CHAPTER VI.
IN DISAPPOINTMENT.
WITH returning health came little improvement in the feelings of Matthew Hill, and, so far from expressing any penitence for his great fault, he was obstinately bent on maintaining that he was himself the aggrieved party after all.
His wife had carefully attended to the rules of the hospital in supplying him with everything required, but had neither sought to see him, nor permitted his children to do so, nor conveyed any message of kindness. She nursed her own anger, and only expatiated upon the disgrace, misery, and sin of drunkenness with any one who inquired after his condition.
As Matthew Hill was a member of a club, and during the last year of sobriety and industry had saved a little money, no present inconvenience was felt in the family, and Mrs. Hill coldly declined any kind of assistance from the hands of her Christian neighbour, Mrs. Field.
Thus several weeks passed away.
"Well, Mrs. Hill," cried a cheery voice at her door one day, "I've just stopped to congratulate you. Matthew is declared well enough to leave the infirmary to-morrow, and I hope after a few days of your nursing, we shall soon have him at work again."
Mrs. Hill was "much obliged" in her dryest manner; "she had heard so."
"And he'll never try that mischief again, Mrs. Hill," pleaded Benjamin Field, anxiously. "So you'll let bygones be bygones; he's had a sharp lesson, and will be only too glad to get home again."
"We shall see," said Mrs. Hill, icily; "I should think he'll know better than to expect any trust in his words."
"Well, let us help him with kind hearts and hearty welcomes," ventured Mr. Field to say, and then he passed on, with some misgivings as to what she would "see" if she were not cautious of her extremely disagreeable ways—enough, he almost thought, to provoke Job himself, let alone a common person.
Then came Mrs. Oakland, with a beautiful bouquet of her sweetest flowers, "to adorn the table," she said, "when Matthew should take his own seat again."
Inwardly, Mrs. Hill was immensely gratified, but her temper would not suffer her to appear so. She had rudely repulsed all the efforts of her kind friend to soften her displeasure towards her husband, and she would not now admit the propriety of treating him as if he had never so grossly offended her.
The next day the children danced about with delight at the news of "father coming home," and helped to keep everything in order against his arrival. In spite of herself, Mrs. Hill caught the infection, and smiled and moved about like a loving wife and happy mother in the midst of her household treasures.
He would leave the hospital in time to get home to tea, she thought. So a clean damask cloth was spread, the best tray and china brought out, tea-cakes that Matthew particularly enjoyed were prepared, the flowers filled a pretty vase, and the room never looked more thoroughly like a comfortable "home," not even on that memorable day when Matthew had complimented his "own fireside," and when its joys were so suddenly interrupted by the brick that came down the chimney.
Not that even a brick, followed by the contents of a dozen chimneys, could have really overthrown the happiness of home had it been based on a solid foundation, but when tempers are so touchy that one must feel "like walking on eggs" when near them, and resolutions are so weak that they must not be risked by a temptation, the security is, indeed, small against the outbreak of the one and the fall of the other. The same remedy alone can avail either, a heart brought under the power of God's grace may conquer any temper and bring resolution safe through any danger. Less will no more bind the strong enemies of peace than the green withes of the Philistines the limbs of Samson.
However, everything now testified that Mrs. Hill was in a most propitious mood, and meant that everything should show it.
Four o'clock. The children stationed themselves at the bright window, so clean that you could scarcely tell there was any glass to look through; the baby's clean bib was tied on; the little heads were smoothed again, and the kettle was placed in a convenient attitude for its song in due time.
Five o'clock. Perhaps Matthew might not be able to walk very fast yet, but presently, of course, he would get home.
Six o'clock. The children were tired of watching after two wonderfully patient hours, and, pitying them, their mother bade them come and have tea, and then they would enjoy seeing father get his by-and-by.
A disagreeable, cross sensation was beginning to rise that, after all, Matthew might choose to call somewhere else before coming home.
"May we have some of the cakes, mother?"
"Oh yes, I thought—But it doesn't matter, we can eat them ourselves." But Mrs. Hill ate not any.
In vain, after a hasty tea, the children resumed their watch; they had to go, bitterly disappointed, to bed.
The last little one was asleep, and Mrs. Hill had leisure to reflect. She had been softening all the day; she had intended to surprise her husband with a real welcome when no one else should see her come down from "the high horse" of her indignant displeasure, and, if he seemed really to regret the past, she would certainly forgive and forget, and they would be happy once more.
But this delay overthrew all her calculations, and she was getting extremely uncomfortable, when a gentle tap announced a visitor.
She started and sprang forward, to be met by the kind, pleasant faces of Mr. and Mrs. Benjamin Field.
"Didn't you say that Matthew would be out of the infirmary to-day?" she asked, with as much composure as she could.
"Yes, is he not come?" replied and asked Benjamin, with a kind of gasp of dismay, adding kindly, "My wife and I couldn't help stepping down just to see if we should all have a bit of thanksgiving together."
