University of Virginia Library

15. CHAPTER XV.
I GO OUT TO MAKE NEW YEAR'S CALLS AND RETURN IN
DISGRACE.

New Year's morning dawned bright and cold. “A happy
New Year to you!” shouted Livingston from his bed. The
call woke me from a heavy slumber into delightful anticipations,
and the realization of a great joy in living, such as comes
only to youth—an exulting, superabounding sense of vitality
that care and age never know.

We rose and dressed ourselves with scrupulous pains-taking
for calls. On descending to the breakfast-room, we found the
young ladies quite as excited as ourselves. They had prepared
a little book in which to keep a record of the calls they expected
to receive during the day, for, according to the universal
custom, they were to keep open house. The carriage
was to be at the disposal of my friend and myself, and we were
as ambitious concerning the amount of courtesy to be shown
as the young ladies were touching the amount to be received.
We intended, before bedtime, to present our New Year's greetings
to every lady we had met during the week.

Before we left the house, I saw what preparations had been
made for the hospitable reception of visitors. Among them
stood a row of wine bottles and decanters. The view saddened
me. Although I had not tasted wine since “the special
occasion,” my conscience had not ceased to remind me, though
with weakened sting, that I had sacrificed a conscientious scruple
and broken a promise. I could in no way rid myself of
the sense of having been wounded, stained, impoverished. I
had ceased to be what I had been. I had engaged in no debauch,
I had developed no appetite, I was not in love with my

sin. I could have heartily wished that wine were out of the
world. Yet I had consented to have my defenses broken into,
and there had been neither time nor practical disposition to
repair the breach. Not one prayer had I offered, or dared to
offer, during the week. My foolish act had shut out God and
extinguished the sense of his loving favor, and I had rushed
blindly through my pleasures from day to day, refusing to listen
to the upbraidings of that faithful monitor which he had
placed within me.

At last, it was declared not too early to begin our visits.
Already several young gentlemen had shown themselves at the
Livingstons, and my friend and I sallied forth. The coachman,
waiting at the door, and thrashing his hands to keep them warm,
wished us “a happy New Year” as we appeared.

“The same to you,” responded Livingston, “and there'll be
another one to-night, if you serve us well to-day.”

“Thankee, sir,” said the coachman, smiling in anticipation
of the promised fee.

The footman took the list of calls to be made that Livingston
had prepared, mounted to his seat, the ladies waved
their hands to us from the window, and we drove rapidly away.

“Bonnicastle, my boy,” said Livingston, throwing his arm
around me as we rattled up the avenue, “this is new business
to you. Now don't do anything to-day that you will be sorry
for. Do you know, I cannot like what has happened? You
have not been brought up like the rest of us, and you're all
right. Have your own way. It's nobody's business.”

I knew, of course, exactly what he meant, but I do not know
what devil stirred within me the spirit of resentment. To be
cautioned and counseled by one who had never professed or
manifested any sense of religious obligation—by one above
whose moral plane I had fancied that I stood—made me half
angry. I had consciously fallen, and I felt miserably enough
about it, when I permitted myself to feel at all, but to be reminded
of it by others vexed me to the quick, and rasped my
wretched pride.

“Take care of yourself,” I responded, sharply, “and don't
worry about me. I shall do as I please.”

“It's the last time, old boy,” said Livingston, biting his lip,
which quivered with pain and mortification. “It's the last
time. When I kiss a fellow and he spits in my face I never
do it again. Make yourself perfectly easy on that score.”

Impulsively I grasped his hand and exclaimed: “Oh! don't
say that. I beg your pardon. Let's not quarrel: I was a
fool and a great deal worse, to answer as I did.”

“All right,” said he; “but if you get into trouble, don't
blame me; that's all.”

At this, we drew up to a house to make our first call. It was
a grand establishment. The ladies were beautifully dressed,
and very cordial, for Livingston was a favorite, and any young
man whom he introduced was sure of a welcome. I was flattered
and excited by the attention I received, and charmed by
the graceful manners of those who rendered it. House after
house we visited in the same way, uniformly declining all the
hospitalities of the table, on the ground that it was too early
to think of eating or drinking.

