Sunshine after Storm

Pacific Seventh-day Adventist Publishing Association · Oakland, California · Aug 8, 1878

Sunshine after Storm.

THE bright June sunshine streamed cheerily into the long visitors' room of a country lunatic asylum. Around the high and open windows the heavily-foliaged trees swayed in the breeze, and the birds chittered and sang.

But sunshine, birds, and trees were little noticed by the occupants of that long room; they were too engaged to notice any signs of gladness without. Around the large apartment various small groups were formed, each group having for its center of interest a poor lunatic. It was curious to look around and note the different phases of madness in these poor creatures. One was weeping as passionately and continuously as if the sorrow of many lives had been heaped upon her, and she were trying to dissolve the load in tears; another chattered like a magpie, with the absorbed air of a philosopher, though her utterances were as foolish a jumble as was ever strung together; another sat moodily staring at the anxious friends who had come to see her, scarcely deigning to speak a word to them; another laughed and uttered drolleries which brought unwilling smiles to the faces of her friends; but of all the groups none was more interesting than one composed of a sprightly little dark-eyed woman in gown and cap which marked her as an inmate of the place; a young widow with a toddling baby-boy, and a young man and woman.

The old woman caught up the baby and half smothered it with kisses. "He won't be like you, mind, Jenny; he's got his father's bonnie blue eyes—bless him!" And with tearful eyes she bent over the child again and gave him another dose of kisses. It was quite too much for the little fellow; he stoutly resisted it, struggled to his feet, and got behind grandma's chair. "Well, Ruth, so you brought Philip Davis to see me," continued the old woman. "I'm glad to see you, Philip, and hope you are sticking to work and getting on. To tell you the plain truth, lad, though I'm glad to see you, I'm not quite comfortable at seeing you and Ruth together. I shall ask you all about it when I go home, and give you both a talking to. I am not going to let another get into what I did without speaking some warning and advice."

"Hush, mother," said the young widow, seeing the tears filling the old woman's eyes; "the governor'll be here directly, and we must n't let him see you crying, or he'll think it's because you are so loth to leave this place."

"Ha! ha!" laughed Ruth, quietly; "would n't he guess the truth, mother?"

"Not a bit of it," said the mother, laughing through her tears. "How is the old man, Ruth?"

"Better, lately, I think, mother. But mind, you are not going back to him; your're going to visit Philip's mother for a few weeks. He came to-day on purpose to invite you; and why do n't you speak up, Phil?" added the vivacious damsel, turning to the young man.

A smile broke over his handsome brown face as he replied. "It isn't fair to reprove a fellow for not speaking, when you've taken the words out of his mouth."

Presently the governor entered.

"Who wants me? Is it you, Rhoda Sperry?"

"Yes, sir," said the old lady, rising, and giving him a smile and a courtesy. "It's to speak about my going home, sir."

"Why you do n't mean to say you're well enough?" he said gayly, laying his hand on her shoulder.

"Yes, sir, I do," answered Rhoda; "and they all do."

He turned to the visitors.

"Yes, we should like her to come home, please, sir," said Ruth, her face beaming with smiles. "We all think she's quite well enough."

"Very well," said the pleasant governor; "then I'll make arrangements for her to leave next week; and she can be out next Sunday to spend the day with you, if you like."

The old woman smiled delightedly, and blessed the kind man with her eyes. After a few more cheery words, he left them to continue their chat, and for some time they carried it on heartily. It was a beautiful picture in a dreary setting—yes, dreary, in spite of the sunshine within, and the music without, for in reality it was a tomb for the living, a place wherein men and women suffered from the worst malady that afflict human nature.

The leave-taking now had to take place between the visitors and the visited. Never before had old Rhoda Sperry said good-by so cheerily; never before had she returned to the monotony of her life in the asylum with smiles on her wrinkled face. But now she left the long room almost trippingly, with the gladness of a prisoner having received a promise of liberty.

On the following Sunday an equally gladsome picture to the one referred to above might have been seen in a little thatched cottage some five or six miles from the asylum. In the "best room" sat Rhoda Sperry like a queen in the old arm-chair, surrounded by the same young folks whom we have already seen, and Philip Davis' mother.

A beautiful quietness prevailed, broken only by the humming of bees and the twittering of birds around the open door. The fragrance of a thousand flowers was wafted in by the softest of breezes.

The group within seemed to be enjoying it too much to talk. Moreover, they seemed to be waiting for somebody to complete their satisfaction for each other's society. Presently Ruth rose from her low seat, and, with a shade of anxiety on her ruddy face, went and stood at the door. Her mother glanced up at her and said, "What keeps Philip? Where is he gone?"

