the bedside. Holding this close to the face of her
brother, she watched the surface with an eager anxiety that almost
caused the beating of her heart to cease. As a slight mist slowly
gathered upon the glass and obscured its surface, Anna cried out
with a voice that thrilled the bosoms of her mother and sister--

"He lives! he lives!" and gave way to a gush of tears.

This sudden exclamation, of course, brought Mrs. Graham and Mary to
the bedside, who instantly comprehended the experiment which Anna
had been making and understood the result. The mother, in turn, with
trembling hands, lifted the mirror, and held it close to the face of
her son. In a moment or two, its surface was obscured, plainly
indicating that respiration, though almost imperceptible, was still
going on,--that life still lingered in the feeble body before them.

Gradually, now, the flame that had well-nigh gone out, kindled up
again, but so slowly, that for many hours the mother and sisters
were in doubt whether it were really brightening or not. The fever
that had continued for several days, exhausting the energies of the
young man's system, had let go its hold, because scarcely enough
vital energy remained for it to subsist upon. In its subsidence,
life trembled on the verge of extinction. But there was yet
sufficient stamina for it to rally upon; and it did rally, and
gradually, but very slowly, gained strength.

In an earnest spirit of thankfulness for this restoration of Alfred,
did the mother and sisters look up to the Giver of all good, and
with tearful devotion pray that there might ensue a moral as well as
a physical restoration. For years, they had not felt towards him the
deep and yearning tenderness that now warmed their bosoms. They
longed to rescue him, not for their sakes, but for his own, from the
horrible pit and the miry clay into which he had fallen.

"O, if we could but save him, sister!" Anna said, as she sat
conversing with Mary, after all doubt of his recovery had been
removed. "If we could only do some. thing to restore our brother to
himself, how glad I should be!"

"I would do anything in my power," Mary replied, "and sacrifice
everything that it was right to sacrifice, if, by so doing, I could
help Alfred to conquer his besetting evils. I cannot tell you how I
feel about it. It seems as if it would break my heart to have him
return again into his old habits of life: and yet, what have we to
found a hope upon, that he will not so return?"

"I feel just as you do about it, Mary," her sister said. "The same
yearning desire to save him, and the same hopelessness as to the
means."

"There is one way, it seems to me, in which we might influence him."

"What is that, Mary?"

"Let us manifest towards him, fully, the real affection that we
feel; perhaps that may awaken a chord in this own bosom, and thus
lead him, for our sakes, to enter upon a new course of life."

"We can at least try, Mary. It can do no harm, and may result in
good."

With the end of his reformation in view, the two sisters, during his
convalescence, attended him with the most assiduous and affectionate
care. The moment Anna would come home from the store at night, she
would repair with a smiling countenance to his bedside, and although
usually so fatigued as to be compelled to rally her spirits with an
effort, she would seem so interested and cheerful and active to
minister in some way to his pleasure, that Alfred began to look
forward every day as the evening approached, with a lively interest,
for her return. This Mary observed, and it gave her hope.

Three weeks soon passed away, when Alfred was so far recovered as to
be able to walk out.

"Do not walk far, brother," Mary said, laying her hand gently upon
his arm, and looking him with affectionate earnestness in the face.
"You are very weak, and the fatigue might bring on a relapse."

"I shall only walk a little way, Mary," he replied, as he opened the
door and went out.

Neither the mother nor sister could utter the fear that each felt,
lest Alfred should meet with and fall in temptation before he
returned. This fear grew stronger and stronger, as the minutes began
to accumulate, and lengthen to an hour. A period of ten or fifteen
minutes was as long as they had any idea of his remaining away.
Where could he be? Had he been taken sick; or was he again yielding
to the seductions of a depraved and degrading appetite? The suspense
became agonizing to their hearts, as not only one, but two, and even
three hours passed, bringing the dim twilight, and yet he returned
not.

