Madge Clifton's Mother.
"What have you here, my brother?" asked Mrs. Carlton, as, in response to a
message from Mr. Morris, she entered the kitchen, where poor Madge sat on
a cricket before the range, looking, as Jessie afterwards said, "like a
cat in a strange garret."
"She's a heap o' rags and dirt, mem," interposed the servant, who did not
fancy the introduction of such an unsightly object into her prim-looking
dominions.
"She is a poor, starving, and half-frozen girl, without any kind mother to
take care of her and love her," said Jessie, who feared, from her mother's
looks, that poor Madge was as unwelcome a guest to her, as she was to the
kitchen-maid.
"She is a poor, little human waif, which has floated to our door on a sea
of trouble and misfortune, sister," observed Mr. Morris. "If _opportunity_
is the gate of _duty_, then we owe it to this little girl, and to the
Great Father who sent her to our doors, to relieve her wants, and if needs
be, provide for her in future."
This view of her relation to poor little Madge, somewhat softened Mrs.
Carlton's feelings. She was a very kind woman--in fact, she was nearly all
_heart_--but she was fastidiously neat. Madge's dirt and rags had repelled
her at first sight; had shut out from her thoughts, for the moment, the
recollection, that within that covering of filthy rags, there sat a human
creature, which, had it been loved, and taught, and trained as her own
child had been, might have been as loving, and as attractive as she. Her
brother's remark brought this view of Madge's case before her, but did not
wholly divest her of her first feelings. Jessie's instincts led her to see
that her mother was not quite prepared to take the outcast girl to her
affections, and trembling for the result, she followed up her uncle's
plea, by saying:
"We found her cold and hungry, sitting under a stone wall, waiting for her
mother, who has run away from her. If we had not brought her home, she
would have frozen to death before morning. Wouldn't that have been
terrible, Ma?"
"Poor thing!" exclaimed Mrs. Carlton, her sympathy being now fully
aroused, "but, Brother, why did you not take her to the alms-house, where
they have the means of cleansing and clothing such unhappy outcasts?"
"Perhaps it would have been more prudent, my sister, to have done so; but
I took counsel of your child's heart, and not of my own prudence. This is
Jessie's _protege_. When she pleaded in her behalf, I thought I would do
for Madge, what I and you would wish another to do for Jessie, should she
ever, by any sad reverse of fortune, become an outcast child."
"Halloo, what little dolly mop have you got here?" cried Hugh, who, at
this juncture, bounded into the kitchen to see what was going on.
"Poor little creature! She has had a hard road to travel, thus far, I
guess," said Guy, who accompanied his brother. Hugh looked at the child's
appearance only. Guy, like his uncle and Jessie, viewed her as a human
being in distress.
All this time, the object of these comments, stared strangely about,
looking, now at the things around her, and then into the faces of the
different persons in the group. At first, she seemed indifferent to their
remarks. But when Hugh called her a little dollymop, her large, black eyes
flashed angrily upon him. Guy's kind words and tones disarmed her,
however, and a pearl-like tear rolled down her cheeks.
"Well," said Mrs. Carlton, with a sigh of resignation to circumstances,
"the poor thing is here, and must be cared for." Then turning to the
servant, she added, "Take the poor child into the bath-room. Give her a
thorough cleansing and combing, while I look out some of Jessie's clothes
for her. Take those rags she has on, and throw them on the dirt heap!"
The party in the kitchen now broke up. Uncle Morris, the boys, and Jessie,
went into the parlor, where they found Mr. Carlton, who had just returned
from the city. He approved of what Uncle Morris had done, but thought it
best to inquire, at once, for Madge's mother at the village tavern. As
there was yet an hour to spare before tea, he took Guy, and started in
pursuit of the heartless mother.
Where was she? After leaving Madge at the pump, she had gone to the
tavern, and purchased some gin. After drinking a large glass of the fiery
liquor, she put down the glass and the money, looking so ravenously at the
sparkling decanter, that the landlord feared she was going crazy. Reaching
her skinny fingers out towards the bottle, she said, in a screeching
voice: "Give me another glass!"
Hardly knowing what he was about, the landlord filled her glass a second
time. She swallowed its contents at a single gulp, and demanded more.
Alarmed at her manner the man refused. Then her anger awoke. She poured
forth a volley of strange and fearful words. The passers-by came in to see
what was the matter. To be rid of her tongue and to save the reputation of
his house, as he said, the landlord called in his stable-boys, and they
hurled her into the street.
There she drew upon herself the attention of Jem Townsend and the crew of
idle boys which usually accompanied him. They gathered round the unhappy
woman, as she sat on the edge of the curb-stone cursing the tavern-keeper,
and began to tease her.
"Fuddled, eh?" said Jem Townsend, laughing. Then he added, "What do you do
here, Lady Ginswiller? Rather a cold seat this for a lady, eh? Better walk
into old Bottlenose's best parlor, hadn't ye?"
