The Lights and Shadows of Real Life

by T. S. Arthur

"It is too late," was the brief, but meaning response.

From that time her name was not mentioned, and even her portrait was taken down and thrown into the lumber-room. Her few letters, after her hasty and imprudent marriage, were burned up without being opened. So much for wounded family pride! But think not that her image was really obliterated from their minds. No—no. It was there an ever constant and living presence.—

Though neither of the parents spoke of, or alluded to her, yet they could not drive away her spiritual presence.

Year after year glided away, and though the name of Constance had never passed their lips, and they knew nothing of her destiny; yet as year after year passed, her image, now a sad, tearful image, grew more and more distinct before their eyes. In their dreams they often saw her in suffering and nigh unto death, and when they would stretch forth their hands to save her, she would be snatched out of their sight. Still they mentioned not her name; and the world thought the cold-hearted, unnatural parents had even forgotten their child.

But what had they now to live for? To such as they, no happiness resulted from doing good to others, for the love of self had extinguished all love of the neighbour. The passion for accumulating, it is true, still remained with the merchant; but trade had become so broken up and diverted from its old channels, that he realized small profits, and frequent losses. Finally, he retired from business, and from the city.

After the marriage of Constance, Mrs. Jackson found herself of far less consideration in company. Few in high life are altogether heartless, and all are ready to censure any exhibition of family pride, which is carried so far as to alienate the parent from the child. This feeling the mother of Constance found to prevail wherever she went, and she never attributed the coolness of fashionable acquaintances, nor the gradual falling away of more intimate friends, to any other than the right cause. How could she? In her case the adage was true to the letter—"A guilty conscience needs no accusation."

Nearly ten years had passed away since the parents became worse than childless. They were living at their country residence near Harlaem, enduring, but not enjoying life. They had wealth, and every comfort and luxury that wealth could bring. But the slave who toiled in the burning sun, and prepared his own coarse food at night in a dirty hovel, was happier than they. Even unto this time had they not spoken together of their child, since the day of her departure.

One night in August, a terrible storm swept over New York and its neighbourhood. Flash after flash of keen lightning blazed across the sky, and peal after peal of awful thunder rent the air. It came up about midnight, and continued for more than an hour. Mr. and Mrs. Jackson were roused from slumber by this terrible war of the elements. Its noise had troubled their sleep ere it awoke them, and their dreams were of their child. During its awful continuance, while they felt themselves more intimately in the hands of the All-Powerful, their many sins passed rapidly before them, but the stain that darkened the whole of the last ten years, the one crime of many years, which made their hearts sick within them with a strange fear, was their conduct towards their child. But neither spoke of it. Upon this subject, for several years, they had been afraid of each other.

The storm passed away, but they could not sleep. Wearied nature sought, but could find no repose. Each tossed and turned and wished for the morning, and when the morning began to dawn they closed their eyes, and almost wished the darkness had continued. A troubled sleep fell upon the husband, and in it he murmured the name of his child. The quick ear of the mother caught the word, and it thrilled through every nerve. Tears stole down her cheeks, and her heart swelled near to bursting with maternal instincts. The vision of his child that passed before him had been no pleasant one, and with the murmur of her name he awoke to consciousness. Lifting himself up, he saw the tearful face of his wife. He could not mistake the cause. Why should she weep but for her child? He looked at her for a moment, when she pronounced the name of Constance, and hid her tearful face on his breast.

The fountain was now unsealed, and the feelings of the parents gushed out like the flow of pent-up waters. They talked of Constance, and blamed themselves, and wept for their lost one. But where was she? how could they find her?