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.