"It is n't late for him," answered his mother; "he always runs down to 'The Grapes' after dinner on Sunday to see some of his friends."

"Does he?" said old Rhoda, in a peculiar voice. "And what about other days?"

"He goes in evenings," replied his mother.

Rhoda Sperry became strangely agitated. Leaning forward, she said to her daughter, "Ruth! Ruth!"

The girl half turned, revealing a crimsoned cheek. "Yes, mother," she answered quietly.

"Does he ever get drunk?" almost gasped the little old mother.

"Very seldom," answered Ruth, with her head cast down.

"O, Ruth, what have I told you many and many a time? How I've warned you! But you shall not get into what I've suffered! You must n't have him, do you hear?—you must n't!"

Ruth did not speak, but as she turned away she saw nothing of the beauty without for tears.

"Hush! mother," said the young widow, in a soothing voice; "you must n't worry yourself, or we shall not enjoy each other's company to-day."

Rhoda leaned back in her chair, and wept quietly. Ruth went outside and sat on a bench under the window. In a few minutes her lover entered the garden with a jaunty step.

"What's up now, Ruth?" he asked, gayly. "What on earth have you got to cry about at such a time as this? and your mother, too, I declare! Why, what is the matter!"

"It's about your going to 'The Grapes' so often," said his mother. "I've told you myself many a time, Phil, that no good can come of it, and that for Ruth's sake you ought n't to go. It's Sundays and week-days just the same."

"Well what harm is there in it?" he asked, looking around at the disturbed faces with some amazement. His own was flushed with something more than the heat of the sun; and he was just in a mood to be either yielding or defiant.

"I'll tell you what," said Ruth's mother, looking up through great tears; "tell Ruth to come in, and let us all sit together here, while I answer your question."

Philip and Ruth came and sat beside her mother. Had it not been for that noisy moving just then, they would have heard a step on the flag-stones outside the window. As it was, the visitor outside took his seat close under the open window, where he could not be seen from within, and yet could hear every word that was spoken. Old Rhoda's voice trembled much as she began, but steadied as she went on.

"Thirty years ago, ay, more than that, thirty-five years ago," she said, "two young folks were walking and whispering about these lanes, just as you two, Philip, do now—that was my Ned and me; and we were looking forward to many years of happiness, though we were not going the right way to get them. I was a proud, willful bit of a girl, more than twenty though—old enough to know better; and I would n't listen to anything that mother or any body else said to me. I was blind and foolish, but mother could see clear enough what was to come; and though I did n't believe her warnings, it did come, and a thousand times I've had to rue the day that I despised her anxious words; ah, bitterly rue it, too! Ned was almost such another as you, Philip—sometimes you remind me very much of him. He was a smart young fellow, spirited and gay, and he seemed to me kind-hearted, but really he was n't so kind-hearted as he seemed. If he had been, there would have been some pleasant breaks, now and then, in the long years of ill usage; but no, from the time when he gave himself quite up to drinking, there was nothing kind in him at all. He was like one possessed of a devil. But you know he was n't like that from the first. No, no; he carried on just as you do now, Phil, going out at night and getting tipsy once in a while. Mother and all my friends entreated me to give him up; they said if he would n't pay any heed to my words before marriage, he would be sure not to after. But I did n't believe it. I thought when I was always with him, he would settle down into a good husband. Many a girl keeping company with a young fellow of loose habits thinks just so; but it is n't often that things turn out as she expects. I pretty soon had to wake up to the truth of what I had done, and what a waking up it was! God pity any poor young thing that's got to go through the same trial! At first my proud spirit kept me up, and helped me to hold out against Ned; but that soon gave way, and I seemed to sink down like one crushed and heart broken. To feel that every hope of home comfort and husband's love is gone, and that one is tied for life to a man who is a curse instead of a blessing, is more than the most spirited woman could bear long. When my first baby was born—your husband that was, Jennie—I vowed before God that he should never touch that which had made a wreck of all my hopes, and I trained him up and you, too, you know, Ruth, to hate it, and keep from it forever. When he was old enough to think for himself, Arthur used to say he thought it wise of me to train him up to do so, and was glad that I had kept him from such dangerous temptation. To the day of his death he kept the promise he made me years ago, as faithful as could be, did n't he, Jennie? and he was the better for it, and would have lived a healthy man for years, if he had n't met with that accident that was the death of him."

