Lovers and Husbands CHAPTER 18.
Back to Lovers and Husbands
A few words only are required to enable the reader to understand the new and somewhat startling position in which he finds his former acquaintance, Charles Whitney. After his marriage, he showed as little disposition to attend to business as before. It was in vain that his father remonstrated with him. Why should he vegetate in a counting room, over old ledgers, or trouble his brains about the prices of goods — when his "old man" had enough for all his future needs? It was much more agreeable to spend his time in idle pleasure-taking, and he consulted his inclination rather than the wishes and judgment of his father. For a year or two, old Mr. Whitney allowed his son to draw whatever money he wanted; but, as his draughts grew heavier and heavier, while his attention to business was less and less constant — he felt it to be his duty to lay some restrictions upon him. This caused the young man to become excited, and make rather hasty and imprudent remarks, the consequence of which was a separation between him and his father, attended by a material reduction of supplies.
During this time, Emily, his wife, had been treated by her husband with as much kindness as one like him was capable of showing to a woman.
He was away from her a great deal, and had nearly all of his pleasures independent of her. But still he was fond of his wife, and proud of her beauty. His manner, when at home, was uniformly kind. She did not complain of his absence, although she felt it keenly, and this prevented the occurrence of anything personally unpleasant between them.
Not long after the rupture which took place between Mr. Whitney and his son, the old man died, leaving to Charles twenty thousand dollars, as a sufficient sum to commence business upon if disposed to pursue any business, and quite sufficient to squander, if he felt no disposition to change his habits. Deeply incensed at his father, Whitney at first refused to touch the "pitiful sum" assigned to him by the will; but the pressing demands of creditors, who had heard the rumor about his being cut off with a mere pittance, led him to change his mind. He took the money, and paid away five thousand dollars in the settlement of sundry bills.
Instead, then, of seeking to invest the balance profitably, he continued his idle — alas! that we should have to say, vicious — courses. His elegant home was still kept up. Brilliant entertainments were given as before; and thus he wasted rapidly the little that remained. But worse than this. The pleasure-seeking sons of rich fathers move in a sphere beset withtemptations hard to be resisted. In this sphere Whitney felt the force of strong allurements to evil. One of its most direful temptations is that of gambling. There is, in all large cities, a class of men who live upon the ruin of others — gamblers. A young man with plenty of money to spend, and plenty of time upon his hands — is almost sure to be either entrapped or strongly tempted from virtue by someone of this class. The danger is imminent. The business of these men is to win money, instead of earning it by honorable industry in the various branches of trade, and they study their business thoroughly.
A man, whose profession was gambling, saw Whitney, understood him thoroughly, and resolved on making him a victim. He insinuated himself dexterously into his confidence, and then gradually led him away into the vice of gambling. After this, by accomplices, he won from him large sums, while he yet had control of as much money as he wanted. After the death of his father, this man professed to feel a great interest in him, and held out, as a means of sustaining himself, the certain gains of his own profession, that was now openly declared. Hitherto, Whitney had not suspected that his friend was a principal, with an extensive arrangement of subordinates not only in New York — but in various parts of the country. Under other circumstances, such a discovery would have been startling to him. Now it affected him differently. He soon learned many of the tricks of the profession, and entered upon their practice with some success. In return for the favors done him by his pretended friend, that individual managed, through one of his subordinates, whose relation was unsuspected by Whitney, to get at least ten thousand dollars of his legacy!
For about three years after his father's death, Whitney managed to keep up appearances; but at the end of that period, fortune turned upon him a less smiling countenance. During this time, his irregular habits, and more especially his altered appearance and manner, troubled much the heart of his uncomplaining wife. Her face had become thoughtful — her eye dim. This change he could not help seeing, nor help feeling its silent rebuke. Had she questioned him too closely of his habits — had she complained of her loneliness — had she wept before him on account of neglect, his heart would have grown hard towards her; but the smile with which she always greeted his return, and the fond allurements with which she so unobtrusively strove to keep him by her side — made him feel for her much tenderness. The fading rose upon her cheek, whose delicate tints grew paler and paler every day, often awoke bitter upbraidings in his bosom. But it was too late, he deemed, to change his course.
