CHAPTER XX.
A DISCOMFITURE.
THE young gardener felt he had made an awkward beginning to the suit he had determined to press, and endeavoured to assure Milly that respect for her excellent father had alone prevented him from using arguments which would have convinced her of the superiority of the new lights that were beginning to shine, and of the unnecessary strictness of the old-fashioned theories of religion. But he "hoped for many opportunities of discussing the subject with her."
"Not with my consent," thought Milly, and she hoped the young man would leave them as soon as Robert had driven off with Mr. Hill.
But Lewis had no such intention. Milly had to go up to the house by a long winding path, and he meant to escort her.
"It is our custom to have family prayer before parting from my daughter," said Mr. Taylor, with simplicity. "Will you choose to stay or not?"
"Oh, I shall be most happy to join you," said Mr. Lewis, pleasantly.
Mr. Taylor read a chapter and prayed, and though Mr. Lewis might have heard the second chapter of Paul's first epistle to the Corinthians many a time in his life, it never seemed to have so much point before.
"But then," thought he, "it is only the quaint, old-fashioned way of putting things."
And he would not have heard the prayer at all if he could have helped it; but he could not help it, and vainly strove to shake off the solemnising consciousness that he knelt with one who was speaking, the child to his Father, the Christian to his God, through the atoning mercy and forgiving love that had made them one in Christ Jesus.
The object of his stay was, however, defeated by Mr. Taylor taking Milly home himself, as he felt it was a parent's duty to guard the fair character of his child, and, as far as possible, to choose her associates. Never until he should yield up his authority to her husband could he hold himself absolved from responsibility concerning her way of life and her good name among those with whom she dwelt.
The young gardener was piqued at the rejection of his politeness, but he walked by their side, saw the father press a loving kiss on the lips of his child, and as Milly disappeared into the house, he again joined Mr. Taylor, and without further hesitation asked his leave to address her, with the view of making her his wife. He stated his means, which, he said, were ample, though shared by his mother and sister, and seemed himself much impressed with the favour he was conferring on his chosen one, or rather, perhaps, on her family.
Great was his mortification and displeasure when Mr. Taylor, with the straightforward simplicity which marked all his ways, informed him, as kindly as he could, that he decidedly declined his proposal, and would never bestow his Christian daughter on one whose principles were opposed to the Word of God.
"Is that your only objection?" asked the young man, thinking it was a very light matter and easily dealt with.
"It includes everything," said Mr. Taylor.
"Then," returned Lewis, eagerly, "I can safely assure you that it shall never cause an instant's disagreement between us. In fact, so far from interfering with your daughter's principles, I may perhaps feel more perfect confidence in her character because of them, though I may not actually share them."
"You say well," said the father, "for you evidently know that 'a woman that feareth the Lord' is the true wife to be trusted as well as 'praised.' She only takes God's blessing with her as her best portion. But it can only be by obedience to the command not to be unequally yoked with an unbeliever, and I trust and pray that child of mine shall never so dishonour God and wrong her own soul. Emily is a disciple of the Lord Jesus Christ, Mr. Lewis; and whatever her lot in life, it must agree with that first and holiest bond."
"Well, sir, I cannot pretend to understand such extreme views, but if any one could instruct and win me to them it would be your daughter."
"Nay, you overrate even her power, were she dear to you as longer acquaintance and closer communion might make her. Only the Holy Spirit of God, by the Word which you disown, can win you to approve and love the truth. It is not 'of the will of the flesh, nor of the will of man, but of God.'"
Mr. Lewis carefully controlled the vexation and contempt he felt, but he resolved that only from the fair girl herself would he submit to the rejection of his suit.
"She will manage them all if I can manage her," he thought, "and to baffle the old father as well as to win his sweet daughter will be a racy sort of enterprise, and enliven the dulness of this stupid place for a while. Then I will get a situation elsewhere, and carry her off to see the world that yet she knows nothing about, poor girl."
On his return home, Mr. Taylor told Susan and Mrs. Hayes all that had occurred, and the latter began to think there was no plan so effectual as to take her young favourite away to the country at once. But the parents thought they might trust Milly, and that it would be well for her to remain at present where duty had placed her, and to let her principles stand the test, if the suitor should choose to press matters any further.
A morning or two after, as Mrs. Hayes sat knitting, a very pleasing, neatly-dressed young woman made her appearance at the lodge, and presenting a little basket of beautiful fruit, said that her brother respectfully begged Mrs. Taylor's acceptance of some which he had liberty to dispose of as he pleased.
"Who is your brother, my dear?" asked Mrs. Taylor, giving her a seat.
"I beg your pardon, I thought you knew him," she replied, colouring. "Edward Lewis, the gardener at Lord Crewe's."
"We are much obliged to him," said Susan, "and I would not pain him by refusing to accept what you have been at the trouble to bring, but I must beg that he never sends anything again; he is aware that we cannot welcome him here, and of course cannot receive his gifts."
"I am very sorry, ma'am," said the young woman, again blushing deeply. "May I ask how my brother has been so unfortunate as to displease you? He cannot have done so intentionally."
Mrs. Hayes looked very kindly on the girl; she liked the sisterly question, and Susan felt that it must be answered. She would not expose the brother's secret, but turning over the leaves of the large Bible that lay open on the table at Aunt Hayes's elbow, she pointed to some words, saying, "Did you ever notice this verse, my dear? I need not say anything more if you understand me."
It was the second epistle of John, tenth verse, "If there come any unto you, and bring not this doctrine, receive him not into your house, neither bid him God speed: for he that biddeth him God speed, is partaker of his evil deeds."
The maiden looked at the verses long enough to have read them many times over, and then raising her eyes with tears gathering in them to Susan's face, she said, meekly, "Then it is true; you are of those who love the Lord Jesus. I am so glad, so very glad. But, oh, Mrs. Taylor, don't refuse to let my brother come here; it may be the very way in which our prayers are to be answered, my mother's and mine."
"Your prayers for what, dear child?" asked Mrs. Hayes, beaming one of her tenderest looks on the damsel.
"For my brother, ma'am, that he may give up the bad books and notions he has got hold of, and learn God's own truth in His own Holy Word, that he may come to Jesus and be saved."
