University of Virginia Library

WINE OCCASIONALLY.
EVELYN.

BY MRS. E. J. EAMES.

—Bible.

“Evelyn,” said Mr. Sargent to his orphan niece, on the
morning of her marriage-day; “Evelyn, I trust you will have
sufficient influence with Frank Rivers, to induce him to leave
those gay, wine-drinking associates of his. I hope his attendance
on convivial parties will now be less frequent; for, Evy,”
added the fond but cautious uncle, “had habits are sometimes
formed in this agreeable way.”

Young Evelyn Sargent thought of her lover's devoted attachment,
smiled incredulously, and said: “He only takes wine
occasionally, dear uncle; besides, it would be hard to fancy
Frank Rivers an inebriate, with all his good sense.”

“Be not too confident; I would not grieve your gentle nature,
Evelyn, yet it is well to be warned of danger. I trust,
indeed, that Rivers will always possess the same self-command
as now. It would be a fearful thing for you, my child, should
he, after all, turn a charmed ear to the voice of that Syren,
the end of whose song is destruction.”

A slight quiver came over the curved lips of the young girl
—there was a tremulous flutter of the white lids over the tender
eyes. Save this, she stood silent before her uncle, as pale
certainly, and as beautiful as the most exquisite statue.

Her uncle looked on her pityingly. “Forgive me, darling,”
he said, taking her hand. “If I probe the wound, God knows

I would heal it. O Evelyn! when your sainted mother placed
you, a little infant, in my arms, and bade me love you well—
when, with her dying breath, she charged me to watch over
your tender youth, and guard you from all evil—in that solemn
hour, Evelyn, I folded you closer to my aching bosom, and
vowed to fulfil the sacred trust reposed in me. It was no hard
task to perform a parent's duty towards you, Evelyn; you became
what your mother before you had been—the dearest object
of my heart (though she left me for my adopted brother),
and my care for you has been truly a `labor of love.' And
well have the gifts and graces of your youth rewarded my
care. You have brought joys to my lonely hearth, unknown
to it since my—my first and last great sorrow. You have
ever been as a most dutiful and affectionate daughter unto
me: but you are a woman now—you have chosen for yourself
another protector, and, O Evelyn! God grant he may
wear the priceless pearl of thy affections worthily, and be to
thy future all thou so fondly hopest. But should the time
ever arrive, that thou needest other help or guidance, remember
my house and heart are alike open to thee—and thou wilt
not say me nay. Promise me, Evelyn, that in such emergency
thou wilt come to me—thy second father.”

And Evelyn promised unhesitatingly—her future seemed so
bright. For the last time she flung herself into the arms that
opened to clasp her to a heart, which, on this eventful morning,
dared not examine itself too closely. Had Evelyn known
all that was struggling in the noble and generous soul of her
benefactor, Frank Rivers had been less lovingly received in
Philip Sargent's presence.

And Mr. Sargent gave away the bride—for Evelyn did become
the wife of Rivers. Her uncle marked the bridegroom's
smile of conscious triumph and exulting love deepen to a

solemn awe, as he uttered the trothplight that made him her
husband and protector. How trusting and entire was the
confidence with which she gave her hand to him, with whom
she had chosen to tread life's crowded paths! And there was
a deeper regret than the mere occasion required, in the sorrowful
and earnest tones of Philip Sargent's voice, as he consigned
his darling Evelyn to an untried guardianship. There
was a quiver on the lips that pronounced a fond and farewell
blessing on the young bride, now leaving the shelter of his
roof forever. Turning a last time to Rivers, he wrung his
hand and said: “I have committed a precious charge to your
keeping, Mr. Rivers. As you hope for God's blessing, obey
my solemn injunction—deal truly and tenderly by Evelyn;
and,” he added in a lower tone, “by yourself, too, deal faithfully!”

When the young, lovely, and confiding Evelyn said that
Frank Rivers possessed too much good sense ever to become
intemperate, she spoke but what she thought. In her heart
she could not believe that he, whose nature was so noble and
generous, who evinced so many correct feelings and principles—Frank
Rivers, gay, gallant, high-spirited, possessing, in
an eminent degree, all manly qualifications—how could she believe
that he, by any possible temptation, would ever yield to
the baneful influences of the arch-destroyer?

Beautiful Evelyn! how clearly now, through the dim mist
of years, does the perfect loveliness of that sweet face dawn
upon me! I can see her, as she was wont when beside her
husband, shake the golden ringlets back from her white forehead,
till they fell in bright clusters upon her shoulders. It
was pleasing to look upon Evelyn in those days of her hope
and happiness. The chords of her heart responded ever to the
touch of love, and sent forth tones of peculiar sweetness. Left

an orphan in early childhood, with none but her uncle to love,
her hitherto buried affections were now poured forth on one
object. Freely, fondly, and undoubtingly did she bestow her
heart on one who gratefully accepted and loyally vowed to
cherish it, till death should them part!

