University of Virginia Library

4. CHAPTER IV.
MRS. SILBY'S EXPERIENCE.

“Twenty years ago, Alice,” said Mrs. Silby,
“my position in life was in many respects
similar to yours at the present time. I was an
orphan, dependent upon relatives, or my own
exertions, for support. But I possessed a
spirit which no ill fortune could subdue, and a
disposition of the happiest kind. The future
then smiled upon my young heart, and all my
hopes and aspirations glowed with the natural
warmth of my ardent temperament.

“I was much more romantic in my ideas of
life than I think you are, my dear child. I had
resolved, if ever I married, to marry for love
alone; for, knowing nothing of the stern realities
of married life, I deemed that a wretched
existence in a hovel, with the man of my
choice, would be preferable to all the comforts
of affluence with a man who possessed only
my friendship or esteem — a very pretty idea,
Alice, but which cannot safely he applied to
real life.

“I had two suitors. One was the father of
Mr. Appleton Brance; the other was Mr. Silby.
Both, I believe, loved me, and both possessed
my respect and friendship. But there
was a vast difference in their characters, and in
their positions in life. Roger Brance was an
affable person, possessed of no very striking
talents, except those of the most practical
kind. He was a shrewd business man, but no
dreamer. Mr. Silby was the reverse. All his
aspirations were of the most visionary description.
While Mr. Brance was building substantial
houses, Mr. Silby was constructing
castles in the air. Mr. Silby possessed brilliant
talents, of which, however, he was unable to
make any practical use. His wit and fine
taste could not manufacture bread.

“I was fascinated with his pleasing manners,
and my glowing imagination told me that
he was the man to make me happy. He possessed
no property, but I cared nothing for
that; and when, one beautiful summer's evening,
as we walked together in a romantic spot,
he declared his love and offered me his hand, I
promised readily to be his. That day I had
rejected Mr. Brance.

“I was never so happy in my life as on the
day of my marriage. Mr. Silby was all tenderness
and devotion, and I looked forward to
married life as one blissful dream of love.
With a glowing future before us, we took up
our residence in Woodboro', where Mr. Silby
had already commenced the practice of the law.

“Mr. Silby's tastes and talents were as little
suited to his difficult profession as can well be
imagined. He lacked the ability to apply his
mind to it; and had he been more diligent, I
do not think he could ever have become a
successful lawyer. As it was, his profession
brought in the most meagre income, altogether
inadequate to our support. Before I had experienced
half a year of married life, I saw
poverty and humiliation staring us in the
face.

“Brought down a little from my dreams of
romance, I ventured at length to remind your
father of the necessity of applying himself more
industriously to his profession. He declared
that the Fates were against him, and that he
hoped, in the course of a few weeks, to be
able to improve our circumstances. For a
long time we lived on in hope; for it was the

great fault of Mr. Silby, that he relied more
upon to-morrow than to-morrow promised, and
always neglected to-day.

“Thus passed the first year of our marriage.
Already your father had become irritable, and I
less patient with his faults than I should have
been. Often unkind words passed between
us, and all the primitive charm of a perfect
love match had been dissipated.

“Your brother Edgar was born. For a time
our happiness was restored; your father became
more industrious than I had ever known
him to be, and our prospects seemed brightening.
In a few months, however, he fell back
into his old habits. He had no hope or care
for the present. He neglected his business; he
neglected his wife and child.

“During the first year of our marriage he
had frequently come home in a state of intoxication;
and I had learned the stunning truth,
that he was addicted to the use of ardent
spirits. It was in vain that I remonstrated
with him. On the event of Edgar's birth,
he solemnly promised reformation; but as his
old habits returned, the thirst for intoxicating
drinks became once more strong and imperative.

“Late one night, when your brother was
about six months old, I was sitting up, waiting
for Mr. Silby to return home. My helpless
child lay sleeping in the cradle, while I worked,
with weary hands and aching eyes, to drive
away starvation. Yes, Alice, it had come to
this. We lived in a respectable house, but,
while we still kept up appearances, we were
suffering bitter want. At midnight I heard
unsteady footsteps approach the door. I was
not hard hearted; but at that moment the
wretchedness of my lot and the helplessness
of my child imbittered my mind against its father.
`While I am at work for bread,' thought I,
`he is reeling intoxicated through the streets. It
is monstrous — it is unnatural.' He entered,
shamefully overpowered by rum. I felt a rising
of my injured heart within me, and I could
not avoid heaping reproaches upon him. He
was too much intoxicated to understand me;
he only laughed at my agony. Then, for the
first time, I felt that the spot in my desolate
heart which he had always filled was vacant.
I loved him no more.