"That's what I call sound Christian English," said Mrs. Hayes; "and now we understand each other, and I am sure you will not really wish my dear niece here to 'do evil that good may come;' to risk her own children's principles in hope to amend your brother's. He has Moses and the prophets, and even Jesus risen from the dead."
"Yes, I am wrong and selfish," said the sister; "but when I heard that you were Christians in real earnest, and that your daughter is an attraction to my brother, I felt glad for his sake. I thought you would do him good."
"Yes, you were selfish in that, my dear; but you see that it cannot be. You would not wish our child to do what you dare not, I hope, do yourself. How many a weak simpleton has fancied she was to be as a good angel to her husband's soul, and has lost herself in his worldliness and unbelief instead."
"Oh, you are right. I dare not blame you. So I can but ask you to forgive my selfishness, and to pray for Edward sometimes, as one in great danger and great sin."
"And what of your mother, my dear?"
"Oh, you would love my mother," she cried, with animation. "I wish you could see her, but she is not able to go out, and has no one except me to speak to about the things she loves best."
"I dare say she daily thanks God for giving her a daughter to whom she can speak of what she loves best. It is a high honour for you that He has made you understand her; and, my dear, don't let craving for more make you unmindful of what is already given."
"My mother says that: oh, would you come and see her? It is not a long walk, and it would cheer her so much."
"You may expect us very soon," said Aunt Hayes.
"And remember that you are welcome whenever you can come," said Susan, kindly.
"I do not often leave my mother," she said; "but when I can, I shall be thankful to come here. Will you call me Rhoda?" She added, simply, "That is my name."
"Then tell me, Rhoda," said Mrs. Hayes, "have you always lived with this dear mother?"
"Oh no, I was being taught under Lady Crewe's maid, and was to have gone with her ladyship to Italy last winter as her only waiting-maid; but my mother was taken ill, and though Lady Crewe would have paid a nurse to take care of her, I could not think of letting a stranger take the place of her own child. She had nursed and tended me for years of childish helplessness and trouble, and I could not go and see beautiful places and enjoy myself while there was her sick-bed to cheer and her suffering to soothe at home. She wished me to go—dear, kind mother, she would deny herself anything; but when I told her I had given my final answer to her ladyship, I can never forget her look as she put her feeble arms round me, and said,—
"'The Lord will bless my darling: she has done right in His sight.'
"Oh, I forgot all about Italy and Switzerland then! Edward is very kind to me, and so long as our mother is so delicate, he would rather have me for housekeeper than any servant or stranger. I do all the work, and keep the house as nice as I can. But, indeed, I am not used to chatter in this way," she said, blushing: "your kind interest must be my excuse."
And responding to an affectionate farewell, she took up her little basket and tripped away.
Susan returned to her occupation, and Mrs. Hayes took up her knitting, but not a row did she make. In fact, she was unconscious of letting down a stitch or two, and found herself roused out of a long gaze at the fire, where she had seen nothing, by the horrible fuss of a meeting of fire and water through the boiling over of a kettle which Susan had asked her to mind. The unsavoury consequence greatly annoyed her: she was not given to such neglectful things, and, after making the best she could of it, and apologising to Susan very humbly, to Susan's great amusement, she settled herself to recover the fallen loops, saying to herself, with a jerk of her head,—
"There, there, you're an unbelieving old woman, Mrs. Hayes. What business have you to be building castles that won't hold anybody? Let the Lord do as He pleases, and then it will all come right. Aren't they His, and must not all things—yes, all things—work together for good to them that love Him?"
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CHAPTER XXI.
A SORROWFUL SURPRISE.
ROBERT TAYLOR shook hands with Matthew Hill at the door of a railway carriage as soon as the doctor would hear of the journey. Messrs. Carver and Davis sent a special message to say that if he would return after settling his affairs at home, they would gladly give him regular work. Everybody had been kind; and poor Matthew, with a heart now aching for home, found himself speeding on the way thither.
Humbled and chastened in spirit, he was going to prove how true was his penitence—how sincere his desire to be ruled henceforth by the precepts of that gospel which had brought light and salvation to his soul.
Twilight was already shading the landscape ere he reached the station nearest to his home, and with his bundle on a stick over his shoulder, he took the shortest cut, with a beating heart, across the fields. He hesitated for a little whether to call on his faithful friend Benjamin Field before going home, and so learn from him all that happened. But no, the first face he would see must be Jane's: she was the proper person to tell him anything he needed to know.
He drew his hat over his eyes to screen himself from notice, but no one recognised him. And with rapid step, he approached his own door.
No lights were visible. Could he wonder? Was it not almost a widowed home? Would he wish to see things going on as usual, in total indifference to his absence or presence? Certainly not.
He knocked gently, and finding no notice taken, opened the door, and stood once more on his own threshold. There was no fire. The fading light was not sufficient to show all the desolation at once, but things looked strange. Was this really home? Excited and anxious, he sought a seat. His own chair was missing; but still there was evidence that the house was inhabited. He feared to call lest he might disturb the children. And after standing irresolute for a while, he began to mount the stairs.
"Who is it?" murmured a timid little voice from the room above.
"Hush! It's not mother; it's perhaps Mr. Field," was the answer of the braver boy, who was playing by Daisy's side.
The figure advanced towards the bed, and the little girl's true instinct, combined with her simple faith in the good God whom she had prayed to bring back her father, told her instantly who it was.
"Oh, Josy! I know who it is; dear daddy's come back, he's come back. I knew he would."
"DEAR DADDY'S COME BACK."
And the truant father, sitting down by the bed, clasped his two children in his arms, with a burst of agitation that almost frightened them. But he was "father:" he loved them, he had not forgotten them; and they kissed his face, and dried his tears, and felt very safe and happy in his arms.
"Baby is asleep?" he said, inquiringly, when more composed.
The little girl nestled closer to his bosom, and Josy looked up in his face.
"Oh, father! Don't you know? Poor baby went to sleep one night, and she never woke any more. They put her in the churchyard to sleep, Mrs. Field said, till Jesus comes to call up everybody, and then we'll see her again."
