The Lights and Shadows of Real Life

For some time, neither spoke a word. The truth had flashed upon the mind of each at the same moment.

"It may not yet be too late," were the first words spoken, and by the mother.

"It is too late," was the brief, but meaning response.

From that time her name was not mentioned, and even her portrait was taken down and thrown into the lumber-room. Her few letters, after her hasty and imprudent marriage, were burned up without being opened. So much for wounded family pride! But think not that her image was really obliterated from their minds. No—no. It was there an ever constant and living presence.—

Though neither of the parents spoke of, or alluded to her, yet they could not drive away her spiritual presence.

Year after year glided away, and though the name of Constance had never passed their lips, and they knew nothing of her destiny; yet as year after year passed, her image, now a sad, tearful image, grew more and more distinct before their eyes. In their dreams they often saw her in suffering and nigh unto death, and when they would stretch forth their hands to save her, she would be snatched out of their sight. Still they mentioned not her name; and the world thought the cold-hearted, unnatural parents had even forgotten their child.

But what had they now to live for? To such as they, no happiness resulted from doing good to others, for the love of self had extinguished all love of the neighbour. The passion for accumulating, it is true, still remained with the merchant; but trade had become so broken up and diverted from its old channels, that he realized small profits, and frequent losses. Finally, he retired from business, and from the city.

After the marriage of Constance, Mrs. Jackson found herself of far less consideration in company. Few in high life are altogether heartless, and all are ready to censure any exhibition of family pride, which is carried so far as to alienate the parent from the child. This feeling the mother of Constance found to prevail wherever she went, and she never attributed the coolness of fashionable acquaintances, nor the gradual falling away of more intimate friends, to any other than the right cause. How could she? In her case the adage was true to the letter—"A guilty conscience needs no accusation."

Nearly ten years had passed away since the parents became worse than childless. They were living at their country residence near Harlaem, enduring, but not enjoying life. They had wealth, and every comfort and luxury that wealth could bring. But the slave who toiled in the burning sun, and prepared his own coarse food at night in a dirty hovel, was happier than they. Even unto this time had they not spoken together of their child, since the day of her departure.

One night in August, a terrible storm swept over New York and its neighbourhood. Flash after flash of keen lightning blazed across the sky, and peal after peal of awful thunder rent the air. It came up about midnight, and continued for more than an hour. Mr. and Mrs. Jackson were roused from slumber by this terrible war of the elements. Its noise had troubled their sleep ere it awoke them, and their dreams were of their child. During its awful continuance, while they felt themselves more intimately in the hands of the All-Powerful, their many sins passed rapidly before them, but the stain that darkened the whole of the last ten years, the one crime of many years, which made their hearts sick within them with a strange fear, was their conduct towards their child. But neither spoke of it. Upon this subject, for several years, they had been afraid of each other.

The storm passed away, but they could not sleep. Wearied nature sought, but could find no repose. Each tossed and turned and wished for the morning, and when the morning began to dawn they closed their eyes, and almost wished the darkness had continued. A troubled sleep fell upon the husband, and in it he murmured the name of his child. The quick ear of the mother caught the word, and it thrilled through every nerve. Tears stole down her cheeks, and her heart swelled near to bursting with maternal instincts. The vision of his child that passed before him had been no pleasant one, and with the murmur of her name he awoke to consciousness. Lifting himself up, he saw the tearful face of his wife. He could not mistake the cause. Why should she weep but for her child? He looked at her for a moment, when she pronounced the name of Constance, and hid her tearful face on his breast.

The fountain was now unsealed, and the feelings of the parents gushed out like the flow of pent-up waters. They talked of Constance, and blamed themselves, and wept for their lost one. But where was she? how could they find her?