At last we began to grow hungry for our lunch, and at a
bountifully loaded table accepted an invitation to eat. Several
young fellows were standing around it, nibbling their sandwiches,
and sipping their wine. A glass was poured and handed to me
by a young lady with the toilet and manner of a princess. I
took it without looking at Livingston, held it for a while, then
tasted it, for I was thirsty; then tasted again and again, until
my glass was empty. I was as unused to the stimulant as a
child; and when I emerged into the open air my face was
aflame with its exciting poison. There was a troubled look on
Livingston's face, and I could not resist the feeling that he was
either angry or alarmed. My first experience was that of depression.
This was partly moral, I suppose; but the sharp
air soon reduced the feverish sensation about my head and
eyes, and then a strange thrill of exhilaration passed through

me. It was different from anything I had ever known, and I
was conscious, for the first time, of the charm of alcohol.

Then came the longing to taste again. I saw that I was in
no way disabled. On the contrary, I knew I had never been
so buoyant in spirits, or so brilliant in conversation. My imagination
was excited. Everything presented to me its comical
aspects, and there were ripples and roars of laughter where-ever
I went. After repeated glasses, I swallowed at one house
a draught of champagne. It was the first I had ever tasted,
and the cold, tingling fluid was all that was necessary to make
me noisy and hilarious. I rallied Livingston on his long face,
assured him that I had never seen a jolly fellow alter so rapidly
as he had since morning, begged him to take something
that would warm him, and began to sing.

“Now, really you must be quiet in this house,” said he, as
we drew up to an old-fashioned mansion in the suburbs.
“They are quiet people here, and are not used to noisy fellows.”

“I'll wake 'em up,” said I, “and make 'em jolly.”

We entered the door. I was conscious of a singing in my
ears, and a sense of confusion. The warm air of the room
wrought in a few moments a change in my feelings, but I struggled
against it, and tried with pitiful efforts to command myself,
and to appear the sober man I was not. There was a
little group around us near the windows, and at the other end
of the drawing-room—somewhat in shadow, for it was nearly
night—there was another. At length a tall man rose from this
latter group, and advanced toward the light. Immediately behind
him a young girl, almost a woman in stature and bearing,
followed. The moment I could distinguish his form and features
and those of his companion, I rushed toward them, forgetful
for the instant that I had lost my self-control, and embraced
them both. Then I undertook to present Mr. Bradford
and my friend Millie to Livingston.

It did not seem strange to me to find them in New York.
What foolish things I said to Mr. Bradford and what maudlin
words to Millie I do not know. Both carried grave faces.

Millie's eyes—for even through all that cloud of stupid insanity,
from this far point of distance I see them still—burned first
like fire, then filled with tears.

For what passed immediately after this, I am indebted to another
memory and not to my own.

After watching me and listening to me for a minute in silence,
Millie darted to the side of Livingston, and looking him fiercely
in the face, exclaimed: “You are a wicked man. You ought
to be ashamed to let him do it. Oh! he was so good and
so sweet when he went away from Bradford, and you have
spoiled him—you have spoiled him. I'll never forgive you,
never!”

“Millie! my daughtor!” exclaimed Mr. Bradford.

Millie threw herself upon a sofa, and burying her head in
the pillow, burst into hysterical tears.

Livingston turned to Mr. Bradford and said: “I give you
my word of honor, sir, that I have not drunk one drop of
wine to-day. I have refrained from drinking entirely for his
sake, and your daughter's accusation is most unjust.”

Mr. Bradford took the young man's hand cordially and said:
“I believe you, and you must pardon Millie. She is terribly
disappointed, and so am I. She supposed her friend had been
tempted by bad companions, and as you were with him, she at
once attributed the evil influence to you.”

“On the contrary,” responded Livingston, “no man has
tempted him at all, and no man could tempt him. None but
women who prate about their sufferings from drunken husbands
and brothers could have moved him from his determination.
I am ashamed to tell you who attacked his scruples first. It
was one who has reason enough, Heaven knows, to hate wine;
but her efforts have been followed by scores of younger
women to-day, who have seemed to take delight in leading him
into a mad debauch.”

