Late one evening, after losing heavily by gambling, he tried to drown his mortification and remorse by excessive indulgence, and came reeling home in a state of beastly intoxication. Being his wife's first suspicion of his habits, though she had often wondered what kept him out so late, it gave her a stunning blow, which he had just sense enough to observe. Maddened by the conviction that he had lost the last claim upon the love or reverence of any human being, he vented his raging passions upon her and her sleeping babe.
Mrs. Crawford lacked the strong will, which, if it might have made her more rebellious, would have helped her to rise above her fate, and her native refinement and purity of character revolted at the life of degradation she must live with him. Like a fair and delicate flower rudely transplanted from the warm and genial breezes where it has been tenderly reared, she drooped and faded at the first rough wind. It was true she had shed many bitter tears that year as a gentle child does at the occasional harshness of its parents, and then dries them again and smiles at the first pleasant word, but love always found some excuse in the pressure of business and its vexations, and sought yet to be happy in striving to make him so.
Suddenly hurled from the fond anticipations of the young wife and mother into the overwhelming depths of despair, she saw nothing before her but darkness and desolation. Every night she trembled at the sound of his footsteps, and every morning grew more hopeless and heartsick at sight of him.
