CHAPTER XVIII.
THE DRUNKARD.
Ernest entered upon his work in two or three weeks after his ordination. This was the first time he had seen his native town since he left it in 1861. Things had undergone a great change during the four years of war. The prosperity of the place was a thing of the past. Many wealthy families had been reduced to abject beggary. Old Mr. Vanclure had died in 1862, and his son-in-law had administered upon his estate. If Comston had been a man of moral habits, he could have saved a handsome property for his wife, but he was dissipated, and was passionately addicted to gambling. He had pursued a course during the war which had brought him into disgrace, having avoided conscription by hiding in the cane-brakes. When the war came to an end, he found himself in possession of only three thousand dollars. By judicious management of even this amount, he might have gained an honorable livelihood; but he soon lost it all at the gambling table. Finally, he became a sot.
Poor Clara had to resort to her needle for bread, and she gained only a precarious, scanty subsistence for herself and her unworthy husband, who sometimes spent her hard earnings for drink.
Affairs were in this condition when Ernest returned to his native town to take charge of the church. As soon as he had heard of Clara’s misfortunes, he called to see her. He met with a cold reception, for she had become hardened. But by kindness, he soon induced her to talk freely. Presently she said:
“I know you think I made a great blunder.”
“How?” asked Ernest timidly, suspecting what she was going to say.
“In my marriage,” she answered with decided emphasis. “You know that I rejected you. Are you not glad to see me humbled?”
“God forbid!” exclaimed Ernest energetically. “I sympathize with you. The good Lord knows I am sorry for you.”
“They tell me you are a preacher now?”
“It is true, I am glad to say.”
“O,” she exclaimed suddenly, “I wish Xerxes were a preacher—yes, anything than what he is. I reckon you’ve heard all about him.”
“I have heard some things,” replied Ernest.
“He has got to be a regular drunkard,” she said, “and I am tired of him. He treats me cruelly. I think he once loved me, and I could have lived happily with him, but he got to drinking, and that has proved his ruin. He is not the same man.”
“I am truly sorry for you,” replied Ernest. “But you are not without hope.”
“Where is there any hope for me?” she cried. “I never expect to be happy again.”
“You can be, if you will,” said Ernest solemnly, as he looked pityingly at the sad woman.
“How can I? I should like to know.”
“There is a happiness,” answered Ernest, “far superior to any this world affords.”
“Where is it?” she cried.
“In Christ Jesus.”
“Yes, I expected you to say that, or something like it. But how could I be a Christian, miserable and wretched as I am?”
“The Lord never turns away any who come to Him,” replied Ernest.
“But I’m not ready for that yet,” she said with candor. “I want to enjoy the world for a while. I think I deserve it. If I had not married, I might have been happy, but it is impossible now, with such a husband as mine.”
At this moment, Comston came from town, and staggered into the room. Clara blushed with shame and vexation, but recovering herself, looked at him without uttering a word.
“Why, how d’ye do, Edgefield,” he exclaimed in a boisterous tone, and with the drunkard’s slow stammering and stuttering. “It’s the first—first time—I’ve met ye—since you—you—er got back from the—er wars. How you make it—er now, ole feller, eh?”
“O, I am in good health,” said Ernest, dryly.
“Well, I’m—er truly glad to give you—er—er the right hand—er of—er welcome. Would you—er ’a known this ’er—er little ’oman—er of mine, at—er first sight, eh? She used ter—er—er be right down—er good lookin’—but—er the last year—er she’s—er begun—ter break—er little—yes—er you see, eh? Arn’t it so, Clarer, eh? You see—er the cruel war—er broke us up, like it did—er everybody else—er.”
“Yes,” said Ernest, more to relieve Clara of embarrassment than to keep up a conversation with a foolish inebriate, “the war proved disastrous to most of our people.”
