My Mother's Only Son.
The rain is falling heavily, to-night. It has a dull, desolate, lonely sound, as if it were bent upon reminding me of another night more desolate, dull, and lonely even than the present. What right have I, who have so much happiness about me now, to be searching the dark annals of past sorrow, or to unearth a hidden misery, that will come like a blighting shadow between me and all the pleasures that might be mine? Yet that rainy, dismal night does come back to me with a force and terror I would rather not remember.
I would rather not remember it, because my son, just budding into manhood, has left me to-night, for the first time, and gone to take his place in an old firm in a neighboring city. The world and its allurements are temptingly laid out before him. He is a noble, handsome boy, so bright and promising. They tell me he will always have friends, plenty of friends; that he has all the elements of popularity, and is destined to become a general favorite. Dangerous attractions these; they have made wiser heads than yours, my darling, very giddy and very light; hearts, too, have been brought to mourning, while the admiring friends of yesterday could cast only a look of pity on their lost friends as they passed by.
My own brother was all this; gifted in an eminent degree with energy and manly courage to sustain him in any generous undertaking. We had everything to hope from him; he had everything to hope from himself. With prospects fair and bright, an old banker, a friend of my father's, gave him an eligible situation. It was an office of trust; he was proud of the confidence placed in him, and left home with the full resolve of filling it with honor to himself and credit to the good man who had placed him there. His letters were pleasant and joyous, full of the new pleasures he had never dreamed of in our quiet life at home. His graceful manners and natural gentleness soon established him as a favorite in society; his social pleasures were daily increasing, and his attention to business was both active and energetic.
My mother had a slight misgiving. It was only the shadow of a thought, she said—that Arthur, in the new pleasures that surrounded him, might become weaned from us or might learn to be happy without us. In her deep love for her gifted boy she had never thought such an event possible, and instantly reproached herself for the thought.
In going from home, my brother had left a great waste, an empty place behind him, and his letters were our only comfort.
What light and pleasure they brought to our quiet fireside, that would have been so dreary without them. There were only three of us, and while his letters were so fresh and vigorous, they almost kept up the delusion that we were not separated; but there came a change.
We may have been slow in discovering it, but we did discover it, and then to miss him as we missed him through the long winter nights seemed like losing a star that had led us, that we had followed, until it passed under a cloud and left us, still waiting, still watching, for it to come again. He paid us a flying visit now and then, and my mother, unconscious of the cause of his disquietude—for he was both anxious and disturbed—would redouble her exertions to bring back his waning love, making every allowance for the indifference, the coldness, and the neglect that were so glaringly apparent to other eyes, yet so delicately obscured from her motherly vision. Not that my brother made any effort to conceal his restless desire to leave us, or that his interests and pleasures were centred elsewhere. I was very young, yet old enough to see that there was a mercy in this, my mother's blindness.
Her beautiful boy seemed to carry the sunshine of her life with him; she thought him caressed and petted, the favorite of society, and the embodiment of all that was noble. He has seen so much of the luxury and elegance of life in the great city, how can we expect him to be contented with our home, where everything is so different? Thus she would reason with me, and thus, I sometimes thought, she would reluctantly reason with herself.
One day, a letter came to us from the banking-house, where my brother had gradually risen to an honored position. It was from the banker himself, our dear old friend; he told, in the tenderest manner, that Arthur had acquired habits which rendered him unfit for an office of trust. He deeply regretted the necessity of making this known to her; he ended by suggesting that the gentle influence of home might do much toward bringing him to a sense of his condition.
My mother read the letter, folded it carefully, reopened it, and read it again. She then handed it to me without speaking a word. When I had finished reading it, I looked at her; she was still immovable, helpless as a child in this her great despair. Her apathy was the more distressing to me as I was entirely alone. I dare not consult any one, dare not ask the advice of our kind neighbors. She had roused herself just enough to tell me it must be kept as secret as death. I was only sixteen, I had never acted for myself—there had been no occasion in our quiet life for a display of individual courage or independence. I had grown up under my mother's guidance, had never been five miles away from home, where every day was like all the yesterdays that had gone before it. And now this great journey lay before me. There was no one else to go; I must take it alone.
We were both ignorant of the nature of my brother's disgrace. Mr. Lester had made no mention of it further than to say that he could keep him no longer in the bank. I could only conjecture in my own mind what it might be. Of course I thought of dishonesty; what else could have driven him from a situation where he was so honored and trusted?
The railroad was some miles distant from our little village; despatch was necessary; I must meet the evening train. My brother was ill; I was going to him; this would quiet our neighbors and put an end to curious speculations. Surely I was not far from the truth—he must have been ill indeed when his proud head was brought down so low.