The sun had scarcely risen, when Mr. Jackson set out to seek for his child, while his wife remained at home in a state of agonizing suspense. He knew not whether she were alive or dead; in New York or elsewhere. The second day brought Mrs. Jackson a letter, it ran as follows:—

"I have searched in vain for our Constance. But how could it be otherwise? Who should know more about her than myself? I have asked some of our old acquaintances if they ever heard of her since her marriage. They shake their heads and look at me as though they thought me demented. Laura Wykoff, you know, married some years ago. I called upon her. She knew little or nothing; but said, she had heard that her husband who had become dissipated had left her and gone off to Baltimore. She thought it highly probable that she had been dead some years. She treated me coldly enough. But I feel nothing for myself. Poor, dear child! where can thy lot be cast? Perhaps, how dreadful the thought! she may have dragged her drooping, dying form past our dwelling, once her peaceful home, and looked her last look upon the door shut to her for ever, while the cold winds of winter chilled her heart in its last pulsations. Oh, I fear we have murdered our poor child! Every meagre-looking, shrinking female form I pass on the street, makes my heart throb. 'Perhaps that is Constance,' I will say, and hasten to read the countenance of the forlorn one. But I turn away, and sigh; 'where, where can she be?'

"Since writing this, I have seen a young man who knew her husband. He says, that after the failure of a house in which Wilmer was employed, he went to Baltimore and took Constance with him. He says, he knows this to be so, because he was well acquainted with Wilmer, and shook hands with him on the steamboat when he went away. I hinted to him what I had heard about Wilmer's leaving her. He repelled the insinuation with warmth, and said, that he, Wilmer, would have died rather than cause Constance a painful feeling—that she certainly did go with him, for when he parted with Wilmer, Constance was leaning on his arm. He says, she looked pale and troubled; and mentioned that they had with them a sweet little baby. Oh, how my heart yearns after my child!

"I have since learned the name of the firm in Baltimore in whose employment he was, shortly after he went there. To-morrow morning I shall go to that city. You shall hear from me on my arrival."

Nearly a week passed before Mrs. Jackson received further intelligence from her husband. I will not attempt to describe her feelings during that long time. In suffering or joy we discover how relative and artificial are all our ideas of time.

The next letter ran thus:—

"Here I am in Baltimore, but it seems no nearer finding our child than when I was in New York. The firm in whose employment Wilmer was shortly after his arrival in Baltimore, has been dissolved some years; and I am told that neither of the partners is now in this city. I have not been able to learn the name of a single clerk who was in their store. I feel disheartened, yet more eager every day to find our lost one. Where can she be?

"A day more has passed since my arrival here, and I have a little hope. I have found one of his former fellow-clerks. He says, that he thinks Wilmer is still in town. I do not want to advertise for him, if I can help it, but shall do so before I leave the city, if other means fail. This young man tells me, that when he knew him he had three children. He never saw our Constance. He represents Wilmer as having been in bad health, and as generally appearing dejected. He says, all his furniture was once seized and sold by the sheriff for rent, but that it was redeemed next day by his employers, who treated him very kindly on the occasion. I have heard nothing of the poor boy that has not prepossessed me in his favour. I fear he has had a hard time of it. How much happiness have we lost—how much misery have we occasioned!—Surely we have lived in vain all our lives! I feel more humbled every day since I left home.

"Since yesterday I have learned that he was in the city less than a year ago—and that Constance was living. How my heart throbs! Shall I see my own dear child again? Theodore, I fear, is in very bad health, if still alive. He had to give up a good situation about a year ago, as book-keeper in a large establishment here, where he was much esteemed, on account of his health giving way so fast under the confinement. I believe he took another situation as salesman in a retail store, on a very small salary. Some one told me that Constance had been under the necessity of taking in sewing, to help to get a living—and all this time we had abundance all around us! I call myself, 'wretch,'—and so I would call any other man who would cast off his child, as I have done—a tender flower to meet the cold winds of autumn.

"I have seen my child! my poor dear Constance! But oh, how changed! While passing along the street to-day, almost in despair of ever finding her—a slender female, about the same height of Constance, passed me hastily. There was something peculiar, I thought, about her, and I felt as I had never yet felt, while near a stranger. I followed her, scarce knowing the reason why. She entered a clothing-store, and I went in after her, and asked to look at some article, I scarce knew what. Her first word startled me as would a shock of electricity. It was my own child. But I could not make myself known to her there. She laid down upon the counter three vests, and then presented a small book. in which to have the work entered. The entry was made, and the book handed back.