“Indeed—er did it. I lost heavily—er—by it—myself—ruined—dead broke—er—brought down—er to—er abject pov—er—er—tee—er, as the—saying is—er. Cruel—thing—it was. I—er didn’t have—er—much to do—er—with it—you see—er,—eh? I was—er long-headed—I saw how the—er—thing—was agoin’, an’—er—I tried ter—save my scalp—eh? I told Clarer—there was’nt—any use—er—of my—goin’. She was a great—er—patriarch—you know—er-wanted—er ter eat Yankees—up—er. But—er I don’t—love that—er sort of—er flesh. It is—not—er—half as good—er—as fish. I went—a—fishin’—most of the time, and—er—we had a—jolly time—er—we did. It was—better—than shootin’ yer—feller—man in—er cold—blood. The Yankees—had—never done me—any harm,—an’ I could’nt make—up my mind ter—murder ’em—’thout provocation—you see, eh? But I hear—you’ve got to be—a preacher, eh?”
“Yes, sir,” answered Ernest in a manner which convinced Clara that the passing scene was painful to his feelings. She could easily perceive that he was enduring her maudlin husband for her sake.
“Well—er,” continued Comston, “it’s a—nice—er profession—, not—much—er money in it—though—eh? Like the ole Injun said—poor preach—poor pay—er. I don’t—er mean that for you—though—er. You—used ter be—er—a good law—yer, and—if—er you preach—as well as you—talk—I don’t see—why—er you shouldn’t succeed—er. I’m a-comin’ ’round to—er hear you preach—er—some Sunday—if you don’t object—eh?”
“I should be glad to have you as one of my audience,” replied Ernest.
“We’ll make two—er—of iz audience, won’t we, Clarer, eh?”
She made no reply, but endeavored to appear as though she had not heard him.
“Now, come, Clarer—don’t try to put on—airs—before the preacher—er. I ain’t jealous—a—bit—er. No, for I know—you prefer me—ter all the—er men on earth, don’t you—er, dear, eh? What—won’t you—speak to me? Never mind, Parson, when you go—er she’ll be pleasant enough. Some—times she gets—into one of her—er—contantnums before—er company—and there’s no doin’ anything with her—have ter let ’er alone till she—sobers up—er.”
“I must be going,” suddenly said Ernest, rising. “I have some other calls to make.”
“Thank you for your visit,” said Clara. “Call again if you can.”
“Yes—er—come again, Parson,—if I arn’t at home—Clarer will—er entertain you.”
Clara left the parlor, as Ernest did, and Comston fell asleep upon a sofa. When he awoke, he had partly emerged from his state of intoxication. Arising, and going into Clara’s room, he said:
“Had a nice time with the preacher, dear? I think, though, you might have treated me with a little more respect. You wouldn’t speak to me. What is the matter?”
“You have made a fool of yourself,” cried Clara, in anger and vexation. “I have told you I wanted you to keep away from me when you are drunk. You make a brute of yourself.”
“Why, I thought I was entertaining the minister very nicely. You wouldn’t talk to him, and it wouldn’t do for all of us to sit still like Quakers, would it?”
“You made a complete fool of yourself,” she said with face flashing with anger. “I am getting so I hate you—yes, I hate you.”
“Now don’t provoke me, dear. You know I can’t control my savage temper when I’m aroused. Don’t you remember how you provoked me the other day till I was about to strike you?”
“Yes, sir, I remember your brutality, and I tell you now I am not going to stand it much longer, either.”
“What will you do?” asked Comston.
“I am not going to live with a man who is such a coward as to strike a defenceless woman. Here you are bragging about it, as if you had performed some wonderful deed. If you ever attempt to strike me again, I will leave you—yes, I will apply for a divorce.”
“O, no, you wouldn’t do that, dear? Who would provide for you?”
“Who provides for me now? I should like to know. If I did not support myself, I should starve. You know that.”
“O, no, you wouldn’t starve, dear. You’ve never starved yet, have you? Do you ’spose Xerxes Comston would let you starve? Nobody can say that of my wife. But, come, Clara, let’s be friends. I haven’t drunk much to-day, and I’m going to quit the business entirely—you hear that?”