"You must have been mistaken," faltered Mrs. Hill; "it couldn't be to-day."
"Well, I am very sorry," said Mr. Field; "but something may have happened to keep him another day or so. I'll go over the first thing in the morning and see, so we must bear our disappointment as well as we can."
But Benjamin was something more than disappointed, and nothing but the distance prevented him from going at once.
But the next morning's post explained the mystery. A letter from Matthew Hill ran thus:—
"DEAR FRIEND,—I am out of ward, and am very obliged to everybody who
has shown me kindness. I have never heard nor seen any sign that I
should be welcome at home, and, as change of air will be good for me, I
have determined to get it. I shall work somewhere and send my earnings
to my family, so no one need think evil of me for going. Please give my
love to my dear children, and don't let them forget me, and tell their
mother to use any money of mine as she thinks best.
"I am, dear friend,
Yours truly,
MATTHEW HILL.
"To Mr. Field,
Foreman at —."
Mr. Field would almost as soon have stood in the pillory as convey this miserable intelligence to the waiting wife; but it must be done, and as tenderly as true and delicate feeling could do it, it was done.
"It's all one. If he don't care, no more do I," said Mrs. Hill, with a desperate effort to avoid choking: "so, if you please, Mr. Field, we'll say no more about it."
Never was the washing done so quickly as on that morning, never did clothes get such a wringing, and all in such solemn silence, while the children, awed and quiet, felt that something terrible had happened.
Kind Mrs. Oakland was soon with the stricken woman, but no sign of the disturbance within was allowed to betray the truth.
"Dear Jane," said Mrs. Oakland, "you feel more than you say, and I should not like to suppose you indifferent to this unexpected conduct. But let us hope the best. Our good friend Mr. Field will be sure to find him, and then a few lines from you will set all right."
Jane was "much obliged, but she didn't want any interference; he could come back when he pleased, and she should never ask him. If he chose to act in such a brutish manner, she and the children were better without him, that was all."
And the unhappy woman shut herself up again in her proud temper, desperately parrying any sympathy that penetrated beyond the external facts of the case, but accepting all that could be offered to her as the victim of a husband's selfishness and ingratitude, the hardworking mother of forsaken children, and the most patient and persecuted of modern martyrs.
Mrs. Oakland and the Fields thought they saw deeper into her heart, and believed that real feeling, dreadful mortification, and wounded self-love strove with natural affection in a perpetual tempest there, without anything to comfort or subdue; and they prayed that the only One who can go where He will and act as He sees best, would breathe over the storm of passion, and open the stubborn heart to the influences of love and peace.
In the meantime, they left no means untried to trace the misguided truant, and many were the fruitless errands to different places where it was probable he might seek employment. His letter spoke of sending his earnings to his family, and they then hoped for some clue. But the earnings arrived in the form of a note in an envelope addressed to Mr. Field, with the request that it might be given to "Mrs. Hill," and the information that he was not yet in full health, and should go to "foreign parts."
CHAPTER VII.
EVIL COMMUNICATIONS.
"WELL to be sure, Mrs. Hill, you 'do' bear your troubles! Mrs. Smith, she says to me, says she, 'If there's a true hero in the world, it's Mrs. Hill; she don't ask nobody's pity, nor nobody's help, but she goes and works herself to death before anybody will hear a complaint.' That's true, I says, but then it'll tell inwardly, poor thing, and we do feel it a duty, Mrs. Hill, to warn you, because you don't look the woman you did three months ago, and you'll be in your grave before you know it. You'll excuse me for venturing to speak, because it seems a liberty like; but, as I says, if it's done respectful and in real kindness, Mrs. Hill's too good a woman to take it amiss."
Mrs. Hill's countenance underwent several changes during this unexpected speech. She had never been a gossip, and this woman, and the set to which she was supposed to belong, had been considered altogether beneath her notice. Neither had any of the neighbours presumed to make free with her and her griefs to her face. But she was not insensible to the charm of notoriety among them, if it took a form so flattering to her self-love, and her sense of injury and oppression.
She had opened the door, and assumed the coldest expression of reserve when she perceived her visitor, but the knock had been modest, and the woman stood so respectfully inquiring after her health and welfare that she could not but thaw a little, and invite her to take a seat, and bear patiently with her company for a few minutes.
In those few minutes, Mrs. Swinden profited by her opportunity; she got an invitation "to drop in again," which she failed not to do, and to her own great contentment found herself on another visit, seated in Matthew Hill's comfortable chair, with a fair prospect of a share in Mrs. Hill's supper.
"And you don't sleep much, I'll be bound," said she, in a pitiful tone; for supper without something "good" to drink with it was not at all to her mind; "who can wonder, with such troubles to bear, and not knowing what may happen to rob the dear children of their only friend? And you are getting weaker and weaker, and doing nothing to keep what strength you've got left."