"'There are just three dollars due you,' said the man.

"'Three-and-a-half, I believe it is, sir.'

"'No, it's only three.'

"'Then I have calculated wrong. I thought it was three-and-a-half.'

"How mournful and disappointed was her tone!

"After standing for some time looking over her book, she said in a lighter voice, 'well, I believe I am right. See here; I have made twenty-eight vests, and at twelve-and-a-half cents each, that is three dollars and a half.'

"'Well, I believe you are right,' said the man, in a changed tone, after looking over the book again.

"'Can you pay me to-day? I am much in want of it.'

"'No, I can't. I have a thousand dollars to pay in bank, and I cannot spare anything before two or three days.'

"She paused a moment, and then went slowly towards the door; lingered for a short time, and then turned to the man again. I then saw for the first time, for ten long years, her face. How thin and pale it was! how troubled its expression!—But it was the face of our dear Constance. She did not look towards me; but turned again to the shop-keeper, and said,

"'Be kind enough, sir, to let me have one dollar. I want it very much!'

"'You give me more trouble about your money than any other workman I have,' said the man roughly, as he handed her a dollar.

"She took it, unheeding the cruel remark, and before I could make up my mind how to act, glided quickly away. I followed as hastily, and continued to walk after her, until I saw her enter a large, old-fashioned brick building. About this dwelling, there was no air of comfort. In the door sat a little girl, and two boys, pale, but pleasant-looking children. One of them clapped his little hands as Constance passed them, and then got up and ran after her into the house. They all had her own bright eyes. I would have known them for (sic) her's anywhere.

"Does it not seem strange that I hesitated to go in at once to my child. But I am at a loss what to do. Sometimes I think that I will wait until you come on, and make her heart glad with the presence of both at once. To-morrow I will write you again. The mail is just closing; and I must send this."

After Wilmer had received the kindly proffered relief from his employers, in an increase of salary, he was less troubled about the daily wants of his family. But other sources of keen anxiety soon presented themselves. His own health began to give way so rapidly as to awaken in his mind, fearful apprehensions of approaching inability to support his family; and Constance was not strong. Too often, the pain in his breast and side was so severe as to make his place at the desk little less than torture. A confirmed, short, dry cough, not severe, but constant, also awakened his liveliest fears.

At the end of a year from the time when his employers began to feel a kind interest in him, he was removed from the desk, and given more active employment as salesman and out-of-door clerk. The benefit of this change was soon felt. The pain in his breast and side gradually gave way, his appetite increased, and his cough became less and less irritating. But this improvement was only temporary. The disease had become too deeply rooted. True, he suffered much less than while confined at the desk, but the morbid indications were too constant to leave him much of the flattery of hope.

Another year gradually rolled away, and with it came more changes, and causes of concern. A little stranger had come into his family, making three the number of his babes, and adding to the list of his cares and his expenses; and it must also be said, to his pleasures. For what parent, with the heart of a parent, be his condition what it may, but rejoices in the number of the little ones whose eyes brighten at his coming? But there was a change of greater importance in his prospects. The firm in whose service he was, became involved and had to wind up their business. All the clerks were in a short time discharged, and Wilmer among the rest. The time was one of great commercial pressure, and many long-established houses were forced to yield; others were driven to great curtailment of expenses. The consequence was that few were employing clerks, and many dispensing with their services. Under the circumstances, Wilmer found it impossible to obtain employment. Daily did he call at the various stores and counting-rooms in the hope of meeting with a situation, only to return to his dwelling more depressed and disheartened.

By great economy, in view of approaching ill health, he had managed to lay up, since the increase in his wages, nearly the amount of that increase. He had done this, by living upon the same amount that he before found to be inadequate to the support of his family. How this was done, they only can know who have resolutely, from necessity, made the same experiment, and found that the real amount necessary to live upon is much smaller than is usually supposed. This sum, about one hundred dollars, he had when he was thrown out of employment scarcely enough to last for three months, under their present expenses. It was with painful reluctance that Wilmer trespassed upon this precious store, but he found necessity a hard task-master.