Again and again reassuring my mother that I would bring him back, telling her in all sincerity that I knew he would be able to clear himself in her eyes so that not a spot or blemish would be left on his fair name, (Heaven knows how easy this might be. Let him lay his head on her faithful breast, and twine an arm about her neck, and lovingly whisper, "Mother, I am innocent, all is right;" the world might sit in judgment and cry "Guilty," she would heed it not,) I became so preoccupied, so entirely absorbed with the object of my journey, that the journey itself had no novelty for me, though everything was new and startling. Now I was hurrying to the great city that I had so often thought and dreamed about. It was only in a confused way that I could settle it in my mind that I was really going there. That I was strange, and new, and unused to the busy scenes that lay before me seemed no part of my business. My brother—would he come home with me? He might be angry that I had come. Could I ask him to tell me the truth? No, I could not see him so humiliated; I would rather hear the story of his shame from other lips than his.
It was near midnight when I reached his lodgings.
"Is Arthur Graham at home?" I, trembling, asked of a kindly looking woman who opened the door.
"He is, miss, and sorely in need of some one to look after him."
Had it come to this? Was my brother an object of pity, even to her? I asked to see him, not wishing to prolong this painful interview. She desired me to enter, and we approached his room. I opened the door cautiously. The woman's manner was so mysterious, I trembled and began to be afraid; she had told me he was not sick. Of course I thought he was a prisoner and perhaps chained in his own room. The light was very dim, and, as I advanced, I stumbled and was near falling over—what?—over the prostrate form of my own brother, lost, degraded, fallen.
As I bent down to see why he did not speak to me, I discovered the truth. He, the pride and hope of our lives, had sunk into a drunkard. I uttered no cry; I was no longer terrified; I thought only of my mother.
I was all that was left her now, and, as I bent over him, wondered if that face was his, so changed, so sickening; neglect and ruin had already settled there. I tried to smooth the heavy hair, that lay in thick, dank masses about his reeking forehead. How old, how terribly old, he had grown in so short a time! I dare not cherish a feeling of loathing; he was my brother, and needed my love as he had never needed it before. For him—for in him I was protecting my mother—I must set aside all youth and girlhood. A woman was needed now, a woman calm, firm, and resolute. Of myself I was weak, but Heaven would help me. A conviction settled upon me, as I sat there, with my travelling wrappings still unremoved, that his case was hopeless. I could see a lonely, dishonored grave, far away from us in a strange land. I know not why this sight should rise before me, my brother was young, and others as debased as he had risen to a good and noble life. Thus I reasoned with myself, and yet that lonely mound of earth would come before me, and I felt powerless.
But I had no time for misery. I had come to protect and assist. My girlhood was passing away with the shadows of the night, for to-morrow's sun must find me a woman, prepared to meet the stern duties that were now mine.
The night was far advanced, and I was trying to gather up my newfound energies, when I felt a kindly hand removing my bonnet. It was the good woman who had met me at the door; she was waiting to show me my room and to offer me some refreshment.
"You can do no good here," she continued, as she assisted me to arise, "until morning."
She shook her head doubtfully as she whispered, "You are very young, yes, quite too young to undertake it even then. But if you are afraid he will give you the slip before you are up, (he often does that,) just lock the door."
She did so and put the key in her own pocket.
The little room assigned me was cleanly; it had an air of comfort about it greatly in contrast with the slovenly chamber I had just left. The gentle creature made nothing of undressing me, lamenting the while as if I had been a stricken child that had unexpectedly fallen into her motherly hands.
I had made no allusion to my brother as yet. I could not speak of him, and only ventured to ask the woman as she was leaving me how long he had been in this condition. "I might ask you the same question, miss, for surely it is not a day nor a month that has brought him to this."
To this! What a world of misery there was in that one simple word! It seemed to carry with it the low wailing of a lost soul.
We were to have paid my brother a visit soon, my mother and I. It was to have been a surprise, and I had gone so far as to arrange the dress I should wear, for I was anxious to appear at my best before Arthur's friends. And here I was spending my first night in New York. No kin of mine had bid me welcome. No brother had folded me in his loved embrace, and held me out to see how pretty I had grown, proudly kissing me again and again, and telling me how happy my coming had made him.
In my peaceful days I had thought of all this; and oh! how easily it might have been!
I arose early; but, early as it was, the woman had apprised Arthur of my arrival. I found him morose and sullen. He demanded my reasons for coming so abruptly upon him. He had not asked after my mother, nor given me one word of kindly greeting; and when, in a harsh tone, he asked why I thus intruded myself, my great reserve of womanly strength fled from me, and I cried long and bitterly.
He was naturally kind and gentle. He came to me, wiped the tears from my cheek, and told me he did not intend to be cruel. His hand trembled violently, as he laid it on my head, and his whole frame shook and quivered, though I could see he made a desperate effort to control himself. When he had recovered his composure, he seemed to know why I had come, and implored me not to say one word to him; he was miserable enough already.
"Come home with me, Arthur dear," I whispered. "You can soon change your life, and be your own self again."
I ventured to tell him that mother had been taken very ill, when, with a look, he begged me to say no more. He could not bear even an allusion to his condition, and I had no wish to harass him. What a slave he had become to the one ruling passion of his life!