Livingston spoke bitterly, and as he closed, Millie sprang
from the sofa, and seizing his hand, kissed it, and wet it with her
tears.

“Please take him home, and be kind to him,” she said. “I
am sure he will never do it again.”

In the meantime, entirely overcome by the heat of the room,
acting upon nerves which had been stimulated beyond the
power of endurance, I had sunk helplessly into a chair, where
I stared stupidly upon the group, unable to comprehend a
word of the conversation.

Mr. Bradford took Livingston aside, and after some words of
private conversation, both approached me, and taking me by
my arms, led me from the house, and placed me in the carriage.
The dusk had already descended, and I do not think
that I was observed, save by one or two strangers passing upon
the sidewalk. The seal of secrecy was placed upon the lips of
the household by the kind offices of Mr. Bradford, and the
story, so far as I know, was never told, save as it was afterward
told to me, and as I have told it in these pages.

The carriage was driven rapidly homeward. The house of
the Livingstons was upon a corner, so that a side entrance was
available for getting me to my room without public observation.
The strong arms of Livingston and the footman bore
me to my chamber, removed my clothing, and placed me in
bed, where I sank at once into that heavy drunken slumber
from which there is no waking except that of torture.

The morning after New Year's was as bright as that which
preceded it, but it had no brightness for me. The heart which
had leaped up into gladness as it greeted the New Year's dawn,
was a lump of lead. The head that was as clear as the sky itself
on the previous morning, was dull and heavy with a strange,
throbbing pain. My mouth was dry and hot, and a languor
held me in possession from which it seemed impossible to rouse
myself. Then all the mad doings of the day which had witnessed
my fall came back to me, and it seemed as if the shame
of it all would kill me. Livingston brought me some cooling
and corrective draught, on the strength of which I rose. The
dizzy feeling was not entirely gone, and I reeled in a pitiful

way while dressing; but cold water, a cool room, and motion,
soon placed me in possession of myself.

“I can't go down to breakfast, Livingston,” I said. “I
have disgraced you and all the family.”

“Oh! women forgive, my boy,” said he, with a contemptuous
shrug. “Never you mind. If they don't like their own work,
let them do it better.”

“But I can't face them,” I said.

“Face them! Bah! it's they who are to face you. But
don't trouble yourself. You'll find them as placid as a summer
morning, ignoring everything. They're used to it.”

He insisted, and I descended to the breakfast room. Not
an allusion was made to the previous day's experiences, except
as a round of unalloyed pleasure. The young ladies had
received an enormous number of calls, and on the sideboard
stood a row of empty decanters. There was no thought of the
headaches and heart-burnings with which the city abounded, no
thought of suicidal habits begun or confirmed through their
agency, no thought of the drunkards they were nursing into
husbands. There sat the mother in her matronly dignity, dispensing
her fragrant coffee, there were the young ladies chattering
over their list, and talking of this one and that one of
their callers, and there was I, a confused ruin of hopes and
purposes which clustered around a single central point of consciousness
and that point hot with shame and remorse.

We were to return on the afternoon boat that day, and I was
not sorry. I was quite ready to turn my back on all the splendors
that had so charmed me on my arrival, on all the new
acquaintances I had made, and on my temptations.

Special efforts were made by Mrs. Livingston and her
daughters to reinstate me in my self-respect. They were cordial
in their expressions of friendship, begged that I would not
forget them, invited me to visit them again and often, and
loaded me with all courteous and friendly attentions. Livingston
was quiet and cold through it all. He had intended to
return me as good as he brought me, and had failed. He was

my senior, and had entertained a genuine respect for my conscientious
scruples, over which, from the first moment I had
known him, he had assumed a sort of guardianship. He was
high-spirited, and as I had once repelled his cautioning care, I
knew I should hear no more from him.