As for strength, Mrs. Hill could not really plead any conscious difference at present, but when one feels cross and disagreeable, and disinclined to do one's duty, it is a very welcome suggestion that one is weak and delicate, and ought to be very careful—and Mrs. Hill gave a gentle nod and a sigh, in acknowledgment of the discernment of her visitor.
But with regard to sleep, there was some truth in the remark. Mrs. Hill's sleep was broken by sensations that irritated her greatly. In the dark, and in her dreams, conscience made itself heard, and spoke of temper and pride, and self-will, and an unforgiving spirit, which had drive her husband to the desperate step that had almost widowed her, and robbed her home of its head, and her children of their protector.
Then would arise the thought of him—a wanderer, his home affections wounded and his fault exposed, yet the proof of his remembrance in the money sent through his friend, Benjamin Field, to save her and his children from suffering by his absence.
Thus, sleep was wooed in vain, and Mrs. Hill longed for daylight and occupation to hush the tumult within, and build up again her defences of injured innocence and self-righteousness. She tried to think that God was on her side, or at least she was sure He ought to be, and it was not for her to change places with the offending party; "she" was not going to "give up" in that manner.
"Indeed, you must take something to make you sleep, dear Mrs. Hill, and with your leave, I'll just step down street and bring you just a cordial—nothing strong, you know—but only what will soothe you nicely, and get you a night's rest."
"Oh, dear, no; don't take that trouble, I can bear it all; it isn't likely I can sleep, you know, as people do who've no sorrows," murmured Mrs. Hill. It had never struck her that there was anything in the world to make sleep, and she thought she had certainly been very forgetful of herself.
Mrs. Swinden had got outside the door, but putting her head in again, she said, "You know if the health needs it, it's no sin, even if you did take the pledge."
"'I' take the pledge!" exclaimed Mrs. Hill. "You don't suppose there ever was any need for 'me' to do such a thing?"
"No, indeed I don't, but I didn't know but what you might when—when—"
"When Matthew did, I suppose. No, 'I' don't need to promise to be sober. I know when I've had enough, I should think, else I 'would' be ashamed of myself."
The tempter had struck the right chord for her purpose, and straightway went off for the "cordial."
"I've got only just enough for two nights," said she, settling herself again, and looking to the kettle; "now I'll take the liberty to make it right for you myself."
"You must have the rest, Mrs. Swinden, if you please, I couldn't take it else. Yes, indeed, you must, and I must pay for it, too."
This was too obliging to be resisted, and over their glasses of spirit and water, the two women, so very different in character, habits, and position, got very intimate and confidential, and talked over their wrongs and their unappreciated merits until the candle spit and sputtered in its socket and warned Mrs. Swinden to depart.
She had spent the proceeds of a portion of wearing apparel given to her by the lady who had employed her, in procuring the dose for the evening, and now repaid by Mrs. Hill, could not resist another glass on her way home, where she found her husband stumbling in, swearing and knocking about because there was no light, no supper, no fire, and no sound but the low wail of the youngest child, who had not been well all day, and lay huddled up with the others in a corner, where they had crept and fallen asleep.
Mrs. Hill went to bed with a confused notion that she had long misjudged this kind woman, and nothing doubting that the misery she had heard of in her family was caused solely by the evil habits of the husband. She did not know that this worthy neighbour had originated the report of the strangling, and excited the appetite of her respectable circle for a trial for murder; but being very restless and unhappy, and tired of herself, she accepted from one who humoured her in her own conceits, the appearance of sympathy, which, true and warm but also faithful, she had rejected from safer friends.
However, she did sleep long and heavily, and awoke late with a headache. Well, so much time had been got over, and that was something, and a little bustling would soon make up for it.
The children had been long awake, and wanted their breakfast, and for the first time in their lives, their clothes were scrambled on without the usual washing and rubbing first. Then the fire was sulky, and the kettle wouldn't boil, and the wood that was stuffed between the bars to hasten it, operated just the other way, for Mrs. Hill, having forgotten to bring it in from the yard the evening before, a heavy shower or two during the night had soaked it well.
So nothing went right, and little items in the list of her wrongs were laid to Matthew's account. What a wonderful reckoner is a selfish, ill-tempered woman!
Mrs. Swinden failed not to "drop in" presently to inquire after her neighbour's welfare, and had a ready excuse for the headache, and cross, nervous condition of the poor patient.
"It's because you are so weak, you see. You've let your strength go down too far, but in a week or two you'll be all right, depend upon it. I shall see, as a duty, that you don't neglect yourself any longer."
And "the duty" was so interesting that she could not prevail on herself to leave her new charge alone, settling herself at Mrs. Hill's fireside as often as she could find or invent any excuse for doing so, and often lamenting the impossibility of inviting her to her own home, which was, she admitted confidentially, a very miserable one from a cause she could not bring herself to say much about.