Regardless of my presence, he drank again and again from a bottle near him. Once when I laid my hand upon the glass, he told me that he needed it to steady his nerves, and he would be all right soon. It was in vain that I urged him to accompany me home. He told me he had another situation in view, not anything like the one he had just left, but very good in its way. I could tell my mother this; it might comfort her.'Twas all the hope I had to carry home.
As years went by our sorrows were softened. We had become accustomed to Arthur's manner of life. At times he seemed changing for the better, and again he would go back to his old habits.
It was in early summer time, when everything on our little farm was at its best. The solitary womanly habits that had come so early upon me were still very strong with me. I was not yet old, only twenty-two; and on this lovely summer night I was planning our quiet future, when a carriage stopped before the door, and Arthur came in, leading, or rather carrying, a delicate young girl.
'Mother," said he, "this is my wife! Grace, this is my mother and sister."
"Your wife!" we repeated.
"Oh! yes," he replied. "We have been married nearly a year, and I hoped to better my circumstances before I should make the fact known to you." We saw that the poor child, for such she seemed, was sadly in want of woman's kindly care. So pale, so sorrow-stricken, so young, yet so bowed down and disappointed! I knew nothing of her story, but she was my brother's wife, and I gave her a sister's love. That night I watched by her bed; and, as the pale moonlight fell upon her rippling hair, I wondered what art, what witchery or power my brother had used to bring this delicate creature to be a sharer of his misery and shame. She waked with a sudden start, and called in a wild, frightened way for help. She was really ill, now, and before morning the doctor laid a feeble baby in my mother's arms.
My new-found sister and her wailing infant had all our tenderest care. We were glad that she had come to us that we might, in the love we gave her, make up in some degree for the sorry life the poor unfortunate child had taken upon herself. She staid with us; our home was hers. Arthur returned to New York.
Her history was soon told. She was an orphan, entirely dependent upon the bounty of an aunt who had daughters of her own to be settled in life. She met Arthur. The fascination of his manners and the interest he took in her friendless condition won her heart. The misfortune of his life was well known to her, but she trusted to her love, feeling sure that a life's devotion must redeem him. A dangerous experiment, this; too often tried, and too often found a hopeless failure. For her sake, he did try to be firm and strong, and manfully combated his besetting sin; but an hour of weakness came; old associates returned, and old habits with them. In a moment of hilarity and pleasure all his firmness gave way; his delicate young wife was forgotten, and she awakened all too soon to the knowledge that her husband's love for liquor was greater than his love for her. The dear, sweet girl and her pretty infant had lived with us nearly a year, when, one cold, drizzly night like this, Arthur came home. He had grown so reckless of late, that we were not surprised when he came reeling into our presence. He began by demanding a small amount of money which Grace had been husbanding with care. She made no reply to any of his angry threats, nor did she give him the money. Dead to all sense of manhood, he rose to strike her. Her infant was sleeping on her breast. She leaped to flee from him, but before we could save her, he struck her. She fell heavily; the sleeping babe was thrown against the iron fender. It uttered one feeble cry, and closed its eyes for ever.
The mother rose, and with a desperate effort snatched her dead child from my arms, pressed it to her breast, rocked it to and fro, and tried to give it nourishment. My mother and I spent that terrible night with a dead infant, a frenzied mother, and a father lost in hopeless despair. Every rustle in the trees, every sound in the air, brought the horror of death upon us, for each murmur seemed fraught with vengeance. Was my brother a murderer? His own tender infant had fallen dead at his feet. The act must pass without a name, for in our woe we had none to give it.
He sat there through the weary hours of the night, a haggard, desperate fear settling upon him. He dare not approach his wife; the sight of him increased her frenzy, and she prayed that she might never see his face again.
Misery had made my mother strong and she could help me. Calm, cool, and deliberate action was necessary now.
Arthur must leave us before morning. No one had known of his coming. The child's sudden death must be in some way accounted for, in what way I knew not. My mother whispered God would help us.
Arthur slunk away in his guilt and misery. He took no leave of us, but silently crept out in the darkness. There was darkness on every side, it was bearing down upon him with the weight of an avenging fury. I watched him, bowed and desolate, stealing away from us, away from all that was dear to him, from all that had loved him, and could not, even now, cast him off. I lingered until the last sound of his footsteps died away. I knew then as I know now, that we should never see him again. The rain fell upon him as he passed out. It fell upon me as I stood there, and I thought it was falling far away where I had seen a lonely grave.
I washed our martyred babe and dressed it for the burial. There was a mark upon its little neck that the solemn wrappings of the grave must cover. It might be bared before the judgment-seat to plead for an erring father.
My mother died soon after of a broken heart. She never recovered the shock of that terrible night. The curse that settled upon her poor, misguided son made him none the less her child; and she would try, with all the tenderness of her wounded spirit, to think of him as he was, innocent, true, and noble, when first he left her. When we learned that he had died on foreign shores, and was buried on a lonely island, she thanked God that he was no longer a homeless wanderer.
My sister Grace is with me still, loving and cherishing my young children, leading them and me to better life by the chastened beauty of her own Christian character.