The next morning, the bottles of porter were gone from the sideboard; but out in the orchard, where the grass of an early spring was just starting into life, they lay shattered in a hundred pieces. Would, oh, would that she, the wife of little more than a year, could thus easily have broken the habits of him she loved better than her life. But it could not be; and all through the bright spring days she drooped, and faded, and struggled hard to keep from me the fatal truth; and when the warm breath of summer was over all the land; when the robins’ song was heard in the maple trees; and the roses blossomed by the open door, they brought no gladness to her heart; no love-light to her eye, save when she looked upon her baby; now a playful, handsome child, the pet and idol of the house.
At last, Aunt Charlotte wrote to me, asking to be assured of her son’s safety; and then poor Anna begged me not to tell that the wine-cup was his companion at morn; his solace at noon, and his comfort at night. Yielding to her entreaties, I answered evasively; and thus the shock, when it came to that mother’s heart, was harder far to bear, from the perfect security she had felt. At Meadow Brook, too, they little dreamed how their absent daughter wept and prayed over her fallen husband, who, day after day, made rapid strides down the road to death; for, on her bended knees, Anna implored me to keep her shame a secret yet a little longer; and with this request I also complied, doing whatever I could to smooth the thorny pathway she was treading.
CHAPTER XVII.
THE DARK MAN.
The long summer days had merged into autumn, whose hazy breath floated like a misty veil over the distant hills. Slowly and noiselessly the leaves were dropping one by one from the maple trees, strewing the withered grass with a carpet of gorgeous hue. The birds had sung their farewell song to their summer nests, and were off for a warmer clime; while here and there busy hands and feet were seen gathering in the autumnal stores.
On Herbert’s farm, however, there was a look of decay. The yellow corn and golden pumpkins were yet in the field; the apples lay in heaps upon the ground; the gates swung loosely in the wind; while the horses, uncared for and unfed, neighed piteously in their stalls as if asking why they were thus neglected. Alas! their master was a drunkard. Anna was a drunkard’s wife; and mine a drunkard’s home! It was no longer a secret there, and the old men shook their heads, while the young men sighed to think how he had fallen. Night after night we sat up for him, my sister and I lifting him from the threshold across which he would fall, and bearing him to his bed, where we would lay him beside his innocent son, whose blue eyes often opened with wonder at being thus disturbed. A night’s debauch was always followed by a day of weakness and debility, in which he was incapable of exertion, and so everything seemed on the verge of ruin, when he suddenly conceived the idea of advertising for an efficient man, who would take the entire charge of affairs and relieve him from all care.
About this time I went back to Meadow Brook for a few weeks to be present at the bridal of my oldest sister. Anna, too, was urged to accompany me, but she declined, extorting from me a promise that if it were possible I would not divulge the real state of things. “Tell them I am happy and do not regret what I have done,” said she, as she followed me down to the gate.
“And would that be true?” I asked, looking her in the face.
For an instant she hesitated, while her pale cheeks flushed and the tears started to her eyes; then glancing at little Jamie, whom she held in her arms, she answered, “Yes, it would be true. I do not regret it. I had rather be Herbert’s wife as he is, than not to have been his wife at all.”
Ah, who can fathom the depths of woman’s love, and what punishment shall be sufficient for him who wantonly tramples upon it. Thus I thought as I turned away from my sister, pondering upon her words long after I reached the cars, and wondering if I should ever love as she did. Involuntarily the doctor rose up before me—a drunkard, and I his wife, and from my inmost soul I answered, “rather death than that!” Then, though I blushed as I did so, I fancied myself the wife of “the dark man,” and he a drunkard. “Yes, I could bear that,” I said, and as if to make the old adage true, that a certain individual is always near when we are talking about him, the car door opened and the subject of my meditations stood before me! There was no mistaking him. The same tall, manly form, the piercing eyes, the coal black hair and the same deep cut between the eyebrows. I knew him in a moment, and an exclamation of surprise escaped my lips, which, however, was lost by the rush of the cars. The seats were nearly all occupied, and as he passed down the aisle, my readers, I trust, will pardon me, if I did gather up the skirt of my dress and take my travelling bag upon my lap, while I myself sat nearer to the window, looking out in order to hide my face, which I thought possibly might not attract him!
“Is this seat occupied, miss?” said a heavy voice, which seemed to come from some far off region.