Amid the gloom and darkness of his condition and prospects, there was one bright star shining upon him with an ever-constant light. No cloud could dim or obscure it. That light, that cheerful star, was the wife of his bosom. The tie that bound her to her husband was not an external one alone; she was wedded to him in spirit. Her affection for him, as sorrow, and doubt, and fearful foreboding of coming evils gathered about him, assumed more and more of the mother's careful and earnest love for the peace of her child. She met him with an ever-cheerful countenance; gently soothed his fears, and constantly referred him to the overruling care of Divine Providence. Affliction had wrought its proper work upon her affections, and as they became gradually separated from the world, they found a higher and purer source of attraction. From a thoughtless girl, she had become a reflecting woman, and with reflection had come. a right understanding of her duties. An angel of comfort is such a woman to a man of keen sensibilities, who finds his struggle in the world a hard and painful one.

Two months passed away in the vain effort to obtain employment. Every avenue seemed shut against him. The power of endurance was tried to its utmost strength, when he was offered a situation in an iron-store, to handle iron, and occasionally perform the duties of a clerk. Three hundred dollars was the salary. He caught at it, as his last hope, with eagerness, and at once entered upon his duties. He found them more toilsome than he had expected. The business was a heavy one, and kept him at fatiguing labour nearly the whole day. Never having been used to do hard work, he found on the morning of the second day, that the muscles of his back, arms, and legs, were so strained, that he could hardly move himself. He was as sore as if he had been beaten with a heavy stick. This, however, in a great measure, wore off, after he began to move about; but he found his strength giving way much sooner on this day than on the preceding one. At night, his head ached badly, he had no appetite, and was feverish. On the next morning, however, he went resolutely to work; but he felt so unfit for it, that he finally, referring in his own mind to what he had suffered on a former occasion by not explaining his true situation, determined to mention to his new employer how he felt. and ask a little respite for a day or two, until his strength should return. He, accordingly, left the large pile of iron which he had commenced assorting, and entered the counting-room. He felt a great degree of hesitation, but strove to keep it down, while he summoned up resolution to utter distinctly and mildly his request.

The man of iron was busy over his bill-book when Wilmer sought his presence, and looked up with a stern aspect.

"I feel quite sick," began Theodore, an older man than his employer, "from working beyond my strength for the last two days, and should be very glad if you could employ me at something lighter for as long a time, until I recover myself, when I will be much stronger than when I began, and able to keep steadily on. I have never been used to hard labour, and feel it the more severely now."

Mr.—looked at him with a slight sneer for a moment, and then replied,—

"I can't have any playing about me If my work suits you, well; if not, there are a plenty whom it will suit."

Silently did Wilmer withdraw from the presence of the unfeeling man, and turned with aching limbs to his toilsome work.

At night he found himself much worse than on the preceding evening; and on the ensuing morning he was unable to go to the store. It was nearly a week before he could again find his way out, and then he was in a sadly debilitated state, from the effects of a fever brought on by over-exertion. He went to the iron-store, and formally declined his situation. No offer was made to reengage him, and as he turned away from the door of the counting-room, he heard the man remark, in a sneering under-tone to a person present, "a poor milk-sop!"

Generally, the unfortunate are stung to the quick by any reflection upon them by those in a better condition; and few were more alive to ridicule than Wilmer. Both the condition and the constitutional infirmity combined, made the remark of Mr.—produce in his bosom a tempest of agitation; and for a moment he was roused from his usual calm exterior; but he recovered himself as quick as thought, and hurried away. He did not go directly home, but wandered listlessly about for several hours. When he returned at the usual dinner hour, he found his wife busily engaged in preparing dinner. Her babe was asleep in the cradle, by which sat the eldest boy, touching it with his foot, while the other little one, about four years old, was prattling away to her baby-doll.

"Why Constance, where is Mary?"