"Ah, my poor husband!" she said, putting her apron to her eyes, and murmuring pathetically. "He'll be the ruin of us all; I'm afraid in my heart he will, in spite of all I can say or do."
Of course Mrs. Hill was at no loss to understand. Had not 'she' suffered enough from 'her' husband's temptation to drink, and did not 'she' know too well the misery it made?
"Ah, yes," she sighed, "wives had nothing to do but submit and suffer; drunken husbands were the plagues of the world—worse than the ten plagues of Egypt."
It was not long in coming to pass that the "little drop of cordial," mixed so carefully by Mrs. Swinden, seemed not quite sufficient to answer its purpose, and so after she was gone, Mrs. Hill, having a private bottle in reserve, would mix "just a drop more," for she needed both strengthening and sleep, and hadn't she "a right to what was necessary for her health and comfort?"
And the lone woman sat by her cheerless hearth, and felt more and more the need of consolation, and the desire to silence altogether the voice of conscience, which was fast subsiding into faint and occasional whispers within her. And the sleep she got was heavy and unrefreshing. Oh, fatal delusion! How many a victim began thus with the strengthening herself against sickness, and soothing the excitement of trouble; instead of waiting on Him who "giveth his beloved sleep," or comforts the wakeful hours with "songs in the night," and takes the weary and heavy-laden into His arms of pardoning love in Christ Jesus, and soothes them to rest with "the peace that passeth understanding."
"Ah, poor thing," said Mrs. Swinden, as she stood among the gossips at the street corner, where she was sure to have somebody's business to explain or inquire into, her own house not being a tempting scene for a consultation. "Poor thing, she's no better than her neighbours, after all, nor half as proud as I took her to be. You'll see," she added, with a significant nod.
"Well," said Mrs. Smith, diving in a little closer among the party while the greengrocer was in sight (she was in his debt for the herrings and stale cabbages on which she fed her husband and children when it was not convenient to get anything else, owing to supplies running short through the beer so needful to her delicate health), "well, she has took to you wonderful."
"Ay, she was losing sleep and getting so thin, and I persuaded her off the nonsense of going to bed on a drop of milk or porridge. She isn't the same woman to me since, 'cause she sees I'm her friend."
"And what about him?" asked one, eagerly.
"Oh, nobody knows; but he can hang himself if he likes so long as he only sends the money. She don't care a rush for him, and all right too; she's sick of doing for him from morning till night and no thanks for her pains."
"I say, Mrs. Swinden," said another woman, coming up and joining the group, with a jug in one hand and some pence in the other, "my James says your husband was going over the crossing last night just as the mail train came dashing by, and he and Kelly, who, you know, minds the rail there, had something to do to hold him back. Goodness me! It makes one shiver to think of it."
"Oh, then, don't think about it. He knows better than that anyway," said the wife.
"Well, you know best, in course, only I thought you ought to hear of it. James saw him home, but you weren't in, he said, and the children—"
"Oh, I'll see to him, never fear; he's as cowed as a beat dog when he's had too much if I come in sight. It's when he's sober that I've no peace of my life, always rating about nothing."
About nothing! Alas, poor man! But whoever began the mischief, they were equal now in all that distracted their home and degraded themselves.
CHAPTER VIII.
CAUGHT AND CAPTURED.
"ANY news of your husband, Jane?" asked Mrs. Oakland, stepping in after a gentle tap as usual at the door. "I saw Mrs. Field yesterday, and she said that some more money had come for you. I hope there is more than money to tell me of."
"Nothing that I know of, ma'am," said Jane; "I'm sure I wonder that anybody troubles about him any more, the worthless—"
"Hush, Jane, I will not hear you speak of him in that way. It does no good; it helps to harden your own heart, and very sad for the poor children. I have not given him up, and don't intend to do so. But I wanted to know also why the little ones have not been at school this week, and only part of last week. I'm sure you know, Jane, that only real interest in them causes me to inquire about it."
Jane's colour rose as she replied,—
"It's my duty to save all I can, because I can't tell when the money may stop coming, and I must be ready with rent and things."
"That is very true, but I am nearly sure that one reason for sending it is that the children may be kept at school, and everything go on as usual at home."
But it was too evident that things were not going on quite as formerly.
Jane looked strange, and not so neat and tidy as she used to be; the window-blind was dirty and the hearth was unswept, though it was not particularly early. Could it be that deep hidden grief and wounded affection made the forsaken wife indifferent to anything? And the thought touched Mrs. Oakland's kind heart.
"Dear Jane," said she, taking the young woman's reluctant hand, and making her sit down beside her, "will you trust me with the real state of your feeling towards Matthew? If your heart is softened about his unhappy fault, I promise you that everything shall be done to find him, and I am sure we should succeed; but unless sure that you would receive him kindly, we dare not insist upon his coming home to coldness and reproaches."