Poor Matthew groaned heavily. How proud he had been of that beautiful baby! How she had sprung and crowed at the sight of him, when she would get the tossing and the fun that his strong arms could give her! And she was taken away, and he not there to soothe her with a father's love, or to share the poor mother's grief with a husband's tenderness. Oh! It was a bitter drop of remorse and shame, but the cup was not emptied yet.
"Daisy did so want you," said the little one, caressingly; "p'raps I go to sleep soon too, but daddy's a good man now. Daisy prayed to God; oh, so much!"
"My darling, my precious ones," sobbed Matthew; "God has forgiven father's wickedness, and will make him good now."
"And he'll take care of us now. Oh, I'm so glad! Oh, if mother will be good too!"
Matthew started. "Where is your mother, dear children?" he asked.
"We don't know," said the boy; "she didn't come in. Daisy hasn't been downstairs this long while, she is too sick; but I take care of her, and Mrs. Field brings her nice things."
"When will your mother come in?" again asked Matthew, with a horrible dread upon him.
"We don't know, we never know; but that woman came again this afternoon, and we're so afraid of her. Mother was angry, and they both went out; and I think she hurt mother, for there was a great noise in the street."
"I must go and find her," said Matthew, hoarsely, and he disengaged himself from his children's arms. "You won't mind being left for a little while?"
"Oh, no; we often are; and we shan't be afraid of anything now," they said.
Matthew kissed them again and again, smoothed the pillory and the coverlet tenderly, and for a moment knelt and asked God's help and guidance in his terrible extremity, and then went downstairs.
"Daisy, Daisy, did you hear?" whispered Josy. "It will be all right now, for father was speaking to God; and nobody dares do that, you know, Mr. Field says, when they want to be naughty."
Daisy's restlessness for the time passed away, and she slept a sweeter sleep than she had known for many a night.
Meanwhile Matthew went out into the street; sick, exhausted, and anxious, he knew not which way to turn until it again occurred to him to go and hear all from Mr. Field. And the kind-hearted Ellen, he knew, would give him a cup of tea.
"Can it be," thought he, "that Jane has forsaken the house, and the children, as I did, and has taken service somewhere? If she has, I have no right to complain."
To reach Mr. Field's house, he must pass up a back street, which was dimly lighted from a few door-lamps and shop-windows, and then turn off by a smaller street towards the road in which Benjamin Field resided in a pretty, neat house of his own.
As Matthew passed quickly along, his painful meditations were disturbed by an angry noise at the door of a small beer-shop; and he crossed over to the other side to avoid it, but he heard the master of the house exclaim,—
"I tell you she's not here; and I won't have a row at my door, so get along, else I'll give you in charge."
Then some one seemed to stagger for a little, until another person half-running, half-rolling along, rushed up against her, striking a smart blow on the face. This was returned with fury; shrieks followed.
Wandering children, dirty women, men from the public-house gathered quickly round the spot, and the two women fell together in the kennel.
Disgusted, yet in spite of his errand drawn to the shocking scene, Matthew helped to raise one of the struggling women. Blood was streaming from her face, her bonnet had fallen off, and her long dark hair hung about her shoulders.
Matthew looked upon her as a light streamed from a house door, which people had opened to ask what was the matter; and aghast with surprise and horror, found himself supporting the tottering form of his own wife. The shock was too great; he shrank from her involuntarily, and again she fell to the ground.
"What's all this?" said a policeman, coming hastily up, and looking into the group. "Oh, get her home, can't some of you? Else I must take her to Bridewell; and she was a respectable woman once, till she took to this accursed drink. Why on earth doesn't her husband come and look after her?"
"He did not know," said poor Matthew, in a low hollow voice; "but he will do it now, please God."
The policeman turned and guessed the miserable truth; the husband of the wretched woman stood before him.
"I'll help you in a minute," he said, kindly; "but I must see to this abominable vixen, who they say struck her first; she has no home that I know of, and to Bridewell she must go. I hope the magistrate will give her three months at least."
A comrade having by this time made his appearance, Mrs. Swinden was dragged away and deposited in the strong room at the police-station, notwithstanding her violent protestations that she never was soberer in all her life.
Then, with her husband on one side and the policeman on the other, the disgraced Jane was half-carried, half-dragged home. Unable to get her upstairs at once, they laid her down on the floor in the very spot where, many months before, she had left her husband to sleep off the effect of his visit to "The Crown."
"Thank you heartily for this kindness," said Matthew. "Has not that woman got children? Can we do anything for them to-night?"
"Two of them are dead, and the other is in the union," replied the man. "She has only herself to look after, and you have seen how she does it; she is almost done for, though, and will most likely finish out in a prison."
The policeman looked round the desolate room by the light of his lantern. "It's miserable enough," he said. "Can I send any friend to you?"
"If you would do that," said Hill, eagerly.
"For sure I will, who is it?"
"I've been ill, and have had a long journey, and scarce know where to find anything," said Matthew.
"Seems as if there ain't much to find," said the policeman, bluntly; "anyways, we might get up a bit of fire before I go."
And lighting his way along through the back kitchen, he stumbled over Matthew's broken chair, then righted a baby's cradle which lay upside down, and disclosed a quantity of broken china.
"Hey, what a smash there's been," he exclaimed; "and no firewood, that I can see. Poor chap! I'm sorry for him; and he don't look any great shakes himself, by what I can see of his pale face. Well, I'll send somebody to him, at any rate."
And with a message for Benjamin Field, and Matthew's grateful thanks for his kind feeling and help, he left the unhappy husband alone in the dark, with the stupefied form of his "once neat, pretty, industrious Jane," lying like a log at his feet.
He wished for a few minutes alone: the last hour had tried him mightily, and he wanted to steady his bewildered brain, and reassure his almost broken heart, and find that the gracious loving God who had pardoned his sins had also a refuge for him in this tempest of trouble. Would He in pity through this dark cloud bid the sun of righteousness arise and shine with healing in his wings?
The true Teacher from on high does not say that pardoned sinners shall escape all temporal consequences of guilt, and pass over a smooth and tranquil scene to "the rest that remaineth for the people of God." It is not likely that a long seed-time of rebellion, selfishness, and pride, should have had no harvest of sorrow, and that weeds, and thorns, and thistles should not have sprung up to worry and distract. If we sow to the wind, we must expect to "reap the whirlwind" in some way; though, by God's mercy, it is a way that shall discipline us for duty, and keep us humble in heart for the rest of our lives, as well as pitiful and tender to others who have similarly transgressed.