When we arrived at the boat, I went at once into the cabin,
sank into a chair, buried my face in my hands, and gave myself
up to my sorrow and shame. I was glad that I should not
find Henry in my room on my return. He had been gone a
month when I left, for, through the necessities of self-support,
he had resumed his school duties in Bradford for the winter.
I thought of him in his daily work, and his nightly visits at my
father's house; of the long conversations that would pass between
him and those whom I loved best about one who had
proved himself unworthy of their regard; of the shameful manner
in which I had betrayed the confidence of my benefactress,
and the disgrace which I had brought upon myself in the eyes
of Mr. Bradford and Millie. It then occurred to me for the
first time that Mr. Bradford was on a New Year's visit to his
daughter, whom he had previously placed in a New York
school. How should I ever meet them again? How could
they ever forgive me? How could I ever win their respect
and confidence again? “O God! O God!” I said, in a whisper
of anguish, “how can I ever come to Thee again, when I
knew in my inmost heart that I was disobeying and grieving
Thee?”

I was conscious at this moment that steps approached me.
Then followed a light touch upon my shoulder. I looked up,
and saw Mr. Bradford. I had never before seen his countenance
so sad, and at the same time so severe.

“Don't reproach me,” I said, lifting my hands in deprecation,
“don't reproach me: if you do, I shall die.”

“Reproach you, my boy?” he said, drawing a chair to my
side while his lips quivered with sympathy, “there would be no
need of it if I were disposed to do so. Reproach for error between
erring mortals is not becoming.”

“Do you suppose you can ever forgive me and trust me
again?” I asked.

“I forgive you and trust you now. I give you credit for
common-sense. You have proved, in your own experience,
the truth of all I have told you, and I do not believe that you
need to learn anything further, except that one mistake and
misstep like yours need not ruin a life.”

“Do you really think,” said I, eagerly grasping his arm,
“that I can ever be again what I have been?”

“Never again,” he replied, sadly shaking his head. “The
bloom is gone from the fruit, but if you hate your folly with a
hatred which will forever banish it from your life, the fruit is
uninjured.”

“And are they to know all this in Bradford?” I asked.

“Never from me,” he replied.

“You are too kind to me,” I said. “You have always been
kind.”

“I don't know. I have intended to be kind, but if you are
ruined through the influence of Mrs. Sanderson's money I shall
curse the day on which I suggested the thought that brought
you under her patronage.”

“Will you accept a pledge from me,” I said eagerly, “in
regard to the future?”

“No indeed, Arthur. No pledge coming from you to-day,
while you are half beside yourself with shame and sorrow,
would have the value of a straw. A promise can never redeem
a man who loses himself through lack of strength and principle.
A man who cannot be controlled by God's Word certainly
cannot be controlled by his own. It will take weeks for you
to arrive at a point where you can form a resolution that will
be of the slightest value, and, when you reach that point, no
resolution will be needed. Some influence has changed your
views of life and your objects. You have in some way been
shaken at your foundations. When these become sound again,
you will be restored to yourself, and not until then. You fancied
that the religious influences and experiences which we

both remember had done much to strengthen you, but in truth
they did nothing. They interrupted, and, for the time, ruined
the processes of a religious education. You fancied that in a
day you had built what it takes a lifetime to build, and you
were, owing to the reactions of that great excitement, and to
the confusion into which your thoughts and feelings were
thrown, weaker to resist temptation than when you returned
from The Bird's Nest. I saw it all then, just as plainly as I see
it now. I have discounted all this experience of yours—not
precisely this, but something like it. I knew you would be
tempted, and that into the joints of a harness too loosely knit
and fastened some arrow would find its way.”

“What am I to do? What can I do?” I said piteously.

“Become a child again,” he responded. “Go back to the
simple faith and the simple obedience which you learned of
your father. Put away your pride and your love of that which
enervates and emasculates you, and try with God's help to grow
into a true man. I have had so many weaknesses and faults of
my own to look after, that I have never had the heart to undertake
the instruction of others; but I feel a degree of responsibility
for you, and I know it is in you to become a man who
will bring joy to your father and pride to me.”