"If you know where he is, then, ma'am, you can say that, if he stops till I ask him back, he'll stop a good bit yet," said Jane, bitterly. "I don't want any meddling between us, if you please; let him take his course, I say."
"I have no doubt it is a very miserable one, wherever he may be, and I know no more than you do," replied the lady, with wonderful patience. "But I know that he loved you dearly once, Jane, and was very fond and proud of his children, and while there are such feelings left to work upon, I would never despair of any one. Poor baby!" she added, turning to the cradle where the little one lay rocking near the fire. "You miss dear father's strong arms and game at play."
"Me want daddy—where's daddy?" said the youngest but one, taking courage before the lady to speak her mind, and looking sideways at her mother the while. "Daddy carry Daisy on his shoulder; never tired of me. Daddy sick now; he say, 'Pray God make poor daddy well again, and be a good man.'" And then the child hid her blushing face in the baby's coverlet.
Mrs. Oakland glanced from the child to the mother, and with tears in her eyes, turned to go.
"We shall be leaving home next month, Mrs. Hill; and if anything is heard of Matthew, or any clue to his address, I lay it on your conscience to inform me of it. You will always be kept aware of our movements."
Mrs. Hill curtseyed slightly and said, "Of course, ma'am."
"Poor Jane!" thought her faithful friend. "She is certainly much altered; her ill-temper never used to be so continuous, but only broke out now and then. I fear her pride is killing her."
If the lady had looked a little closer into the cradle, she would have seen something wrong there also, but she was too much occupied with the mother to notice the change in the baby.
The little creature looked sickly and strange, the full, round, firm cheek was white and flabby, the fat arms were become soft and thin. What could be the cause? Mrs. Hill said the child was teething, and very restless and troublesome, and so she had favoured it with some very decisive and effectual medicines to soothe it to sleep, and save herself the trouble of watching it. A little while before, Jane would have angrily denounced such practices as cruel and murderous; but it is wonderful how soon people become reconciled to means which favour their own selfish convenience, especially when embarked on a course they once shunned and condemned.
Jane had touched the verge of a whirlpool, and in the dizzy attraction was forgetting the dignity of the matron and the tenderness of the mother. And all the while, she was boasting of her great self-denials and her powers of self-control.
The Oakland family set out on a long journey, and at one of the midland stations had to wait a little time for the train to proceed. Mrs. Oakland sat on a bench near the door of the waiting-room, and her boys and girls were popping about the platform, peering into everything and observing everybody while papa was getting the tickets.
Presently Willy stopped short in a run, gave a shrill whistle, and dashed off again till he came up to his mother's side gasping for breath.
"Mamma, mamma, I've seen him!—He's there; look, look! It's Mr. Hill!"
Up sprang the lady, forgetful of cloaks, baskets, and umbrellas. "If you are sure, Willy, fly and keep him till I come."
Away sped the child like an arrow, and in a few seconds clung fast by the arm of a tall, respectable-looking man, who was standing with his hands in the pockets of his working jacket watching a train that had just come in. He looked down in astonishment on his young captor.
"Why, Mr. Hill, don't you know me? Willy Oakland? Oh, I'm so glad I saw you. Here's mamma coming to speak to you, and you shan't run away any more. I'll hold you as tight as a prison," and, linking his hands round Matthew's arm, he jumped with glee.
The prisoner was evidently perplexed; he looked right and left, before and behind, as if thinking to shake off the boy and run, but after a moment or two, he gave up the idea of escape, and walked forward to meet the lady.
"Go, Willy, dear, find papa and tell him where I am," said Mrs. Oakland, advancing with outstretched hand to Matthew.
"Oh, Mr. Hill," said she, kindly, "why have you cast off your old friends? But we have no time to talk much; only say that you will go home. I do entreat you to return to your family, and have done with this foolish conduct."
"You don't know all, ma'am; you didn't see," muttered Matthew.
"Yes, I do know, I did see, and I grieve for the cross you have had to bear, but it cannot excuse you from duty to your family. You and Jane share a responsibility before God, and one has no right to throw the whole upon the other. You will go home, and set the example of forbearance and loving-kindness. Promise me this, and do it at once, before all is lost that makes home worth having; for we cannot understand Jane, she is much altered, and, oh, Matthew, if your neglect were to drive her to do something terrible, how would you feel? For your dear children's sake, I beseech you to go home immediately."
"I don't wish it," said Matthew, doggedly; "I've got work, and I'll send money, but I'll not go until—"
"Do you know one Mrs. Swinden?" interrupted Mrs. Oakland, quickly.
"What, the drunken, dirty gossip that sets the whole street by the ears when—But I beg pardon, ma'am, yes, I know who she is."
"She is the close friend of your wife, of our once neat, pretty, industrious Jane. She takes her dirty, ill-behaved children to your house to play with yours when she likes, and sits there herself for hours together; she exercises some strange power there. Matthew, will you suffer it?"
