Chapter 27
"It is dreadful! dreadful! O, that I had died, before I became an accursed instrument of evil to those I love. But what can I do, Mr.
Gray, to atone, in some degree, for the misery I have wrought?"
"You can do much, John, if you will."
"If I will, Mr. Gray?"
"Yes, John, if you will."
"There is nothing that I am not ready to do, Mr. Gray--even the cutting off of my right hand, could it be of any avail."
"You swore off, as I believe you called it, for six months, did you not?"
"Yes."
"Had you any desire to drink, during that time?"
"None."
"Sign a pledge of perpetual total-abstinence, and you are safe from all future temptations. Time will doubtless heal the present painful wounds."
"And make a slave of myself, Mr. Gray. Surely I ought to have power enough over myself to abstain from all intoxicating drinks, without binding myself down by a written contract."
"That is true; but, unfortunately, you have not that control over yourself. Your only safety, then, lies in the pledge. Take that, and you throw between yourself and danger an insurmountable barrier. You talk about freedom; and yet are a slave to the most debasing appet.i.te. Get free from the influence of that eager, insatiable desire, and you are free, indeed. The perpetual total-abstinence pledge will be your declaration of independence. When that is taken, you. will be free, indeed. And until it is taken, rest a.s.sured, that none of your friends will again have confidence in you. For their sakes,--for your sister's sake, that peace may once more be restored to her troubled heart--for the sake of her, from whose lip you dashed the cup of joy, sign the pledge."
"I will sign it, Mr. Gray. But name not her whom I have so deeply wronged. I can never see Helen Weston again."
"Time heals many a wound, and closes many a breach my young friend."
"It can never heal that wound, nor close that breach," was the sad response. "But give me a pen and ink, and some paper; and let me write a pledge. I believe it is necessary for me to sign one."
The materials for writing were brought as desired, and Barclay wrote and subscribed a pledge of perpetual abstinence from all that could intoxicate.
"That danger is past," he said, with a lighter tone, as he arose from the table at which he had been writing. "I can never pa.s.s another such a week as that which has just elapsed."
"Now come down and take a good warm breakfast with me," Mr. Gray said, in a cheerful voice.
"Excuse me if you please," Barclay replied. "I cannot meet your family this morning, after what has occurred. Besides, I must see my sister as quickly as possible, and relieve, as far as lies in my power, her suffering heart."
"Go then, John
It was still early when Mr. Barclay entered his own home. He found Alice sitting in the parlour so pale, haggard, and wretched, that her features hardly seemed like those of his own sister. She looked up into his face as he came in with a sad, doubting expression, while her lips trembled. One glance, however, told her heart that a change had taken place, and she sprang quickly towards him.
"Alice, my own dear sister!" he said, as her head sank upon his breast. "The struggle is over. I am free once more, and free for ever. I have just signed a pledge of total-abstinence from all that can intoxicate--a pledge that will remain perpetually in force."
"And may our Father in Heaven help you to keep it, John," the maiden murmured, in a low, fervent tone.
"I will die before it shall be violated," was the stern response.
One year from that time, another bridal party a.s.sembled at the residence of Mr. Weston. Helen long since recovered from the shock she had received, had again consented to be led to the altar, by John Barclay, whose life had been, since he signed the pledge, of the most unexceptionable character. Indeed, almost his only fault in former times had been a fondness for drinking, and gay company. Not much of boisterous mirth characterized the bridal party, for none felt like giving way to an exuberance of feeling,--but there was, notwithstanding few could draw a veil entirely over the past, a rational conviction that true and permanent happiness must, and would crown that marriage union. And thus far, it has followed it, and must continue to follow it, for John Barclay is a man of high-toned principle, and would as soon think of committing a highway robbery, as violating his pledge.
THE FAILING HOPE.
"SHALL I read to you, ma?" said Emma Martin, a little girl, eleven years of age, coming up to the side of her mother, who sat in a musing att.i.tude by the centre-table, upon which the servant had just placed a light.
Mrs. Martin did not seem to hear the voice of her child; for she moved not, nor was there any change in the fixed, dreamy expression of her face.
"Ma," repeated the child, after waiting for a few moments, laying, at the same time, her head gently upon her mother's shoulder.
"What, dear?" Mrs. Martin asked, in a tender voice, rousing herself up.
"Shall I read to you, ma?" repeated the child.
"No--yes, dear, you may read for me"--the mother said, and her tones were low, with something mournful in their expression.
"What shall I read, ma?"
"Get the Bible, dear, and read to me from that good book," replied Mrs. Martin.
"I love to read in the Bible," Emma said, as she brought to the centre-table that sacred volume, and commenced turning over its pages. She then read chapter after chapter, while the mother listened in deep attention, often lifting her heart upwards, and breathing a silent prayer. At last Emma grew tired with reading, and closed the book.
"It is time for you to go to bed, dear," Mrs. Martin observed, as the little girl showed signs of weariness.
"Kiss me, ma," the child said, lifting her innocent face to that of her mother, and receiving the token of love she asked. Then, breathing her gentle,
"Good-night!" the affectionate girl glided off, and retired to her chamber.
"Dear child!" Mrs. Martin murmured, as Emma left the room. "My heart trembles when I think of you, and look into the dark and doubtful future!"
She then leaned her head upon her hand, and sat in deep, and evidently painful abstraction of mind. Thus she remained for a long time, until aroused by the clock which struck the hour of ten.
With a deep sigh she arose, and commenced pacing the room backwards and forwards, pausing every now and then to listen to the sound of approaching footsteps, and moving on again as the sound went by.
Thus she continued to walk until nigh eleven o'clock, when some one drew near, paused at the street door, and then opening it, came along the pa.s.sage with a firm and steady step.
Mrs. Martin stopped, trembling in spite of herself, before the parlour door, which a moment after was swung open. One glance at the face of the individual who entered, convinced her that her solicitude had been unnecessary.
"Oh, James!" she said, the tears gus.h.i.+ng from her eyes, in spite of a strong effort to compose herself,--"I am so glad that you have come!"
"Why are you so agitated, Emma?" her husband said, in some surprise, looking inquiringly into Mrs. Martin's face.