During the first year after their marriage, Mr. Rivers was
all devotion to his beautiful wife; and every attention that
love or duty could suggest was lavishly bestowed on her.
About this time they removed to a large and populous city.
Evelyn was mistress of a noble mansion, surrounded by all the
splendor and luxury that love could bestow or wealth command.
Basking in the sunshine of prosperity; caressed, admired,
and flattered, in the gay and brilliant circles she frequented,
the beautiful and accomplished Mrs. Rivers (as she
was called) swam along the stream of pleasure so gently, that
one might well deem no thorns grew in her pathway of roses

“Will you not pass this evening with me, dear Frank?”
asked Evelyn Rivers, as she saw her husband, after an absence
of three successive nights, again prepare to go out. “Come,”
she continued, playfully putting her slender arm within his
own—“come, Frank; you did not always think the evening
lost which you gave to me.” And she gazed upon him with
the earnestness of a woman's pleading. But there was sorrow,
as well as anxiety, in her look.

“You are a sweet beggar, Evelyn,” said Rivers, after looking
at her a moment; “but it won't do. I've pledged my
word to Tom Arundel—a gentleman's party you know—I will
be back before eleven;” and, as if anxious to be gone, he
hastily kissed her, and went his way.

Heavily did his departing footsteps reverberate on the heart
of his disappointed wife; and she thought time never moved

so tardily. A sort of misgiving, for the first time, crossed her
mind; not that it shaped itself into any thing tangible, but a
vague, undefined apprehension of some impending calamity.
Silently Evelyn Rivers knelt down, and imploringly she repeated
the intercession: “Lead him not into temptation; deliver
him from evil!”

It were too sad a thing to trace Frank Rivers along his erring
path of folly and dissipation: too sad a tale to tell, how
he gradually, and almost imperceptibly, estranged himself from
his gentle and trusting Evelyn; how, the more he neglected
her, the farther he strayed from virtue and honor; and how
the habit of drinking “wine occasionally” led him, at last, to
bow down his high spirit at the unholy shrine of intemperance!
It is a thrice-told tale; too familiar, alas! to many of
our readers.

For a long time, Evelyn parried the censures and harsh
judgments of the world, the secret regrets of friends, and open
attacks of foes. Clothed in its mantle of devotion, her heart
clung with increased tenacity to its object; and the image was
only shrined the deeper. In the trusting earnestness of her
heart, Evelyn had thrown all on the venture of his vow; and
thus it was that she yet sustained herself.

But the truth came at last! That which Evelyn Rivers
had deemed it even a sin to think on, now stood before her a
lamentable and sure reality—her husband was an irreclaimable
drunkard!

Painful rumors reached the ears of Philip Sargent, and he
hastened to learn the truth. He came alone and unannounced,
to find his worst fears realized. One glance at Mrs. Rivers
pale, dejected countenance, told the story of “wine occasionally,”
and its effects, more eloquently than words! Indeed,
few words were spoken. Mr. Sargent announced his determination

to take Evelyn home with him: the physician had
prescribed her native air and she consented to go. One who
knew her husband's accustomed haunts sought him out, with a
message that Mrs. Rivers wished to see him—him, round whom
her affections still lingered, though changed indeed from the
high-placed love and confiding trust of the wife, to the pitying
care of a friend for a misguided and lost companion.

He came at length, with a flushed face, a restless eye, and unsteady
step. Oh, might these but grow out of his intense anxiety
for her dying condition! No! she turns away from the bloated
visage, and the thick tongue, attempting to mutter words of inebriate
and disgusting fondness. Has that man ever been her
blessing and delight? * * * Every trace of emotion had
vanished from her face; and, when she again lifted her languid
head, she had schooled her heart to such perfect self-control,
that, to the careless eye now fixed upon her, she seemed not
to suffer. You will readily believe, dear reader, that no word
of censure, no tones save those of pity, for the author of all this
misery, passed her lips. No! but in this their last interview
on this side of eternity, she entreated him for his own sake to
pause in his downward career.

She said it was the last kindness she should ever require of
him;—that she could add nothing to what she had already and
frequently before said; and now she entreated him again, because
she could not forget the time when he was her good and
honored husband. She could but pray, as she had long done,
that a merciful God would have that pity on him which he
would not have upon himself.