"I don't see how my going back will help it," said Matthew, though much startled at the news.
"It is your duty to rule your household and your children in the fear of God, and to keep them from evil influences. They have not attended school for some time, and it is said, though I am not accustomed to heed idle rumours, that this Mrs. Swinden boasts of a great victory over Jane about something too dreadful to think of. I hope, I pray, that it is untrue."
"Will she keep her temper, and not goad me to do wrong?" said Matthew. "Is she sorry for her hard, unkind treatment of me when I was ill and grieved at my sin, and needed some word of comfort?"
"I dare not say, for I do not know. But, Matthew, you must learn to do right for Christ's sake through trial and opposition if need be, without any conditions of having it made smooth for you first. But I must go. Where are you staying?"
"A letter to Mr. Mathews, Post-office B—, will find me sometime; but I don't live there, and can't be traced by that."
"The train is nearly ready, mamma. Our seats are taken," cried one of the boys, coming to hasten his mother.
"May God help you to a right mind, Mr. Hill. I am deeply sorry for your home trial, but again I warn you that you cannot throw off your duty there, and wife and children will one day be inquired for at your hands. How will you answer if you have deserted and ruined them?"
Mrs. Oakland hurried away and entered the carriage, and as the train rolled past the spot where Matthew stood, she looked anxiously at him and trusted she had made some impression. The children shouted to him, but he seemed not to see or hear. The train quickened and passed away, leaving Matthew Hill standing like one in a dream.
That Jane's vixenish temper was enough to provoke any man with a spark of feeling, no one would venture to deny, and he thought he had a right to get out of the way of it, and mark his displeasure in any way that seemed good to him, so long as he maintained his family by his own industry, and did not suffer them to burden the parish; in fact, he rather thought his conduct in that respect quite meritorious and magnanimous.
But Mrs. Oakland had thrown a new light over the matter, and he felt smaller, indeed very considerably shrunk in his own opinion, as her rapid but earnest words seemed to repeat themselves in his ear. Then the idea of his wife, the respectable and respected Mrs. Hill, who associated only with two or three of the nicest families in her own station in life, consorting with such a person as Mrs. Swinden, was as incomprehensible as it was odious and disgusting.
"Our once neat, pretty, industrious Jane," Mrs. Oakland had said.
Was she then no longer deserving of that description? She was his wife still, and he could not endure the thought of giving her company to one whom he had always considered a disgrace to her sex.
"Besides," thought Matthew, with increasing irritation, "that woman drinks. What on earth can bring her and Jane together? Jane, who could not but loathe her own husband when he fell into that temptation."
"Hollo, friend!" cried a porter, walking up to Mr. Hill. "When you've done dreaming, what train may you wish to go by?"
"Train to D—," said Matthew, starting.
"Gone, nearly ten minutes. Another in two hours passes through, and stops if there's any passengers; so till then you can finish your nap."
And the porter turned away laughingly, leaving the indiscreet passenger to amuse himself as he could, and bidding him "look a little sharper about him next time."
————————
CHAPTER IX.
WOES AND WARNINGS.
"TWO hours!" It was very annoying, but had to be borne, so Matthew Hill strolled into the town, still undecided about the course he should pursue towards his wife and family, but resolving to take some steps very soon. Perhaps he would write.
He was passing a stationer's shop, and it struck him to go in and ask leave to write a letter.
"Hadn't you better buy the paper and go over there to write it?" said the proprietor of the shop, who was not accustomed to have working men come in to write letters in his shop amongst his stylish customers. He had, too, been greatly disturbed with some occurrences in the day, and was not disposed to volunteer the necessary space and accommodation.
Matthew looked across the street where the stationer pointed with his pen as he spoke. It was a public-house, and several people were lounging about the door and talking together.
"No, thank you," said he, "I can't: one of those places nearly ruined me, and I never go into one again if I know it. But, if I'm in your way here, perhaps I can manage it at the station."
"No, friend, you shall write a dozen letters if you like, and I'm ashamed of myself for proposing it. The fact is, I've had a deal of trouble to-day, and selfishly wanted to be quiet."
And before Matthew could pay for his paper, the good man had bustled round his counter, cleared a little table, and set a chair and all the needful things for the letter, excepting the words to compose it.
To find these was no easy matter to Matthew, and he had bitten away all the beauty from the top of the pen before anything appeared at the other end of it.
Jane ought to write first; she ought to say she was sorry for her behaviour, and that she wished he would come back. Of course she ought, but then she wouldn't, and he needn't expect it—she was much too proud for that. Wouldn't he give something to see that proud spirit humbled!
With these thoughts, he found it difficult to write, "My dear wife," so he altered it to "My dear Jane;" but Jane was his wife, so there was not much difference, and he scratched it over, making a great blot.