“Oh! do believe me, Mr. Bradford, do,” I said, “when I
tell you that I will try to become the man you desire me to
be.”

“I believe you,” he responded. “I have no doubt that you
will try, in a weaker or stronger way and more or less persistently,
to restore yourself to your old footing. And now, as
you have forced a promise upon me, which I did not wish you
to make, you must accept one from me. I have taken you
into my heart. I took you into its warmest place when, years
ago, on our first acquaintance, you told me that you loved me.
And now I promise you that if I see that you cannot be what
you ought to be while retaining your present prospects of
wealth, I will put you to such a test as will prove whether you
have the manhood in you that I have given you the credit for,

and whether you are worth saving to yourself and your
friends.”

His last words wounded me. Nay, they did more—they
kindled my anger. Though grievously humiliated, my pride
was not dead. I questioned in my heart his right to speak so
strongly to me, and to declare his purpose to thrust himself
into my life in any contingency, but I covered my feelings, and
even thanked him in a feeble way for his frankness. Then I
inquired about Henry, and learned in what high respect he was
held in Bradford, how much my father and all his acquaintances
were delighted in him, and how prosperously his affairs were
going on. Even in his self-respectful poverty, I envied him—
a poverty through which he had manifested such sterling manhood
as to win the hearts of all who came in contact with him.

“I shall miss him more than I can tell you,” I said, “when
I get back to my lonely room. No one can take his place, and
I need him now more than I ever did before.”

“It is as well for you to be alone,” said Mr. Bradford, “if
you are in earnest. There are some things in life that can only
be wrought out between a man and his God, and you have just
that thing in hand.”

Our conversation was long, and touched many topics. Mr.
Bradford shook my hand heartily as we parted at the wharf, and
Livingston and I were soon in a carriage, whirling towards the
town. I entered my silent room with a sick and discouraged
feeling, with a sad presentiment of the struggle which its walls
would witness during the long winter months before me, and
with a terrible sense of the change through which I had passed
during the brief week of my absence.

And here, lest my reader be afflicted with useless anticipations
of pain, I record the fact that wine never tempted me
again. One bite of the viper had sufficed. I had trampled
upon my conscience, and even that had changed to a viper
beneath my feet, and struck its fangs deep into the recoiling
flesh. From that day forward I forswore the indulgence of the
cup. While in college it was comparatively easy to do this, for

my habit was known, and as no one but Livingston knew of
my fall, it was respected. I was rallied by some of the fellows
on my sleepy eyes and haggard looks, but none of them imagined
the cause, and the storm that had threatened to engulf me
blew over, and the waves around me grew calm again,—the
waves around me, but not the waves within.

For a whole week after I returned, I was in constant and almost
unendurable torture. The fear of discovery took possession
of me. What if the men who were passing at the time Mr.
Bradford and Livingston lifted me into the carriage had known
me? Was Peter Mullens in New York that night, and was he
one of them? This question no sooner took possession of my
mind, than I fancied, from the looks and whisperings of him
and his companions, that the secret was in their possession. I
had no peace from these suspicions until I had satisfied myself
that he had not left the college during the holidays. Would
Mr. Bradford, by some accident, or through forgetfulness of his
promise to me, speak of the matter to my father, or Henry, or
Mrs. Sanderson? Would Millie write about it to her mother?
Would it be carelessly talked about by the ladies who had witnessed
my disgrace? Would it be possible for me ever to show
myself in Bradford again? Would the church learn of my
lapse and bring me under its discipline? Would the religious
congregations I had addressed hear of my fall from sobriety,
and come to regard me as a hypocrite? So sore was my self-love,
so sensitive was my pride, that I am sure I should have
lied to cover my shame, had the terrible emergency arisen. It
did not rise, and for that I cannot cease to be grateful.