The heart and conscience of Matthew Hill were now actively awake to a sense of his sin. He felt that, let Jane's temper be what it might, his own conduct was inexcusable, and though God had forgiven him, he had not forgiven himself. So he meekly knelt by the side of the woman, forgetting that he had ever wished to see her proud spirit humbled, not loathing her, as she well deserved, but in earnest prayer for help for himself and for her. He waited until a ray of hope and comfort stole into his bosom and he felt strengthened for present endurance and duty.
As soon as possible, the friendly hand of Benjamin Field silently grasped his cold one, and a light revealed the gentle face of Ellen, and the provisions they had brought to meet immediate need, of which the kind-hearted officer had told them. So there was soon a fire, and sundry other arrangements, and then they bent over the prostrate form of the drunken woman.
We paused awhile ago over the degradation of "a man" in such a condition—man created in the image of God, reducing himself by vile appetite to a lower stage than the beasts that perish; but what words can adequately describe the infinite disgust, the utter loathing, with which one contemplates the abominable sight of a drunken woman, a wife, a mother?
Mrs. Hill was scarcely recognisable until Ellen had washed the blood from her face, and smoothed the silken hair of which her husband had once been proud, and straightened the convulsed limbs. And then Matthew carried her, still unconscious, up to her own room, and laid her on the bed, and there gazing for a moment, burst into tears and sank on his knees by her side.
Ellen set down the candle, and left him while she made some tea and toast and set out the little things she had brought, and Benjamin straightened the untidy room. And then she returned and gently roused him from his grief, and made him come down and take the refreshment of which he stood in so much need.
Then came the tale he had to tell of his own career during those months of absence. And his way of telling it proved to his friends that he had learned the lesson which was to be his joy throughout eternity.
Mrs. Field promised to come as early as possible in the morning, and the kind pair took their leave about midnight. Benjamin turned back for a moment.
"Matthew," he whispered, "she will need all your patience when she comes to herself. I know what it is. I may well ask you to bear pitifully with her yet awhile, for it was that, under God's mercy, that saved me."
"May God help me to do right," said Matthew, wringing his friend's hand gratefully. "Only, both of you pray for us."
Then he saw that the children slept, and a painful feeling oppressed him as he gazed at his little girl by the light shaded with his hand. Her face was so very thin and white, and her little fingers looked so bony, and her lips so hot and parched. But she slept sweetly, and that was some comfort.
His boy looked much older, as if care had touched the young brow with a heavy hand, and his curly hair was long and unkept, and neglect seemed written too plainly on everything around them, notwithstanding the effort the dear little ones had made.
Soon, however, his thoughts were called in another direction. Mrs. Hill was trying to rouse herself, and sank back again with a groan. Then she tore away the soft lint which Ellen had laid upon her wounded face, and called out for a doctor, for drink, for anything that would take the burning out of her brain.
Matthew, after endeavouring to soothe her, and judging that she did not know who it was that bent tenderly over her, decided to go at once and find a doctor, for she might now be suffering from bodily injury as well as from the effects of what she had drunk.
The doctor he went to was not at home; he had stayed at the house of a patient who was supposed to be dying, and thither Matthew followed him.
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CHAPTER XXII.
SIN AND PUNISHMENT.
WHEN Matthew returned with the doctor, they found Mrs. Hill talking wildly, sometimes screaming, sometimes fighting off some imaginary assailant, the frightened children awake, little Daisy sobbing on her pillow.
The doctor looked steadily at the wife by the light of the candle that Matthew brought to him, while she went on with her mutterings, trying to get up, and falling back in a rage at her helplessness.
"Father, father!" called the boy from his bed, where he was sitting up shivering with fear. "Don't you think poor baby's medicine would make her quiet? It always stopped baby screaming and let her go to sleep, oh, for so long."
"Ha! My little man, where is it?" said the doctor.
"In the cupboard downstairs, please; at least, it used to be."
Matthew went to look for it.
"My boy, had baby any of it the night she died?" asked the doctor, quietly, coming to Josy's bedside.
"Oh yes, sir, lots," said the boy.
Matthew brought two or three small bottles from amongst a good many large ones, and the doctor was soon satisfied.
"No, we shan't give her any of that. But now, Mr. Hill, you must remove the children to another room as soon as it can be done; this may be a long business, and you must get some one as nurse, for you cannot watch night and day."
"What is it, do you think, sir?" asked Matthew; anxiously.
"I shall judge better to-morrow," said the doctor.
"Is it from the fall that she rambles so?" he asked again.
"I am afraid not, but I shall tell better in a few hours more. Who did you say knocked her down?"
"That woman Swinden," replied Hill.
"Ah, she was not likely to fare better in such company, but I hope you'll be able to right things a little now you've come home. I will be here, please God, in good time in the morning."
"Sir," said Matthew, following him to the door, "you attended my little babe?"
"No, no, I did not see it till too late," said he, hastily. "But," thought he, as he walked along, "if I had had any idea of this. It's murder, murder and nothing short of it. Died in a fit, indeed! If it had been Mrs. Swinden's child, I should have known better, and detected the lie; but this woman's children used to be so well cared for, I never thought of questioning what she said at the time. But she seems to have taken to drinking, and what won't a drunken woman do!"
Matthew obeyed the directions he had received, and sat bathing the hot brow, until the excited patient became a little calmer, and as, fortunately for him, she was unable to rise, he set about such little preparations as he could make for removing the children into another room.
He felt no inclination to sleep, and it was a very worn and haggard face that Benjamin and his Ellen found ready to receive them the next morning. How kind, how undeservedly kind of his forbearing Lord to provide such friends in this great need, poor Matthew deeply felt.