Then he bit hard at the pen again, as the idea of his bright rosy clean children playing with "that woman's filthy little reptiles, and she herself frequenting 'his' house," roused all sorts of fierce feelings within him. "What did it all mean? What triumph had she gained over his once neat, pretty, and industrious Jane?"
Then the sheet of paper was deliberately torn to fragments, which were patted together to prevent a litter, until a bright thought occurred; another sheet was taken, and the letter was written in a few minutes, the shopkeeper, beguiled from his sorrow, looking on the while with much interest and some curiosity.
The reader may know its contents:—
"MY DEAR FRIEND,—Send me ALL particulars you can get about my home
and family. Tell me everything. I am well in health, and have plenty
of work, but shall send no more money until I know how it is spent,
schooling paid, and all going straight.
"Address Mr. Matthews, Post-office B—, to be called for.
"Yours truly,
MATTHEW HILL.
"P.S.—Excuse trouble; think of me kindly, as you always did.
"To Mr. Benjamin Field,
Foreman at — Works."
"I must shake hands with you," said the stationer, when the epistle was enveloped and stamped, "and decline any payment for such small accommodation. It did me good to see a fine tall working fellow like you object to the public-house. I've seen sad havoc of health and happiness through going there, and so I suppose have you."
"That's true enough, sir. I've made havoc of my own, but I hope it's over now, for I've had a hard lesson."
"I hope it is, indeed," said the stationer, kindly. "I never had the temptation myself, thank God, but a relation of mine was grievously addicted to drinking, and the misery of it comes on all belonging to a drunkard. He always meant to reform, poor fellow, and many a pledge he signed and broke, and wouldn't take the only way there was to cure him."
"What was that, sir, may I take leave to ask?" said Matthew, eagerly.
"The help of God," said the stationer: "trust in the strength of One who has promised to uphold all who lean upon Him. If he would but have given himself to the Saviour who pitied and died for sinners, and have sought the gift which the good Father is willing to bestow on all who ask Him, poor Edward might have been here now, a useful, happy man. It's of no use for a man to trust in his own heart; the Bible says he is 'a fool' who does so, for 'the heart is deceitful above all things,' and not fit to be trusted; but 'whoso trusteth in the Lord, mercy shall compass him about,' and keep him, too, from 'the ways of the destroyer.' Seek God's gift of the Holy Spirit, my good friend, if you would keep clear of old temptations, and be indeed a new man, peaceful and upright in this life, and safe for the life to come."
"Might I ask, sir, if it's not too great a liberty, whether your friend or relation gave up the drink at last?"
"Well," said the stationer, leaning across the counter, and speaking in a low tone, "we don't know much about him, at last. He ruined all his prospects here, and brought his family down to misery and poverty, and then ran away to avoid seeing the fruit of his own folly. We only know that after some time, he died in some benevolent institution in America, where he had been placed, broken down with disease and want. Poor Edward! A fine young man he was once as you could wish to see."
"Had he a happy home, sir?" asked Matthew, with deep interest.
"Yes, until he made it otherwise, for it is a dreadful thing for a respectable young woman to find herself bound to a drunkard, you know. She bore up pretty well, his poor young wife did, until he went away, and then—" The good man paused, observing the eager attention and distressed look of his listener.
"Go on, please sir," murmured Matthew. "What happened? Did she die of the trouble?"
"Worse than that," said the stationer, brushing his hand across his eyes, "she got reckless. Friends did what they could to help her, and wondered for some time why nothing succeeded. At last they found it out; she had taken to drinking herself, and yesterday, in an awful fit of drunken madness, she killed her little child. The inquest," he added, speaking rapidly, "was held over there this morning, and those people are most likely talking it over. She is committed for trial, and I suppose will be imprisoned for life; she is quite mad still, and doesn't seem to know what she has done. But there, my good friend, I don't know what made me tell you all this. I'm not used to be so ready with my tongue, and it's done you no good, I see."
Mr. Hill had turned deathly pale, and sat down.
"I know why, sir," he said, at last, while the stationer stood by him in pity and some alarm. "I thank you, too. It will do good, and no harm, I believe. I am all right now."
And Matthew stood up, shook himself, drank the glass of water kindly offered to him, and reached the station in time for the train.
"Poor fellow," thought the shopkeeper. "I've drawn a bow at a venture, and the arrow has hit, I suspect. He's a noble-looking workman as ever I saw, but there's a sign of sorrow in his face. God help him to keep right, and forgive him for Christ's sake if he's gone wrong."
Benjamin Field sat turning his friend's letter over and over in his hands, and considering what to do; his wife, with her darning-needle stopped short in its rapid career up and down a thin place in a stocking, seemed considering too.
"Suppose we go down together, you and me," said Mr. Field, "and tell her I've got a clue to Matthew, and that he is very anxious to hear of her welfare, and all about home?"