In the meantime, the young man, whose appearance the careful hand of
Mary and her sister had been rendered far superior to what it had
been for years past, went out from his mother's humble dwelling, and
took his way slowly down one of the streets, leading to the main
portion of the city, with many thoughts of a painful character
passing through his mind. The few weeks that he had been confined to
the house, and in constant association with his mother, and one or
both of his sisters, who were at home, had startled his mind into
reflection. He could not but contrast their constant and
affectionate devotion to him, with his own shameful and criminal
neglect of them. Conceal her real feelings as she would, it did not
escape his notice, that when Anna came home at night, she was so
much exhausted as to be hardly able to sit up; and as for Mary,
often when she dreamed not that he was observing her, had he noticed
her air of languor and exhaustion, and her half-stifled expression
of pain,--as she bent resolutely over her needle-work. Never before
had he felt so indignant towards Ellen's husband for his neglect and
abuse of her, his once favourite sister; and, indeed, the favourite
of the whole family.

It was, to his own mind, a mystery how he ever could have sunk so
low, and become so utterly regardless of his mother and sisters.

"Wretch! wretch! miserable wretch that I am!" he would, sometimes,
mentally exclaim, turning his face to the wall as he lay reviewing,
involuntarily, his past life. Uniformly it happened, that following
such a crisis in his feelings, would be some affectionate word or
kind attention from Mary or his mother, smiting upon his heart with
emotions of the keenest remorse.

It was under the influence of such feelings that he went out on the
afternoon just alluded to. Still, no settled plan of reformation had
been formed in his mind, for the discouraging question would
constantly arise while pondering gloomily over his condition and the
condition of the family.

"What can I do?" To this, he could find no satisfactory answer.
Three or four years of debasing drunkenness, had utterly separated
him from those who had it in their power to encourage and strengthen
his good desires,--and to put him in the way of providing for
himself and his family, by an industrious application to some kind
of business.

He had walked slowly on, in painful abstraction, for about five
minutes, when a hand was laid on his arm, and a familiar voice
said--

"Is this you, Graham! Where in the name of Pluto have you been, for
the last three weeks? Why, how blue you look about the gills! Havn't
been sick, I hope?"

"Indeed I have, Harry," Alfred replied, in a feeble voices. "It came
very near being all over with me."

"Indeed! Well, what was the matter?"

Raising his hat, and displaying a long and still angry-looking wound
on the side of his head, from which the hair had been carefully cut
away, he said--

"Do you see that?"

"I reckon I do."

"Well, that came very near doing the business for me."

"How did it happen?"

"I hardly know, myself. I was drunk, I suppose, and quarrelled with
some one, or insulted some one in the street--and this was the
consequence."

"Really, Graham, you have made a narrow escape."

"Havn't I? It kept me in bed for nearly three weeks, and now, I can
just totter about. This is the first time I have been outside of the
house since it happened."

"You certainly do look weak and feeble enough," replied his old
friend and crony, who added, in a moment after,

"But come! take a drink with me at the tavern across here. You stand
in need of something."

"No objection, and thank you," Alfred rejoined, at once moving over
towards a well-known, low tavern, quenching in imagination a morbid
thirst that seemed instantly created, by a draught of sweetened
liquor.

"What will you take?" asked his friend, as the two came up to the
counter.

"I'll take a mint sling," Alfred replied.

"Two mint slings," said his companion, giving his orders to the
bar-keeper.

"Hallo, Graham! Is this you?" exclaimed one or two loungers, coming
forward, and shaking him heartily by the hand. "We had just made up
our minds that you had joined the cold-water army."

"Indeed!" suddenly ejaculated Graham, an instant consciousness of
what he was, where he was, and what he was about to do, flashing
over his mind. "I wish to heaven your conclusion had been true!"

This sudden charge in his manner, and his earnestly, indeed solemnly
expressed wish, were received with a burst of laughter.

"Here Dan," said one, to the bar-keeper, "havn't you a pledge for
him to sign."

"O, yes! Bring a pledge! Bring a pledge! Has no one a pledge?"
rejoined another, in a tone of ridicule.

"Yes, here is one," said a man in a firm tone, entering the shop at
the moment. "Who wants to sign the pledge?"

"I do!" Graham said, in a calm voice.

"Then here it is," the stranger replied, drawing a sheet of paper
from his pocket, and unrolling it.

"Give me a pen Dan," Alfred said, turning to the barkeeper.

"Indeed, then, and I won't," retorted that individual, "I'm not
going to lend a stick to break my own head."