“It is painful for me to dwell upon my unhappy
marriage; it must be painful for you to

hear how much I suffered, and to know the
cause. However, I wish you to appreciate
fully the consequences of a love match, and I
will go on.

“Night after night, for many weeks, similar
scenes occurred. My husband became a
wretched sot. Love had given place in my
bosom to wounded pride and bitter resentment.
At last, despairing of being able to support myself,
my child, and a drunken husband, I formed
a painful resolution. You may think it was
unnatural, unwomanly, — monstrous, perhaps,
— but consider what drove me to it! Think
of my blasted hopes, — the utter misery into
which he had plunged me, — the degradation
he was bringing not only on himself, but on
me, whom he had sworn to cherish, and on our
child, whose helplessness and innocence should
have awakened better feelings in his bosom.
I brooded over these wrongs, and determined
to act for myself.

“In one of Mr. Silby's sober moments, I
made him sit down by my side, and, smothering
all the rebellious demons that were struggling
in my hot and aching heart, talked to
him seriously and firmly.

“`Edgar,' said I, laying my hand on his arm
and fixing my eyes upon his face, `this must
go on no longer. I have suffered all I can.
For my own sake, and for the future of my
child, I must act. Now, listen to me calmly
while I speak calmly. Edgar, it is not right
that you should involve me and mine in the
ruin which you are determined to bring upon
yourself. I say it is not right, and I say that,
if I can avoid it, it shall not be! By hard
work, I believe I can support myself and child;
but I will not wear out my soul and body for
you. Now, mark what I say. You shall never
again rest under the same roof with me, if you
come home intoxicated. I will shut you out;
and if you enter forcibly, I will take my
departure.'

“With tears coursing down his cheeks, the
remorseful man begged me to forgive the past,
and promised solemnly to reform. If he did
not love me still, he respected me, and stood
in awe of the passions bitter wrong had
kindled in my breast. But such was the weak
and fickle nature of the man, that, before a
week had elapsed, he forgot his vows, and
broke his solemn oath. Midnight came without

him, and, as usual, I sat up, awaiting his
return. Carefully I bolted the door, and, with
a wounded but uncrushed spirit, quietly pursued
my almost incessant labors.

“At last I heard unsteady footsteps, which a
pang at my heart taught me were those of my
intoxicated husband. It was a wintry night,
and the storm beat against the window, and
with a perpetual dreary moan swept about our
dwelling. I then prayed God for strength to
keep my purpose, and when I heard him vainly
try to open the door, I clasped my hands upon
my bursting heart, and cursed my weakness.
I heard him struggle with the bolts, and call
upon me in a feeble tone to let him in; and all
the time I knew the bitter storm was beating
upon him, and the tempest was less merciful
than I. You cannot conceive of my agony,
my child. I hope you may never suffer the
hundredth part of what I suffered that night.”

Mrs. Silby's voice was choked with emotion,
and she paused to dry her eyes and recover
her self-possession. Alice had bowed her head
upon her fair hands, and her face was hidden.
At length Mrs. Silby resumed her story.

“Presently all was silent without, except the

wind and hail. My heart stopped beating to
listen. I heard a moan and a scratching at the
door. In an instant my awful resolution was
forgotten. Something told me that Edgar was
perishing in the storm, and that I was a murderess.
Half frantic with fear, I flew to the
door, and opened it. A human figure, covered
with snow and frozen rain, was stretched before
the threshold. It was Edgar, benumbed by
alcohol, and perishing with the cold. I lifted
him to his feet, and supported his unsteady
steps as he staggered into the room. Before
the fire I patiently rubbed his flesh, and when
in the warm room he became deathly sick, I
put him to bed, and sat by him all night.