The young widow leaned her head on her mother-in-law's lap and wept quietly. The old woman caressed it tenderly, as she proceeded:—

"And Ruth I talked to and warned, and she promised to mind me; but since I've been away she seems to have forgotten her promise; and I suppose my last years are to be filled with sorrow by seeing her walk into the pit of misery that I walked into." She paused a moment, and then continued: "But no, you must not do it, Ruth! I would rather see you now lying dead at my feet than that you should have the life I have had! What it was none but God knows. You need not think I went mad for nothing. All the wonder is to me how I kept my senses so long during those years of misery, and fear, and despair. Girls think it a very little thing that their sweethearts drink and get tipsy now and then; but they little know what may come of it. When the drink once gets anything like the mastery, it quenches everything—hope, happiness, love, life—everything. To think what my Ned would have been if it had not been for that! What a good kind husband and father! And what a happy, peaceable life I should have had! But everything has been ruined altogether; and now we must be separated to the end."

"You do n't know, mother," said Jennie, looking up. "Father has seemed broken down and better lately. Who knows but he might give up the drink altogether, and become good and kind in his old days, like my Arthur was? I was talking to him last week, and I am sure he was a bit repentant. He asked how we had found you at the asylum, and spoke of what a curse he had been to you."

"Ah, Jennie! it's no use talking, dear. I shall never let myself hope any more. I've hoped and hoped, and been disappointed so many times, that I shall never do it again. But I want to save Ruth from all that. So, Philip, if you really love her, as you profess to do, give her proof of it now, before me, her mother, who has suffered so dreadfully."

"What do you want me to do?" asked Philip.

"I want you to promise her now, on the word of a truthful and honest man, that you'll never again touch that useless and dangerous drink, that is sure to change you from a kind man to a savage unfeeling brute. I know Ruth does n't believe that; but did I believe it about my Ned?"

"But suppose I should n't keep my promise?" said Philip.

"Of course you'd keep it, Philip," answered old Rhoda. "Your manliness and your love for Ruth would make you keep it; but more than that, you can have God's strength to help you; if you get that, there is no fear of breaking down."

Turning to Ruth, the mother added: "Ruth, I wonder you have never put Philip's love to the test before this. I should think after all you have seen, you would have done this, and not been so quiet about it."

"She has n't been quiet, Mrs. Sperry," said Philip. "She has spoken to me many times about it; but I have always laughed it off; I did not think she was in real earnest; but now, tell me Ruth, do you really

mean that it would make you happier and better satisfied with me, if I gave up drinking altogether, and became like your brother Arthur? Because if it would, I will do it. I hope I have too much love for you to let anything selfish trouble you, and destroy your happiness. Drinking is just one of my selfish habits; it gratifies me, but if it distresses you, I can give it up. So put me to the test, Ruth."

Ruth looked up into his honest face and said, "Will you promise, then, Philip, for your own sake, and mine and mother's, to give it up altogether from this day?"

"I will, indeed, Ruth," he answered firmly, taking both her hands.

"Phil," she said tearfully, "if it was any thing that lowered you in God's sight or man's, I would not wish you to do it, if it would gratify me ever so much. But it will not lower you; it will make you a better and truer man, and will bless you in body and soul, I know it will."

"Yes, I know that too, Ruth. I've many times been the worse for drink as regards my mind and body, my work, and everything. I know you would not wish me to do anything to my injury in any way; and if I know it, I will not do anything to yours."

At this moment, a tall, wasted, gray old man appeared in the door-way, and gazed fixedly at the group before him. Old Rhoda started and turned pale, and Ruth rose in a tremor from her seat.

"Ah, how frightened you all seem of me?" said the man in slow, sad tones. "No wonder, no wonder; for I've been a monster, have n't I? But, Rhoda, I hear you haven't forgotten the early days, and the love I once had for you. Well, it is n't all dead yet; it never has been, though it's been smothered for years and years. There's some in my wicked old heart yet; and will you put it to the test, mother? Put it to the test, as you told Ruth to do to Philip just now. I've heard all you said; I've been sitting under the window."

Rhoda leaned back, a faint feeling came over her, and she closed her eyes. The old man went and stooped down beside her. "Rhoda, Rhoda," he said, "I won't ask you to come back and live with me now, not till I have shown you that I have repented sincerely; but now, if you've got ever such a bit of faith in me, put it to the test, and see if I do n't prove that I'm sorry with all my soul that I've been such a brute to you all these years."

"How shall I put you to the test, Ned?" asked his wife tremblingly.

"As Ruth did Philip," he replied.

"And do you mean to say, Ned, that you will, give up the drink altogether and forever?"

"I do, Rhoda, in God's strength."

Tears and blessings, gladness and thankfulness and love prevailed in the little room, making it a paradise of joy. Ah, how much happiness one such high and holy determination as this can give to human hearts! And what rejoicing in the sunshine after long and heavy storms.—Sel.