"O, never mind, young man, I can supply pen and ink," said the
stranger, drawing forth a pocket inkstand.

Alfred eagerly seized the pen that was offered to him, and instantly
subscribed the total abstinence pledge.

"Another fool caught!" sneered one.

"Ha! ha! ha! What a ridiculous farce!" chimed in another.

"He'll be rolling in the gutter before three days, feeling upwards
for the ground," added a third.

"Why, I don't believe he can see through a ladder now;" the first
speaker said, with his contemptuous sneer. "Look here, mister," to
the stranger who had appeared so opportunely. "This is all gammon!
He's been fooling you."

"Come along, my friend," was all the stranger said, drawing his arm
within that of the penitent young man, as he did so,--"this is no
place for you."

And the two walked slowly out, amid the laughter, sneers, and open
ridicule of the brutal company. Once again in the open air, Alfred
breathed more freely.

"O, sir," he said, grasping the hand of the individual who had
appeared so opportunely--"you have saved me from my last temptation,
into which I was led so naturally, that I had not an idea of danger.
If I had fallen then, as I fear I should have fallen but for you, I
must have gone down, rapidly, to irretrievable ruin. How can I
express to you the grateful emotions that I now feel?"

"Express them not to me, young man," the stranger said, in a solemn
voice; "but to him, who in his merciful providence, sent me just at
the right moment to meet your last extremity. Look up to him, and,
whenever tempted, let your conscious weakness repose in his
strength, and no evil power can prevail against you. Be true to the
resolution of this hour--_to your pledge_--to those who have claims
upon you, for such, I know there must be, and you shall yet fill
that position of usefulness in society, which no one else but you
can occupy. And now let me advise you to go home, and ponder well
this act, and your future course. No matter how dark all may now
seem, light will spring up. If you are anxious to walk in a right
path, and to minister to those who have claims upon you, the way
will be made plain. This encouragement I can give you with
confidence; for twelve months ago, _I_ trembled on the brink of
ruin, as _you_ have just been trembling. _I_ was once a slave to the
same wild infatuation that has held you in bondage. Hope, then, with
a vigorous hope, and that hope will be a guarantee for your future
elevation!"

And so saying, the stranger shook the hand of Alfred heartily, and,
turning, walked hastily away.

The young man had proceeded only a few paces when he observed his
old friend and companion, Charles Williams, driving along towards
him. No one had done so much towards corrupting his morals, and
enticing him away from virtue, as that individual. But he had
checked himself in his course of dissipation, long before, while
Alfred had sunk rapidly downward. Years had passed since any
intercourse had taken place between them, for their condition in
life had long been as different as their habits. Charles had entered
into business with his father, and was now active and enterprising,
increasing the income of the firm by his energy and industry.

His eye rested upon Graham, the moment he came near enough to
observe him. There was something familiar about his gait and manner,
that attracted the young man's attention. At first, he did not
distinguish, through the disguise that sickness and self-imposed
poverty had thrown over Alfred, his old companion. But, suddenly, as
he was about passing, he recognised him, and instantly reined up his
horse.

"It is only a few minutes since I was thinking about you, Alfred,"
he said. "How are you? But you do not look well. Have you been
sick?"

"I have been very ill, lately," Alfred Graham replied, in a mournful
tone; former thoughts and feelings rushing back upon him in
consequence of this unexpected interview, and quite subduing him.

"I am really sorry to hear it," the young man said, sympathizingly.
"What has been the matter?"

"A slow fever. This is the first time I have been out for weeks."

"A ride, then, will be of use to you. Get up, and let me drive you
out into the country. The pure air will benefit you, I am sure."

For a moment or two, Alfred stood irresolute. He could not believe
that he had heard aright.

"Come," urged Williams. "We have often ridden before, and let us
have one more ride, if we should never go out again together. I wish
to have some talk with you."

Thus urged, Alfred, with the assistance of Charles Williams, got up
into the light wagon, in which the latter was riding, and in a
moment after was dashing off with him behind a spirited horse.

It was on the morning of a day, nearly a week previous to this time,
that Mary Williams, or rather Mrs. Harwood,--for Anna and Mary
Graham's old friend had become a married woman--entered the store of
Mrs.--on Chestnut-street, for the purchase of some goods.