Mrs. Hill's temporary calmness broke into fresh exhibitions of frenzy with the daylight, and it required actual force to keep her from rolling off the bed. Whether she knew whose firm hand restrained her from injuring herself, or into whose ear she poured her anger and fury, no one could tell. But her mind seemed to rove from one subject to another with startling rapidity. One moment she vowed revenge on "that woman;" the next, she loudly declared that her baby died in a fit, and the next that Matthew was an unnatural brute, and she hoped he would never come back, and so on.
Next morning, when the doctor had prescribed for Jane, he went to look at the little girl in the bed, whither her father had carried her. Josy, nicely washed, hair combed, and a clean pinafore from her own children's store, put on by Mrs. Field to hide his dirty frock and trousers, trotted about, doing as he was told, and watching his father's countenance with great contentment.
Matthew gazed approvingly upon him now and then, and the child was happy. But his pet flower, his sweet Daisy, troubled him.
"She's so light, sir," he said; "when I lifted her, I could scarcely think I was holding a child of her age."
"She is very thin and weak, certainly. I wish I had seen her again after the arm got well, but I understood she was going on comfortably."
"She never eats anything but what Mrs. Field brings and coaxes her to," said the little boy.
"Hum; well, perhaps father will manage her now," said the doctor, observing the smile of perfect delight which played over the wan little face as Daisy clasped her small fingers round her father's large ones, and looked up in his anxious face.
Before many more hours were over, Mrs. Hill was so violent that the doctor ventured to suggest to Mrs. Field the propriety of removing her to the lunatic's wing of the neighbouring hospital, where he thought she could be managed with less risk to herself and others.
But Ellen could not hint it to Matthew, and when the doctor at last did so himself, he started with alarm.
"Is it come to that?" said he, greatly distressed. "Is she really mad?"
"For the present," replied the sympathising doctor; "and as she does not know anything about it, she will not suffer anything until she comes to herself, and then you can bring her home immediately."
Matthew pondered drearily for a little.
"No, sir," at last he said, firmly. "Order anything or any person here that you think right for her to have, but I can't send her there, indeed I cannot."
"It will cost you a good deal to have such attention as she needs," suggested the doctor.
"Never mind, sir, I can get work; I will pay it all, but I can't send my wife there. Please not to name it again."
At last, excitement was followed by prostration: sense and intelligence returned, and weak as an infant she opened wondering eyes on her bedside watchers.
"Matthew," she whispered, faintly, and Matthew's hand clasped hers, and his manly head sank down on her pillow in a flood of thankful tears.
"Dear Jane; you forgive me, say you forgive me all."
"I forgive! Oh, Matthew! Let me get up, I want to get to work. Where are the children?"
"Josy, come here, your mother will know you now."
Josy timidly drew near, and Jane stroked his head, and bade him kiss her.
He obeyed, but there was no heartiness in the kiss; and then she asked for Daisy.
"Daisy is not strong enough yet," said Matthew; and there was something in the tone that made Jane try to see his face.
"And baby—I suppose they told you," said she, with a great effort, "that baby was teething, and—and—"
"And you thought she had a fit," said Matthew. "Yes, I heard it; Poor baby! But she is better off; its no use to grieve for her."
And Matthew rose rather hastily, and went to look again at his little girl.
"Daddy, will you walk me about now?" asked the little one; and, wrapping a small blanket round her, the father took her tenderly in his arms, and resting her head on his shoulder, walked up and down the little room for some time, thinking, and then asking for willingness to surrender this other treasure, that was fading away so gently before his eyes.
Yes, little Daisy was marked for a better world; a rude hand, and that hand her mother's, had struck the blow that began to crush the young life from its slender stem. Daisy had wanted love, and kindness, and care, and nourishment, just when she did not have them, and now she was going where no need is unsupplied.
Josy came and stood looking at them, and listening to words that at once appalled and fascinated him.
"Daisy going to heaven, Daddy come too," softly said the little child, stroking her father's face; "don't cry. Kind Mrs. Field told all about it. Jesus is there; and He wanted baby, and now He wants Daisy. Daisy so tired."
And the little head drooped wearily, and the poor father's heart felt bursting, and Josy sobbed outright.
"Kiss me, brother," said the little one, suddenly, "and you come to heaven too."
She did not ask for her mother, and Matthew feared the excitement for both if he took her into the room.
The good widow who had been found able and willing, for small payment, to come and "do" for the family, with Ellen Field's frequent loving attention, kept all straight, and provided everything that could tempt appetite and strengthen the little flower; but all in vain.
In a few days more, she passed away in her father's arms to the place where, safe from rough winds and stormy skies,—
"Beyond the smiling and the weeping,
Beyond the waking and the sleeping,
Beyond the sowing and the reaping—"
She found the blessed atmosphere of—
"Love, rest, and home."
CHAPTER XXIII.
SHIPWRECKED.
HAD he been aware how suddenly at last his darling was to be removed to "the better land," Mr. Hill would have risked even Jane's precarious state, that she might see her child again. But the fear of a relapse before she was able to bear the sight of the wasted little form made him conceal the truth, only replying, when she inquired, that Daisy was still very ill, and must be kept quiet as possible until Jane should be able to nurse and tend her herself.
But Jane had not deserved a mother's privilege, she had no right to complain now that other hands ministered to the little sick one, that another bosom supported the drooping head, and other voices whispered the baby's hymns, and taught of the loving Saviour who was calling His lamb to the eternal fold. But she became impatient and jealous beyond endurance, and resolved on the first opportunity to assert her right and take her place.
There was a bright, pleasant morning on which Mrs. Field came and sat by her bedside earlier than usual, and persevered in keeping the room-door shut. Jane had slept late, and declared that she felt greatly better, and would no longer be waited on and kept useless in her own house.
Suddenly Mrs. Field was called downstairs; something was wanted that she only could find or do, and she left the room, carefully shutting the door behind her.
She had not been gone many minutes, when it struck Mrs. Hill that she would fasten her out, dress herself, and astonish them all.
So she crept from her bed, astonishing herself first with the giddy sensation in her head and the consciousness of extreme weakness; but she managed to reach the window, and looked out once more into the street.
Startled and amazed, she stared wildly down upon what was to be seen at that moment. Matthew Hill and Benjamin Field were passing from the house, both dressed in black hatbands tied with white, and bearing between them a small coffin covered with a black pall bordered with white. Some flowers lay on the top, and little Josy, also in a suit of black, followed them, beside himself with a strange mixture of surprise, sorrow, and excitement.