“Yes; I have heard it five hundred times. I have lost all confidence in you. I expect nothing but to see you go down to a drunkard’s grave.”
“You want me to die? O, ho! ho! that’s it, is it? Well I am not going to fill any drunkard’s grave. From now on, I’m going to be a better man. We’ll go to hear that preacher preach; it will do us both good—make Christians out of us, I hope. Won’t you go?”
“I do not think,” said Clara with a sneer, “that you will ever be sober enough to go.”
“Yes, I will, though. You see if I don’t.”
We have lengthened this domestic scene sufficiently to enable the reader to understand the relations between this unhappy husband and wife; and to prepare his mind for a better comprehension of events that are soon to be related.
The next evening Ernest met Comston on the street. Comston was sober, from the fact that he had no money to buy the fiery beverage for which he was now thirsting.
“Mr. Edgefield,” said Comston, who had a dim consciousness that he had used improper language on the previous evening, “I want to offer you an apology for my conduct yesterday. I hope you are not offended.”
“No apology is necessary,” replied Ernest. “I am sorry that you have formed such awful, ruinous habits.”
“You are not as sorry as I am,” said Comston, speaking with emphasis.
“Why do you not leave off your terrible habits, then?” said Ernest.
“I’ve tried again and again,” said Comston, bursting into tears, “but it seems,” he continued, half sobbing, “that I cannot. O, you have no idea what a consuming thirst torments me. I must have brandy, or I will die.”
“No, you would not die,” answered Ernest, “if you had the will to resist. But that, I doubt not, is gone. And now you can never quit so long as you rely on yourself.”
“On whom must I rely?” asked Comston.
“Christ,” said Ernest solemnly. “Nothing, I fear, will ever enable you to quit your evil ways, but the grace of God.”
“How am I to get the grace of God?”
“Only by faithful prayer.”
“Do you think I could quit in that way?”
“Yes,” answered Ernest.
“Well, I’d give worlds to be as I once was. I am ashamed of myself. But if I am left to myself, I never can reform. Will you help me?”
“Will you put yourself in my hands?” asked Ernest. “Will you do as I tell you? If you will, you can reform.”
“But I know what you’ll tell me,” cried Comston. “You’ll say, never touch another drop. I can’t quit suddenly. You make no allowance for my appetite.”
“Yes, I do,” replied Ernest. “I will give you a substitute for strong drink.”
“All right,” said Comston. “I will do it.”
“Very well,” said Ernest. “Now you must promise me to keep away from the saloons.”
“I’ll do it.”
“To prove your sincerity, turn around like a man, and go home.”
“When will you give me that substitute?” asked Comston, hesitating.
“Go home,” said Ernest, “and remain till I come with it.”
Comston, without another word, at once went home sober, to the surprise of his wife. He remained till his burning appetite destroyed his self-control. He could stand it no longer. Snatching up his hat he rushed off toward town. Drink he must have. As he was turning a corner, he stood face to face with Ernest.
“Do not go there, Comston,” he said. “Is this the way you obey me? You promised to put yourself in my hands.”
“But you said,” exclaimed Comston, “that you would give me a substitute, and you didn’t do it. I stayed as long as I could. Why didn’t you come, and help me, as you promised?”
“I desired to measure your will-power,” replied Ernest. “I wanted to test your manhood. I told you I would come. Why could you not believe me?”
“I was afraid you would put it off too long,” replied Comston. “I am dying.”
“Let us go back,” said Ernest.
“But where is the substitute?”
“I have it. Come on,” commanded Ernest.
“Let us hurry,” said Comston.
It was now dark, and they both hurried along to Comston’s residence. As soon as they had entered the drunkard’s bed-room, Ernest drew from his pocket a vial, and poured out some of the mixture into a glass of water, which Comston eagerly drank. Ernest gave him two more glasses, and then the inebriate seemed satisfied. In an hour Ernest left him in a profound sleep, which he knew would last till morning.