While one of the girls in attendance was waiting upon her, she
observed a young woman, neatly, but poorly clad, whom she had often
seen there before, come in, and go back to the far end of the store.
In a little while, Mrs.--joined her, and received from her a small
package, handing her some money in return, when the young woman
retired, and walked quickly away. This very operation Mrs. Harwood
had several times seen repeated before, and each time she had felt
much interested in the timid and retiring stranger, a glance at
whose face she had never been able to gain.

"Who is that young woman?" she asked of the individual in
attendance.

"She's a poor girl, that Mrs.--buys fine work from, out of mere
charity, she says."

"Do you know her name?"

"I have heard it, ma'am, but forget it."

"Have you any very fine French worked capes, Mrs.--," asked Mrs.
Harwood, as the individual she addressed came up to that part of the
counter where she was standing, still holding in her hand the small
package which had been received from the young woman. This Mrs.
Harwood noticed.

"O, yes, ma'am, some of the most beautiful in the city."

"Let me see them, if you please."

A box was brought, and its contents, consisting of a number of very
rich patterns of the article asked for, displayed.

"What is the price of this?" asked Mrs. Harwood, lifting one, the
pattern of which pleased her fancy.

"That is a little damaged," Mrs.--replied. "But here is one of the
same pattern," unrolling the small parcel she had still continued to
hold in her hand, "which has just been returned by a lady, to whom I
sent it for examination, this morning."

"It is the same pattern, but much more beautifully wrought," Mrs.
Harwood said, as she examined it carefully. "These are all French,
you say?"

"Of course, ma'am. None but French goods come of such exquisite
fineness."

"What do you ask for this?"

"It is worth fifteen dollars, ma'am. The pattern is a rich one, and
the work unusually fine."

"Fifteen dollars! That is a pretty high price, is it not, Mrs.--?"

"O, no, indeed, Mrs. Harwood! It cost me very nearly fourteen
dollars--and a dollar is a small profit to make on such articles."

After hesitating for a moment or two, Mrs. Harwood said--

"Well, I suppose I must give you that for it, as it pleases me."'

And she took out her purse, and paid the price that Mrs.--had
asked. She still stood musing by the side of the counter, when the
young woman who had awakened her interest a short time before,
re-entered, and came up to Mrs.--, who was near her.

"I have a favour to ask, Mrs.--," she overheard her say, in a half
tremulous, and evidently reluctant tone.

"Well, what is it?" Mrs.--coldly asked.

"I want six dollars more than I have got, for a very particular
purpose. Won't you advance me the price of three capes, and I will
bring you in one a week, until I have made it up."

"No, miss," was the prompt and decisive answer--"I never pay any one
for work not done. Pay beforehand, and never pay, are the two worst
kinds of pay!"

All this was distinctly heard by Mrs. Harwood, and her very heart
ached, as she saw the poor girl turn, with a disappointed air, away,
and walk slowly out of the store.

"That's just the way with these people," ejaculated Mrs.--, in
affected indignation, meant to mislead Mrs. Harwood, who, she
feared, had overheard what the young woman had said. "They're always
trying in some way or other, to get the advantage of you."

"How so?" asked Mrs. Harwood, wishing to learn all she could about
the stranger who had interested her feelings.

"Why, you see, I pay that girl a good price for doing a certain kind
of work for me, and the money is always ready for her, the moment
her work is done. But, not satisfied with that, she wanted me, just
now, to advance her the price of three weeks' work. If I had been
foolish enough to have done it, it would have been the last I ever
should have seen of either money, work, or seamstress."

"Perhaps not," Mrs. Harwood ventured to remark.

"You don't know these kind of people as well as I do, Mrs. Harwood.
I've been tricked too often in my time."

"Of course not," was the quiet reply. Then after a pause,

"What kind of sewing did she do for you, Mrs.--?"

"Nothing very particular; only a little fine work. I employ her,
more out of charity, than anything else."

"Do you know anything about her?"

"She's old Graham's daughter, I believe. I'm told he died in the
Alms-house, a few weeks ago."

"What old Graham?" Mrs. Harwood asked, in a quick voice.