“The miserable man seemed greatly affected
by the patience with which I attended him
during a term of illness which followed. He
seemed fully sensible of the grievous wrongs he
had done me, and of the wretchedness to which
his evil habits doomed us all. Again he was
resolute in his purpose to reform. As soon as
he recovered he became industrious, and we
enjoyed a little sunshine. It was at this period,
dear Alice, that you were born.

“Although I loved your father no longer, I

once more dreamed that we might be happy.
In your brother Edgar, who was the brightest
and prettiest of boys, I centred my affection,
and found a mother's consolation; and when
you came into the world, Heaven granted me a
new source of joy. But too soon that little
spot of bright sky in my married life was overcast.
Your father's passion for drink returned
with tenfold force, and he became more degraded
than ever.

“The poverty I suffered at this time was extreme.
Too proud to return to my friends, or
let them know of my distress, I struggled
against famine and death. From the neglect
and dissipated habits of Mr. Silby I had suffered
all I could. I resolved on a separation, and,
hiring humble apartments in the house of a
kind man, I one day, during Edgar's absence,
removed thither with my children and a few
articles of furniture, which my own labor had
purchased. There, on the following day, Edgar
came to see me. He was full of repentance
and vows of reformation. On his bended
knees he pleaded to be forgiven, and with tears
besought me to live with him again. But
reiterated wrongs and vows repeatedly broken

had hardened my heart against him, and I answered
only with reproaches. He then resorted
to command. I replied with scorn and defiance;
but when he swore that he would take
my children away from me, the wrath of an
injured woman and mother dictated the language
with which I answered the monstrous
threat. I turned him away as if he had been a
beggar, and closed my door in his face, with
the declaration that he must, before taking my
children, take their mother's life.

“Mr. Silby never attempted to carry his
threats into execution. He felt himself too
weak, and he understood the almost unnatural
strength his injuries had given me. Suddenly
he disappeared. Nobody in Woodboro' knew
what had become of the dissipated lawyer. In
the presence of my children I was partly consoled.
For you and your brother I labored
cheerfully, and with success.

“Five years elapsed. I lived with my children,
and devoted myself to them. I cared
nothing for society, and as long as my husband
lived to be my shame, I was resolved not to
mingle with the world. I had not heard of
Edgar since his disappearance, and I was

beginning to forget that there was such a
being.

“At the close of a mild day in autumn, when
the leaves of the trees had reached the perfect
state of their maturity and beauty, and gleamed
with various hues of crimson, green, and gold,
I was walking in the quiet little garden, which
you remember, Alice. The sun had gone down
in the hazy west, and the soft and mellow twilight
followed. The sober, dusky atmosphere
which was all around me filled my heart
with sadness. I remembered the past; and all
its blasted hopes, bitterness, and grief weighed
heavy upon my heart. With melancholy reflections
I remembered Edgar, and I saw him
in all the fascinating beauty which had won
my girlish heart. For the first time since his
absence, I wished he might return. If I did
not love him still, the memory of the love I
bore him once was warm and strong within me.

“In the midst of my reflections, I heard a
footstep and a sigh. Darkness had stolen
insensibly around me. Night had folded in
solemn silence her dusky wing, and when I
looked up, the outline of a dark human figure,
which stood near me, appeared dim and indistinct.
I started back.

“`Do not fear me!' said a well-known
voice — a voice choked with grief. `Don't fly
from me!'

“`Edgar!' said I, `is it you?'

“`It is your wretched Edgar! your miserable,
remorseful husband!' was the response.

“In a moment he was at my feet, his head
bowed to the dust. On his knees he sobbed
like a broken-hearted child, and prayed that I
would not spurn him from my feet. He wished
only to look at me again, he said; to look at
me, and go away and die. I raised him from
the ground, and, with a heart overflowing with
pity and forgiveness, led him into the house.
O how stealthily I conducted him into my
room, so that neither you nor your brother
might be shocked by the sight of your father.

“I left him alone in the darkness, and in
nervous haste went to procure a light. I expected
to behold a wretched object, but you
cannot conceive of the horror of my surprise
when I beheld my husband. O, may God
forgive me for the disgust and shame with
which I surveyed him! Sickness, dissipation,
and want had done their terrible work. He
was so changed that I should not have known
him by the sense of sight alone.

“My heart, which had expanded with sorrow,
remembered love, and tender regret, half
an hour before, contracted itself with painful
suddenness. The stern spirit which had sustained
me through the trials of a period of
years rose up mighty within my breast. For
the miserable being whom I had once passionately
loved I had now no feeling but pity.