Jane comprehended it all in a moment. Conscience and right feeling would have soon justified the concealment that had been, as her kind friend thought, unavoidable. She did not faint or cry out, resentment was the strongest feeling in her heart, and seemed to strengthen her for anything. She fastened the door, took no notice of Mrs. Field's gentle knock, and hurried on some clothes, shivering and tottering as she did so, and in spite of herself, compelled to see a large card which hung over the looking-glass, exhibiting one of Matthew's favourite texts, and which she guessed truly was intended for her, when she should so sadly need it.
"Cast thy burden on the Lord, and He shall sustain thee."
Yes, Jane knew that text as well as any of them, but she was not going to do anything of the kind. Neither would she bear it herself, she would get rid of it somehow.
She wanted a shawl and bonnet, and remembered that her large comfortable shawl was—where it ought not to be; and she mechanically opened the drawer where it used to lie. But to her astonishment, there lay the shawl neatly folded.
"How did they get hold of the ticket?" thought she.
And notwithstanding her anger, she felt for a moment with what tender forbearance and persevering kindness she had been treated; but pride and jealousy returned with the thought of her child nursed by someone else, and carried out of her house without her knowledge. No, she could never forgive that. And as for Matthew, if he had not gone away, such things never would have happened, and all the troubles ought to be at his door at last.
Thus fortified, she stole cautiously downstairs and slipped out unobserved, while Mrs. Field was busy with some household work at the back of the house.
She was not long away, and returning to her room, lay down upon the bed again, maintaining obstinate silence when poor Ellen, greatly troubled and blaming herself for carelessness, found that she had at least attempted to go out.
But Jane had accomplished her purpose, and very soon a mysterious change for the worse was plainly visible in her. She listened with stupid indifference to her husband when he endeavoured affectionately to relate to her all that had occurred to himself during his long absence, which he scrupled not to call most wicked and cruel; described Mr. and Mrs. Taylor, and their happy home, and asked her to help him to make one like it. And when he ventured to ask if he might read a chapter in the Bible to her, she only said,—
"I know all that's in the Bible, and I know there's no heaven for drunkards."
Matthew could not tell whether it was with reference to herself or to him that she said this, but decided to take it to himself.
"I have wanted to show you by actions and not by words, dear Jane, that I am, by God's great mercy, a drunkard no more," said he, gently.
"Ah, well, then we've changed characters, I suppose," said she, fiercely. "Look here!"
And snatching a bottle from behind the head of her bed, she put it to her lips, and gulped down a terrible draught. How had she procured it? She went out in the nice shawl, she had returned without it.
A most fearful relapse very soon took place. All the nursing, and restraint, and care had to be gone through again, and many a time poor Matthew thought his trouble was greater than he could bear. His Bible, and little Josy, and Mr. and Mrs. Field were, however, blessings spared to him still, and he tried to take comfort.
There soon came to be serious cause for alarm in the turn the illness was taking. And at last, the doctor gave his opinion that Mrs. Hill would not recover.
This was a great shock. Matthew had so fondly hoped that some day—he would not mind waiting a long time for it—but that some day he might once more have a happy home, where the love and service of God should be the ruling principle.
Now all hope was dashed down, and there was to be no home for the widower and his motherless boy.
Mrs. Hill had been favoured with a fair beginning in domestic life, and she had herself put out its tender light. She had been trusted with opportunity to be as a ministering angel to a penitent heart, and she had scorned the holy mission. She had adopted a vice that once she loathed, and had become herself an exhibition of her weakness and its power. Through all she had neglected and insulted God, and now—what of it?
Why "now," even "now," by the lips of the husband she had despised, came messages of pity and promises of help from the God she had so dishonoured. Nigh or far off, obstinate and vicious, or yielding and chastened, the call floats over the wide waste of sin and ruin, and does its merciful work.
"Turn ye, turn ye; why will ye die? Oh! Israel, thou hast destroyed
thyself; but in Me is thine help."
"Look unto Me and be ye saved."
Oh, look. Terrible is the bite of the fiery serpent you have cherished in your bosom, potent is the poison that has corrupted your blood; but more potent than the poison is the purifier—
"Where sin abounds grace does 'much more' abound."
Oh, lover of drink, as well of any other sin, before it is too late, "Look!" and "Live!"
But poor unhappy Jane fretted, and chafed, and tormented herself and everybody else in the house. She knew all the texts that shut out hope, and gave herself up for lost. It was not penitence, but a yielding to some incomprehensible tyrant which she called "fate," and sometimes it seemed as if the spirit of temper and love of her own way were behind the scene, prompting the opposition she made to the gospel of peace.
Mrs. Oakland came and talked and read and prayed. A minister came and did the same. Prayer was offered by Matthew and his Christian friends, and still the hard woman seemed unmoved. At times, when conscious, she would say, that God had forsaken her; but she forgot that she had not sought Him, nor cared for the knowledge of His ways. There are awful hints of the consequence of refusing to hear Him when He speaks in love, and He must be heard and heeded sometimes.
Matthew was sitting alone by her bed one night when after a long time of apparent unconsciousness, she began to talk to herself.
"Yes," said she, "I know it; I did drive him away, but I'll never acknowledge it. My poor baby. Yes, of course I gave her that horrid drug, and it sent her to heaven. But I didn't mean that; and the arm—I didn't know I put it out when I threw the child into bed; but that did it, and she's gone too. And do they talk to me of heaven? What have I to do with heaven? I don't want to go to heaven! Everything there is against me. Oh, that I could disbelieve in such things."
Thus she muttered long and bitterly, and memory seemed to be casting up before her the things that but for her own fault would never have been. Was not a bad temper at the beginning of them all? A little season of softening there did seem just before the last, but it was expressed in anguish so terrible, fear so distracting, cries so piercing, that when, after a paroxysm that seemed to rend her frame, she implored them to save her from everlasting burnings and to pray to Jesus for her, she sank back in their arms a corpse, the sudden cessation of noise and distraction, after being wrought up to such a state of excitement, overpowered poor Matthew so far that he nearly fainted on the floor.