"Why, old Graham, the rich merchant that was, a few years ago. Quite
a tumble-down their pride has had, I reckon! Why, I remember when
nothing in my store was good enough for them. But they are glad
enough now to work for me at any price I choose to pay them."

For a few moments, Mrs. Harwood was so shocked that she could not
reply. At length she asked--

"Which of the girls was it that I saw here, just now?"

"That was Mary."

"Do you know anything of Anna?"

"Yes. She stands in a store in Second-street."

"And Ellen?"

"Married to a drunken, worthless fellow, who abuses and half starves
her. But that's the way; pride must have a fall!"

"Where do they live?" pursued Mrs. Harwood.

"Indeed, and that's more than I know," Mrs.--replied, tossing her
head.

Unable to gain any further information, Mrs. Harwood left the store,
well convinced that the richly-wrought cape, for which she had paid
Mrs.--fifteen dollars, had been worked by the hands of Mary
Graham, for which she received but a mere pittance.

Poor Mary returned home disappointed and deeply troubled in mind.
She had about three dollars in money, besides the two which
Mrs.--had paid her. If the six she had asked for had only been
advanced, as she fondly hoped would be the case, the aggregate sum,
eleven dollars, added to three which Anna had saved, would have
enabled them to purchase a coat and hat for their brother, who would
be ready in a few days to go out. They were anxious to do, this,
under the hope, that by providing him with clothes of a more
respectable appearance than he had been used to wearing, he would be
led to think more of himself, seek better company, and thus be
further removed from danger. At her first interview with Mrs.--,
Mary's heart had failed her--and it was only after she had left the
store and walked some squares homeward, that she could rally herself
sufficiently to return and make her request. It was refused, as has
been seen.

"Did Mrs.--grant your request?" was almost the first question that
Anna asked of her sister that evening, when she returned from the
store.

"No, Anna, I was positively refused," Mary replied, the tears rising
and almost gushing over her cheeks.

"Then we will only have to do the best we can with what little we
have. We shall not be able to get him a new coat; but we can have
his old one done up, with a new collar and buttons,--I priced a pair
of pantaloons at one of the clothing-stores, in Market-street, as I
came up this evening, and the man said three dollars and a half.
They looked pretty well. There was a vest, too, for a dollar. I
heard one of the young men in the store say, two or three days ago,
that he had sold his old hat, which was a very good one, to the
hatter, from whom he had bought a new one--or rather, that the
hatter had taken the old one on account, valued at a dollar. I asked
him a question or two, and learned that many hatters do this, and
sell the old hats at the same that they have allowed for them. One
of these I will try to get,--even if a good deal worn; it will look
far better than the one he has at present."

"In that case, then," Mary said, brightening up, "we can still get
him fitted up respectably. O, how glad I shall be! Don't you think,
sister, that we have good reason to hope for him?"

"I try to think so, Mary. But my heart often trembles with fearful
apprehensions when I think of his going out among his old associates
again. It will be little less than a miracle if he should not fall."

"Don't give way to desponding thoughts, sister. Let us hope so
strongly for the best, that our very hope shall compass its own
fruition. He cannot, he must not, go back!"

Anna did not reply. Her own feelings were inclined to droop and
despond, but she did not wish to have her sister's droop and despond
likewise. One reason for her saddened feelings arose from the fact,
that she had a painful consciousness that she should not long be
able to retain her present situation. Her health was sinking so
rapidly, that it was only by the aid of strong resolutions, which
lifted her mind up and sustained her in spite of bodily weakness,
that she was at all enabled to get through with her duties. This she
was conscious could not last long.

On the next morning, when she attempted to rise from her bed, she
became so faint and sick that she was compelled to lie down again.
The feeling of alarm that instantly thrilled through her bosom, lest
she should no longer be able to minister to the wants of her mother,
and especially of her brother at this important crisis in his life,
acted as a stimulant to exhausted nature, and endowed her with a
degree of artificial strength that enabled her to make another and
more successful effort to resume her wearying toil.

But so weak did she feel, even after she had forced herself to take
a few mouthfuls of food at breakfast time, that she lingered for
nearly half an hour longer than her usual time of starting in order
to allow her system to get a little braced up, so that she could
stand the long walk she had to take.

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