A momentary remorse struggled with the dim perceptions
of the inebriate; and, reeling, he flung himself beside her
couch, and wept aloud! What further passed at their parting
hour we know not, save that the last words of counsel had

been spoken by the faithful wife,—her last admonition fallen
on the husband's dull ear, and she was gone! As the last
sound of the carriage-wheels, which conveyed Mrs. Rivers
from the home of her wedded life, died away, Frank Rivers
went forth to his wonted resort and spent the night, as usual,
in degrading the dignity of manhood below the brutes that
perish. Woe! that one so formed to excel, so gifted in every
thing, possessing an intellect so noble, so elevated—woe! that,
through the insidious advances of “wine occasionally,” he
should yield to the fascinations of vice and its deceitful allurements!

Evelyn died early! but not before the last ray of hope was
quenched in her soul, and a death-like withering had come
over her heart; not until the flower of conjugal feeling had
faded quite away, and the bruised vine of her affections had
no pillar whereon to lean! Yes! beneath the roof which she
had left three years before, in all the splendid éclat of a pros
perous bridal, Evelyn Rivers—still young and beautiful—lay
dying! Surely Philip Sargent had spoken with a prophetic
spirit, when he offered the fair bride his protection through all
her future life! Three short years! Then he had foreseen
the consequences of taking “wine occasionally.” Poor Evelyn
felt them later! And oh! how many burning tears and
blasted hopes would have been spared her! But the blow had
come from the hand of one for whom she was sacrificing life
itself; and she bore her terrible calamity with uncomplaining
sorrow to the end.

“I know,” said she to Mr. Sargent, the evening before her
death, “I know, dear Philip (she seldom called him uncle, as
she was an adopted niece), that I have been burdensome to
you; but God, in his infinite mercy, will soon relieve you, and
release me from this prison-house of clay. You were ever

most kind to your poor orphan girl, Philip, but truly so in this
heavy time of trial. My years, though few, have been evil,
my friend; and my days of darkness, have they not been many?
Oh, Philip! could I dream that a glass of `wine occasionally'
would work such woe to me? Dear uncle—” “Don't ever call
me uncle again,” interrupted Mr. Sargent, with an indescribable
expression in his large black eyes. “Oh, Evelyn!” he
murmured, “I have dearly bought the happiness of watching
over you till the end! Call me Philip, dearest Evelyn,” he
said, turning again towards her; “during the short remnant of
your days, my poor Evelyn, let me be nothing but Philip to
you!” And Philip's heart was wrung as he thought of the
young girl's past and present. “Dear Philip, you feel for me
too deeply,” faltered Evelyn, remarking the great grief that
sat on his manly features; and she pressed his trembling fingers
in her own little hand; and Philip Sargent shook in every
limb of his well-knit frame, as if he had been a child! “Be
calm, my friend, my only earthly friend, and listen to me.
When I am no more,” she continued, in a low voice, “there is
one office of kindness I could wish you to perform.” “Name
it,” returned Philip: “whatever is in my power to compass
shall be done.”

“Bless you for these words. Philip, when I am dead, and
gone, you must find out Frank's haunts, and try to reclaim
him. God did not will that that great blessing should be mine.
The work of reformation must be done by one who never even
drinks wine occasionally. I did sometimes join Frank in a
glass, in the early days of our union; and the remembrance is
like molten lead in my throat now! Oh, Philip! could I live
my life over again, no one that I loved should touch, taste, or
handle the accursed thing! But seek him, dear Philip; tell
him that if he but leads a sober life, I shall not have died in

vain! Tell him that, with my latest breath, I forgave and
blessed him; that I loved and prayed for him till my life's end!
Will you do this, Philip?”

“I will, indeed,” he replied, in a broken voice—“Oh, Evelyn!”

With a faltering footstep Philip Sargent followed Evelyn
Rivers' remains to their last home. But he shed no tear as
he performed his last mournful duty over her grave; for he
knew that the sorrowing spirit of that lovely and broken-hearted
one had reached the haven of its everlasting rest.

And Mr. Sargent religiously fulfilled Evelyn's last wishes
He did try, long and faithfully, to save Frank Rivers; but a
his efforts were vain—vainer, alas! than water spilled upor
the ground. The man was an irreclaimable drunkard!

Yes, Heaven was kind! for Evelyn did not live through
long years of watching and weeping, of trembling hope and
unutterable despair. God gave the broken lily a kinder doom.

Let woman, lovely, devoted, confiding woman, avoid even
the appearance of evil. Let her beware of the glass of “wine
occasionally,” at the revel, and the feast! Let her remember
that, in uniting her destiny with an “occasional drinker” even,
she is drawing upon herself a fearful doom, and is incurring
one of the heaviest of curses! It is like linking truth with
perfidy,—the dove with the vulture. It is the wedlock of
purity and pollution—beauty and the beast. Let woman beware
of the temperate as well as of the confirmed drunkard.