Mr. Field had taken his weeping Ellen downstairs, and kneeling down by her, with drops of perspiration standing on his brow, deeply and fervently blessed God, who had saved him from dying a drunkard's death.
All the requisite attention was paid to the poor remains in solemn silence. No one spoke of Jane for many a day; even Mrs. Swinden heard of her without a remark as she took her appointed place at the prison work to which her misdeeds had at last brought her.
Matthew was sadly unsettled; the care of a house was too much for him, and indeed it was not required for himself and his one only treasure left to provide for. So he determined at last to accept the kind offer that had been made to him by Messrs. Carver and Davis, and he would go and reside somewhere near to his friend Robert Taylor, for whom he had conceived a warm respect and affection. Benjamin Field would gladly have kept him nearer, but his judgment went with the plan, and preparations were made for early departure.
"Before you go to bed, my boy, I want you to have a walk with me," said Matthew to his little son on the last evening before the journey.
"Yes, father," said the boy, "I know. I want to see it once more too; and I've got some roots of violets and forget-me-nots that Mr. Field gave me, and I'm going to plant them there."
Matthew looked earnestly at the child, and drew him to his bosom. He felt that he had done wrong to bury all his feelings in his own heart and to leave his boy to do the same. Josy had needed comfort, for his darling sister had been the companion and friend of his short life, and the parting must have been very grievous to him: he had sat quiet and said nothing, but he never wanted to play now. To be with his father and watch him seemed all he cared for. He looked pale and thin still, and Matthew hoped that the total change would do him good.
Hand in hand they went together to the churchyard, where lay the mother and her two little girls. A head-stone had been placed by the graves with nothing but the names and dates inscribed upon it. They stood in silence some time, until the little boy's sobs startled Matthew, and he saw the child throw himself passionately on his sister's grave, and try to clasp it in his arms.
"Oh, Daisy!" he sobbed. "Where are you? Do you ever love me now?"
"He wants love," thought Matthew. "Yes, I have something to live for still."
"Listen to me, Josy," he said, lifting the boy in his arm's and sitting on a gravestone close by. "I wanted you here, in this spot, to promise before God and me that you will never drink anything that can make you tipsy! But for drink, those dear ones would have been with us now. It was drink that made me go away from home, and brought all our troubles."
"Oh! Father," said Josy, clasping him round the neck, "you are good now, Daisy said so."
"God has been very gracious to me, Josy," said the poor father, with tears flowing fast. "Will you promise?"
"Yes, father, I will. I shall never drink such things, I know I shan't, for Daisy hated them."
What Daisy knew about them, Matthew dared not ask.
Then they planted the violets and forget-me-nots on the little grave. Josy patted the turf lovingly round them, and hand in hand the tearful pair left the graveyard.
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CHAPTER XXIV.
ADDITION WITHOUT IMPROVEMENT.
MR. LEWIS was determined to take no refusal from any one but Emily Taylor herself, not believing that any girl could resist his attractions of which he himself entertained the highest possible opinion. But Emily happily was by education and principle proof against those ornamental gildings which are always rubbed off after a short show, and exhibit the kind and quality of the metal beneath. The fact of her parents' disapproval would have been sufficient, even had she felt any inclination towards her suitor; but as she had none whatever, it was painful and displeasing to her to be urged on a point which admitted neither of doubt nor change of mind.
Edward Lewis was extremely mortified that when he condescended to plead no better success should favour him—no, not even if he offered to serve like Jacob for his Rachel. Emily was firm. The suitor was first mortified, then angry, and finally disgusted.
The way Edward Lewis took to be revenged on Emily for her want of discernment was a way that many have tried before him, and with their names to the marriage register have signed the death warrant of their earthly happiness. He would pique and mortify her by showing how little he really cared for her, and would bestow the favour of his heart and hand upon one who would be but too happy to accept them.
As Mr. Lewis wished to have a wife distinguished by beauty, he began to wonder how it came to pass that he had overlooked the showy stylish young dressmaker who worked for the upper servants at Crewe Hall, and moreover whose father was a master in his trade, and said to be "making money."
Certainly he had committed a great blunder, and Miss Milly must be made aware of it as soon as possible. The other considerations of mother and sister and home were forgotten, and the next Sunday saw Mr. Edward Lewis favoured with the smiles of Miss Lydia Brooks.
"Well, my dear," said Mrs. Brooks, when informed by her daughter of the delightful afternoon she had spent, "I don't know what to make of you, not I; there's Mr. Robert Taylor that I did believe liked you, and you liked him."
"Oh dear no, mother; you know nothing about it. I like him indeed!" exclaimed the daughter, disdainfully.
"Well, I don't know about that, to be sure: for my part, I don't see that you've heart enough to care for anybody. But I do say this, that it's my belief if you'd behaved as a girl ought to, and not been so spiteful to Dicky, and not put on so many airs, Mr. Robert Taylor would have asked you to have him, and I'd have been proud of such a son-in-law."
"Dear me, mother," said Miss Lydia, laughing, "you shall have better reason to be proud than that, I'll promise you."
"I don't know; when a young man is a good son, and a kind brother, and a true friend—and Robert Taylor is all of them together—then there's promise he'll be a good husband too. This new beau of yours, Liddy, has nothing of the quiet steady look of a—a Christian man, I was going to say; for though I'm not too good myself, I vally them that fears God, and I can trust them. And when a man doesn't seem to believe in nothing, he gets a scampish sort of a look with him, that no fine clothes and no fine talk can cover."
"Mother, for shame of yourself," cried Miss Lydia, highly incensed, "you know nothing about him; and I'll have you to know that when I marry, I'm the first person to be pleased in the case, and I shan't take up with other people's opinions."
"Well, take care there isn't six of one and half a dozen of the other, and too well matched together," said Mrs. Brooks, marching out of the room.
Matters went on cheerfully until, whether he really intended them seriously and so soon to reach that point or not, Mr. Lewis and Miss Brooks got "talked about" sufficiently, and Emily Taylor knew, and her brother knew, and all the little world around them knew, that they were "engaged."
"I'm delighted at it!" cried Susan Taylor. "It's an escape for two better people."
"I hope those better people had more sense, my dear," said Aunt Hayes.