It will readily be seen that, while the fear of discovery was
upon me, and while I lived a false life of carelessness and even
gayety among my companions, to cover the tumults of dread
and suspicion that were going on within me, I did not make
much progress in spiritual life. In truth I made none at all.
My prayers were only wild beseechings that I might be spared
from exposure, and pledges of future obedience should my
prayers be answered. So thoroughly did my fears of men possess

me, that there was no room for repentance toward God,
or such a repentance as would give me the basis of a new departure
and a better life. I had already tried to live two lives
that should not be discordant with each other; now I tried to
live two lives that I knew to be antagonistic. It now became
an object to appear to be what I was not. I resumed at intervals
my attendance upon the prayer-meetings to make it appear
that I still clung to my religious life. Then, while in the society
of my companions, I manifested a careless gayety which I
did not feel. All the manifestations of my real life took place
in the solitude of my room. There, wrestling with my fears,
and shut out from my old sources of comfort and strength, I
passed my nights. With a thousand luxurious appliances around
me, no sense of luxury ever came to me. My heart was a
central living coal, and all around it was ashes. I even feared
that the coal might die, and that Henry, when he should return,
would find his room bereft of all that would give him welcome
and cheer.

As the weeks passed away, the fear slowly expired, and alas!
nothing that was better came in its place. No sooner did I
begin to experience the sense of safety from exposure, and
from the temptation which had brought me such grievous harm,
than the old love of luxurious life, and the old plans for securing
it, came back to me. I felt sure that wine would never
tempt me again, and with this confidence I built me a foundation
of pride and self-righteousness on which I could stand,
and regard myself with a certain degree of complacency.

As for efficient study, that was out of the question. I was
in no mood or condition for work. I scrambled through my
lessons in a disgraceful way. The better class of students
were all surpassing me, and I found myself getting hopelessly
into the rear. I had fitful rebellions against this, and showed
them and myself what I could do when I earnestly tried: but
the power of persistence, which is born of a worthy purpose,
held strongly in the soul, was absent, and there could be no
true advancement without it.

I blush with shame, even now, to think how I tried to cover
my delinquencies from my father and Mrs. Sanderson, by
becoming more attentive to them than I had ever been in the
matter of writing letters. I knew that there was nothing that
carried so much joy to my father as a letter from me.
I knew that he read every letter I wrote him, again and again
—that he carried it in his pocket at his work—that he took it
out at meals, and talked about it. I knew also that Mrs.
Sanderson's life was always gladdened by attentions of this sort
from me, and that they tended to keep her heart open toward
me. In just the degree in which I was conscious that I
was unworthy of their affection, did I strive to present to
them my most amiable side, and to convince them that I was
unchanged.

I lived this hypocritical, unfruitful life during all that winter;
and when Henry came to me in the spring, crowned with the
fruits of his labor, and fresh from the loves and friendships
of his Bradford home, with his studies all in hand, and with such
evident growth of manhood that I felt almost afraid of him,
he found me an unhappy and almost reckless laggard, with
nothing to show for the winter's privileges but a weakened will,
dissipated powers, frivolous habits, deadened moral and religious
sensibilities, and a life that had degenerated into subterfuge
and sham.

My natural love of approbation—the same greed for the good
opinion and the praise of others which in my childhood made
me a liar—had lost none of its force, and did much to shape
my intercourse with all around me. The sense of worthlessness
which induced my special efforts to retain the good-will
of Mrs. Sanderson, and the admiration and confidence of my
father, moved me to a new endeavor to gain the friendship
of all my fellow-students. I felt that I could not afford to
have enemies. I had lost none of my popularity with the
exclusive clique to which I had attached myself, for even
Livingston had seen with delight that I was not disposed to
repeat the mistake of which he had been so distressed a witness.

I grew more courteous and complaisant toward those I
had regarded as socially my inferiors, until I knew that I was
looked upon by them as a good fellow. I was easy-tempered,
ready at repartee, generous and careless, and although I
had lost all reputation for industry and scholarship, I pssessed
just the character and manners which made me welcome to
every group. I blush while I write of it, to remember how I
curried favor with Mr. Peter Mullens and his set; but to such
mean shifts did a mean life force me. To keep the bark of
my popularity from foundering, on which I was obliged to trust
everything, I tossed overboard from time to time, to meet
every rising necessity, my self-respect, until I had but little
left.