“The wretched man was prepared for this.
He deserved and expected contempt. In the
pit of his degradation and shame, he found
nothing but despair and darkness — not a ray
of hope.

“I did not utter a reproach. I felt that he
was beneath the sphere of resentment. I regarded
him with a calm, collected, pitying eye.

“`You do right not to reproach me,' said he.
`I have been the worst enemy to myself. I do
not ask you to call me your husband, or own
me as such again. I will not degrade my children
by declaring myself their father. I only
make one request — let me look at them.'

“I only answered, —

“`Wait!'

“I left the room, and locked the door after
me. In a short time I returned.

“`You shall see them,' said I. `They will
soon be asleep.'

“In half an hour I led the way for the father
who wished to see his children. He had promised
silence, and I drew aside the curtains of
my bed, in which you, dear Alice, lay asleep.
O, you looked beautiful — so sweet, so innocent,
that even I could not look at you without
emotion. Your father clasped his feeble
hands, and gazed in silence. I turned away
my face, that I might not witness his agony.

“`Come,' said he, a moment after, touching
my arm; `let us go.'

“Then I looked at him. His palor, the
working of emotion in his features, the intensity
of the fire which glowed in his hollow eyes,
inspired me with awe. Shrinking away from
him, I led the way to Edgar's little bed. He
too was sleeping soundly, and the lamplight
which fell upon his fair face did not awake
him. Again I turned aside that I might not
see the agony of that wretched father's brow,
as he beheld the features of his son.

“Suddenly he sank back, and staggered towards
the door. I held his arm, or he would
have fallen, and led him away.

“`This is enough,' he said, as he pulled his
miserable hat over his brow. `I am now ready
and willing to die. You need not dread seeing
me again. I shall not trouble you.'

“I could not say a word, but showed him to
the door in silence. As he departed, I thought
to put my purse in his hand, but he cast it
angrily upon the ground.

“What became of the wretched man then I
know not. Nobody knew of his strange visit
except myself; and when he was gone, I was
unable to say whether he was among the living
or the dead.

“About three years from this time, you
came running into the house one day, declaring
that a beggar had caught you, and frightened
you by strange questions. You thought no
more of it; but I knew your father was he
whom you called a beggar. My suspicions
were confirmed, when two days after, as I
passed near an orchard, I caught a glimpse of
a careworn, haggard face, and eyes of agony,
which peered through the trees. I shuddered
and hurried past. I saw him but once again;
it was three years ago. You remember the
time when I received a mysterious letter, which

occasioned my departure from home. I hastened
to see him in his last illness. In a country
tavern he lay at the point of death. I saw
him but a few minutes, and having done every
thing in my power to make his last hours comfortable
as might be, and placed in the hand of a
respectable person sufficient money to defray all
his expenses, I departed, leaving him to his fate.
In a few days I received another letter, containing
the balance of money which had not
been expended, and the news of his death.
This is the story of your father's unhappy
career. I have dwelt at length upon it, for two
reasons — to satisfy the desire you have frequently
expressed to know more of your father,
and to give you my experience of married
life. Remember, my dear child, that mine
was a love match. Mark the train of evils
which have followed my foolish choice of a
husband. You know that it was the want of
a father to counsel and control which has banished
from our home your poor brother. Alas!
he was too much like his unhappy father. He
could not brook the restraint of a mother's prudence.
He has gone we know not whither.
Poor boy! he was the unhappy fruit of a most
unhappy union.

“After your father's death, you know I
resolved once more to mingle with the world.
Already you had visited your kind relations
here, who have assisted us so much; and when
they pressed us to take up our abode with them,
and you warmly seconded their proposals, I
consented, and hither we came. Now, a promising
future lies before us, which we must not
darken by any act of folly. I shall soon be the
wife of Mr. Brance, whom formerly I so rashly
rejected; and are you not now, my dear child,
prepared to choose between a love match and a
marriage of reason?”

To the cold words of her mother, whose feelings
had been imbittered and mind perverted
by her unusual experience of married life, her
daughter made no reply.

Alice was weeping over the sad career and
wretched end of a father whom she had always
been taught to pity and despise.