It was just what Ellen was thinking, and bonnet and cloak were on in an instant. It was nearly nine o'clock, and the little ones were fast asleep, so she could go with him nicely.
The knock of visitors at that hour was neither expected nor welcome at Mrs. Hill's door, but she rose to open it, a very little way, and just showed part of her face at the crevice.
"We've come to speak to you, Mrs. Hill," said the gentle voice of Mrs. Field. "Benjamin has news, good news."
"It's very late," said Mrs. Hill, coldly; "won't it do in the morning?"
"Oh no, you'll sleep better for it; do let us come in and tell you," said Ellen, earnestly, while Benjamin drew back with an impatient pout of annoyance.
Thus urged, Mrs. Hill reluctantly opened the door, making a great difficulty about it, and affording time for somebody to snatch a bottle from the table and softly retreat into the back kitchen.
There were two chairs, however, before the fire, and two glasses on the table, but not seeming to notice the tell-tales, Benjamin and Ellen began to speak kindly and pleasantly, and Mrs. Hill was composing herself to listen with the air of a martyr, when a tremendous knocking at the door startled the whole party.
The visitor was not inclined to wait, for the door was impatiently opened from without, and the blue coat and shining buttons and hat of a policeman appeared.
"Is one Mrs. Swinden here?" he asked. "Or do you know where she is?"
"She isn't here, you see," said Mrs. Hill, quickly; "but what's the matter?"
"Matter enough, and she must be found. Can you tell me anything about her?"
"She has been here, but I dare say she's nearly home by this time," said Mrs. Hill, rather hesitatingly, and bursting with curiosity to know what could be the matter.
"Well, they said she was sure to be here, or at the public, and I called there first. Her drunken husband has met his fate, at last; he's been run over on the line, and when they carried his poor cut-up body home, the children stupidly were allowed to see, because nobody was there to order or do anything and one of them is in a fit, dead off, and another is screaming enough to wake the father, if he could be woke any more in this world. God help them poor things, they ought to have been in bed out of the way of such a sight. I wonder where their mother can be, though she ain't any better than him that's gone."
Their mother! There she stood in the back kitchen hearing every word, and not easily deciding whether to scream, or faint, or rush forward, until the policeman's concluding sentence worked the finish to her excitement. She flew at him with loud abuse, declaring that he was telling nothing but lies, and getting up a tale to frighten her.
"Hold off, you fury," said the policeman, calmly; "go home and you'll see for yourself. I'm not going to argue with such as you."
"I'll go with you, if you like," said Mr. Field, as the woman rushed out. "Ellen, you stay with Mrs. Hill till I come back."
And he and the policeman left the two horror-stricken women together.
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CHAPTER X.
NEW SCENES AMONG OLD FRIENDS.
"NOW, mother, come up and look," said a young girl, popping her head in at the door of the household room, where her mother was putting the finishing touch to the frill of a snow-white little pillow-case, and fitting it to the top of a large easy-chair covered with stuffed damask.
"Oh, how pretty and comfortable that looks, mother! Now she won't be afraid to rest her head upon it. But do come and peep at her bedroom."
The mother smiled and followed, while the girl skipped upstairs and began to point out all the improvements at once.
"See, here's my new pincushion, isn't it nice? I got these flowers out of our own garden," and she showed the little glass vase full of flowers, a rosebud or two, and some pinks and other favourites. "And see, mother, I've turned down the bed as you showed me, and doesn't our patch-work quilt look beautiful? How she will like it!"
"I think you have laid it all out very nicely, Bessy," said her mother, looking round the room approvingly. "Now, I hope you will keep it so, as you have begged for the charge of it all the while she stays."
"Yes, I mean to have it like this every day. Susy did it last time, because I was too little. I do hope she'll like my pincushion."
"I'm sure she will, Bessy; but you mustn't be surprised if she asks you whether you mended your stockings first."
"Ah, no, she despises fancy work from girls who can't mend their stockings, I know," cried Bessy, laughing; "but I am a match for her this time, for I've done father's, and Robert's as well. There's Robert; he's going to meet her at the railway, I heard him ask father to let him," and dancing down, she met a fine sturdy figure in working clothes, hastening to wash and dress for the expedition.
In the meantime, the rest of the family had come in, and without any fuss fell into their usual places and occupations. The father had exchanged his working dress for a house suit, and sat, now looking at a newspaper, now watching his wife and daughters preparing tea, and doing sundry little things to make the welcome of some expected visitor fully apparent. The youngest child, a little boy, was conning his lesson, that he might not have to learn it by-and-by, and all were beginning to listen for an arrival, when a car drove up with box, and baskets, and hampers outside, and Robert and a very pleasant-looking old lady within.
Out flew the younger children, while one older stood more demurely by her mother at the door, and the son gave place to his father to help the old lady out.
And so the centre of all this interest, the object of all this attention, the guest so warmly welcomed, was nothing after all but an old woman.