"Why, indeed, aunty, you did surprise me when you would have Miss Brooks here to do your dress," said Susan; "it seemed as if you wished to bring them together."
"So I did, my dear," said Mrs. Hayes, "just to let the dear boy get at some true idea of her mind and character. I knew perfectly that her own light head and silly tongue would settle it. Give a foolish woman the opportunity, and she'll soon cool the admiration of a sensible man. His own ears are better than a thousand wise people's opinions."
"But what of poor Mrs. Lewis and Rhoda?" said Mrs. Taylor, anxiously. "It's a sad business for them, I'm afraid, mother. Rhoda says her brother insists upon their staying in the house, and she is to attend on her mother as usual; and certainly the house is big enough."
"No house would be big enough for me with a daughter-in-law like that," said Mrs. Hayes; "I hope they'll part before they find it out."
Mrs. Hayes and her niece had fulfilled their promise to pay a visit to the gardener's cottage and introduce themselves to the invalid. And so highly was the kindness appreciated, that it became one of Mrs. Lewis's chief pleasures to welcome them there.
Knowing that there must be anxiety, to say the least of it, in the hearts of both mother and daughter at this time, Mrs. Hayes went quietly by herself, to say a kind word, and strong word too, not to aggravate any discontent, but, if possible, to dissipate it. A sunbeam was her bright loving face to poor Rhoda that day.
Mrs. Lewis was lying down, and so the old lady and the young girl had a little time alone together.
"Oh, Mrs. Hayes," said Rhoda, "you know what is going to happen, and I can't be reconciled to it. If it had been your Milly, I would have done anything in the world for such a sister. Oh, how I would have loved her! But this—"
"Hush, my child," said Mrs. Hayes, "say nothing that you ought not to say of one whom you are to receive as your brother's wife. Don't think me unkind, dear Rhoda, but I did not come to listen to complaints. It is of no use to spend time and breath in murmuring over what we can't help; we want both for something better."
"I know it," said Rhoda, "but I am very weak and wicked. She has been here to-day, and it has made dear mother ill to talk with her. Such conceit, such—"
"I told you I would not hear it," said Mrs. Hayes. "Rhoda, you are God's child. For reasons that you and I cannot yet see, it pleases your Father to allow something to happen that you don't like. Your brother uses his right to marry whom he chooses and your duty is to throw all your influence, all your efforts, into the scale for his happiness. It is an opportunity for you to deny yourself, to be a peace-maker, to do your best to meet and turn aside those things which you think likely to show him by-and-by that he has not chosen wisely. Never let him think so, if you can do anything to help it."
Rhoda looked up in the fine old face that bent over her. She saw it was in thorough earnest, wise and righteous earnest.
"Oh, don't be angry with me," she whispered, "it is hard, oh, so hard, to have to live with her."
"Granted," said Mrs. Hayes; "is it fixed?"
"Yes, Edward has prevailed on my mother, and we are to stay."
"It is not wise, so far as my poor judgment can see," said Mrs. Hayes; "but, being decided, there is nothing but to make the best of it. So put away every other plan that you would have preferred. You know, I dare say, that the feeling between mother-in-law and daughter-in-law is not always affectionate or pleasant, but it may be made better or worse by one situated as you are. A selfish, mischievous sister-in-law may widen the breach, and hinder love and respect on both sides; but a self-denying, wise, Christian sister-in-law may smooth over differences, hide faults, put kind constructions on mistakes, and humbly, meekly store up only honey in the hive. Will you do this to the honour of the dear Saviour you profess to love? You may never again have such an opportunity to fight out self and bring a blessing on this house."
Rhoda knew that her venerable friend was right, and that a clear duty lay before her, and the evil dispositions which had been getting the mastery received a very timely check.
"You know, dear child," continued Mrs. Hayes, "that it is written,—
"'I can do all things through Christ who strengtheneth me.'
"And you have the promise that with the trouble—
"'a way of escape shall be made that you may be able to bear it.'
"Will you try? Think what you owe to Jesus, and what you still expect from Him; and when He allows a trial of your sincerity and obedience to come, do you mean to say, 'No, Lord, I don't like it, and I'm not going to bear it for Your sake; give me a trial I shall not feel to be a trial'?"
"Oh, Mrs. Hayes, I am ashamed of myself, indeed I am," whispered Rhoda, bursting into tears; "I will trust, I will try."
"Then you will triumph, my dear, never doubt it," said Mrs. Hayes, raising the tearful face and kissing the hot brow.
"'There are briars besetting every path,
That call for patient care;
There is a cross in every lot,
And an earnest need for prayer;
But a lowly heart that leans on Him
Is happy anywhere.'"
Mrs. Hayes made no attempt to remonstrate with Mrs. Lewis on the decision to which she had consented. The thing was done; there was no use in controversy about it now, and she could readily understand how the mother's heart would cling to her only son.
"It will not be long," she said, "that I shall need an earthly home at all; and, while I live, earnest loving prayer will still in a way consecrate the dwelling of my boy. He seems a little nearer to God through a Christian mother's heart than when left to himself: then no prayer, no Bible, no blessing will be here."
"Well, Rhoda, you are a good girl, and you shall have the prettiest gown that money can buy," exclaimed Edward, as he surveyed all the little arrangements she had made for the reception of his bride. "I never thought my little Methodist of a sister half so good and kind. Everything is famous indeed, mother."
The furniture of the house was the property of Mrs. Lewis, who had also a very small income of her own; and now instead of Edward living with her and paying his share of the expenses, she and Rhoda were to live with him, paying their share both for board and lodging, and to no other terms would she consent.
Edward had purchased a few pieces of more modern furniture, and his sister cheerfully bore with the displacing of the old ones, setting off everything to the best advantage, and assisting in the choice of presents from her mother, from among little valuables to which she might have made some claim for herself.
But Rhoda was indeed "making the best of it."
And when Mrs. Hayes came again, she was able to say in her own peculiar way, and as nobody else could say it, as she laid her hand on Rhoda's head:
"The Lord bless thee, child. He has done it, He is doing it, and He will do it."
So the young Mrs. Lewis came home; home to smiles, and flowers, and kindness.
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