Seven years had passed since her happy wedding-day, when Emily, seated by a window in a house far less imposing than the one she had lived in during the first five or six years of her married life, and far less elegantly arranged within, looked dreamily out upon the busy street, her thoughts unaffected by the scene before her. Two children were playing quietly about the room. A third, her first-born, was sleeping its mortal sleep. Three months before, it had fallen beneath the sickle of the reaper Death. The thoughts of the mother were with her lost one. While thus sadly musing, her husband, unexpectedly, came in. He sat down by her side, and taking her hand with more tenderness than he usually displayed, said, in a slightly hesitating voice,
"Emily, I shall have to leave New York."
The wife suddenly alarmed, turned pale, and looked her husband earnestly and inquiringly in the face.
"I find it impossible to keep up here. I struggle hard" (in what business, Emily really did not know; her husband had never ventured to inform her truly; she had been easily satisfied by his vague accounts). "Still, it is of no use. New York is not the place for me; but I have an offer of business, if I will go South, that is very advantageous. Are you willing to go, Emily?"
"I will go anywhere with you, dear Charles," the wife said, leaning heavily against him as she spoke, and looking into his face with dim — but affectionate eyes. His unusual tenderness of voice and manner had touched her feelings. "But it will be hard to leave my mother. There is little in New York besides her that has any power to hold me."
"If you had rather stay with her," Whitney said, after sitting thoughtful for some time, "I will not object. Money to meet your expenses can be regularly transmitted."
"Oh no, no, Charles!" she quickly returned, "I am ready to go with you anywhere. Am I not your wife — and are not these your children? We must not be separated!"
In one month, Emily, with a sad, foreboding heart, parted with her mother. She sailed, with her husband and children, in a boat for New Orleans. At that city she spent nearly two years, her husband absent from her most of the time. He was engaged in business up the river, and only visited New Orleans about once in two or three months and then for only a few days or a week.
He kept his wife moderately supplied with money, enough to meet her own and the children's needs. How he obtained this, she did not certainly know, although, by this time, she more than guessed the truth.
One day, after the expiration of about two years, he was brought home in a very low state. He had been severely wounded (shot accidentally, he stated to Emily) in an affray, in which he was attacked by a man from whom he had won a considerable sum of money. The victim suspected, justly enough, that there had been foul play, and he sought revenge by an attempt to kill Whitney. In this, he came very near being successful. The wound proved to be a very dangerous one, and was rendered doubly so in consequence of a violent fever. From the effects of both combined, he was brought very near to death. As soon as he could be moved, he caused himself to be placed on board of a steamboat, and thus conveyed to New Orleans. By the time he arrived there; he could sit up in a carriage, if supported on both sides. In this way he was taken home to his wife.
To Emily his sudden appearance in so alarming a condition was a dreadful shock. As he gradually recovered, she urged him not to leave her again, or, if his business still required him to be so much of his time in the upper country, to take her with him. To this he replied that he would not go on the river again; that he would remain in New Orleans. This he did for some months, then they moved to Charleston, South Carolina, where the reader has been introduced to him as an agent in a very disreputable affair indeed. Here he did not meet with the success, as a regular gambler, that had crowned his efforts on the Mississippi and Ohio, in the steamboats of which he had spent a greater portion of his time. Often he was much straitened financially. At last, acknowledging that he lacked the peculiar ability required to ensure success, he connected himself with the keeper of an extensive "Hell," as a" stool pigeon" — one whose business it is to entice people by deceptive arts, and bring them in contact with men who will either win their money by superior skill, or cheat them out of it by playing unfairly.
Even in this detestable calling, he had hard work to make enough to minister to the needs of his family — or, rather, to minister to their needs, and supply himself with the means of dashing about, and spending freely on his habits. From the best hotel in the place, where he had at first lived, he found himself compelled to go down to one less expensive, and again to descend still lower rate hotel.
We find him and his family in this last position, their bill for boarding, the accumulation of three months, unpaid. Emily is greatly changed. Poorly clad, broken down in health and spirits, toiling on early and late for her children, and yet clinging to her husband with undying affection — to that husband who might have lifted her up, instead of depressing her — who might have made her sky bright with sunshine, instead of dark with clouds.
Back to Lovers and Husbands