Upon this the poor maudlin creature cursed louder than ever. The wicked
urchins laughed and hooted in turn, until she rose in a fit of passion and
pursued them.
The boys ran down the village street, pausing now and then to quicken her
rage by some biting words. And thus they led her at last to the vicinity
of a low grocery. Drawn by the scent of rum, like the vulture to its
quarry, she staggered into the grocery, laid down her last sixpence on the
bar, and muttered, "Give me a drink of rum."
It was given her. She drank the wretched stuff, and reeling to the
door-step, fell down insensibly drunk. What a spectacle of pity! And yet
that poor, pitiable creature had once been a fair and lovely girl, as full
of life and hope as she was of health and beauty. But now, alas, how
fallen! What had done it? The wine cup, used in circles of fashion, began
the work of ruin. Rum and gin were doing their best to finish it.
Finding they could not rouse her, the boys ran off to Mr. Tipstaff, the
constable, and told him about her. That worthy repaired to the spot. Aided
by one or two others he dragged her to a magistrate's office; and he sent
her to jail as a common vagrant.
These facts were all told to Mr. Carlton and Guy by the landlord of the
hotel, who painted the poor woman in very dark colors. After calling on
the magistrate and requesting that the prisoner might be detained the next
day until it was ascertained certainly that she was Madge's mother, he and
Guy returned home with sad hearts. They talked the matter over as they
walked. Among other questions, Guy asked:
"Do _many_ women become drunkards, Pa?"
"Yes, a great many; though drunken women are not so common as drunken men,
by far."
"It always makes me feel bad to see a tipsy man; but when I once saw a
tipsy _woman_ in New York, it made me shudder. How do _women_ learn to
drink, Pa? They don't go to the tavern like men, do they?"
"Not at first, Guy. Usually they begin at home, or at parties, or when
stopping at the great hotels, where wine is drunk at the dinner-table. In
many families, also, wine is used at the table, and fathers and mothers
teach their daughters to drink it as a daily beverage. But generally, I
believe, ladies begin their habit of drinking wine at parties, taking it,
at first, not from choice, but because they don't like to be thought
singular."
"But I don't see how drinking a little wine at a party can teach a lady to
be a drunkard, Pa," remarked Guy.
"It does not do so, my son, in every case. But too often a lady will
acquire an appetite for wine, which gradually grows stronger and stronger
until she cannot control it. This appetite is not awakened in all who
drink, but it _may_ be. Hence, it is better for all, boys, girls, men, and
women, not to touch the drink that is in the drunkard's bowl."
"So I think, Pa," said Guy, "and therefore, I mean to be a tee-totaler as
long as I live."
"That's right, my son. It is always best to keep as far from a dangerous
place as possible."
When Mr. Carlton and Guy reached home, tea was ready, and they went at
once to the cheerful table. Jessie could scarcely wait while the blessing
was asked, so impatient was she to know if Madge's mother had been found.
As soon, therefore, as Uncle Morris ceased speaking, she broke forth and
said:
"O Pa! you don't know how nice Madge will look when she is washed and
dressed. Please tell me if you have seen her mother?"
"No, I have not _seen_ her," replied her father, smiling.
Jessie's face brightened. She had been fearing that Madge would have to go
away if her mother was found. Looking archly at her father, she said--
"I'm _so_ glad. _Now_ poor Madge can stay here!"
"Why, Jessie, you surprise me," said Mrs. Carlton. "Is it any thing to be
glad about, that a little girl has lost her mother?"
With a blush mantling her cheek: the little girl exclaimed--
"Her mother is a wicked woman, Ma, and don't make her happy, nor teach her
to be good. If Madge has lost her, and you let her live with us and be a
mother to her, she will be a good deal better off, and much happier than
she could be with her own mother."
"Spoken like a philosopher!" exclaimed Uncle Morris. "The loss of a
drunken mother is not, indeed, a thing to mourn over, especially if that
loss brings with it the gain of a home in which Love is the perpetual
President--but I suspect from your pa's looks that Madge's mother is not
wholly lost, yet."
"_Why!_ didn't pa say he couldn't find her?" said Jessie, looking with a
puzzled air at her father.
"Not exactly, my dear," replied Mr. Carlton. "I said I had not _seen_ her,
which is true; but I have _heard_ of her, as I suppose; for a strange
woman did go to the tavern about the time Madge was left, and is now in
jail as a drunken vagrant."
"Oh, how shocking!" exclaimed Jessie.
Mr. Carlton now told all he had heard about the supposed Mrs. Clifton, and
it was agreed that Uncle Morris should see her in the morning and learn if
she was, indeed, the poor child's mother.
After tea, Jessie hurried to the kitchen to look after her _protege_. She
found her so changed by her washing and new dress, that notwithstanding
her high expectations, she could hardly believe her to be the same Madge
she had seen sitting there an hour before. But Madge it was, as bright and
good-looking a girl as could be found anywhere, in or out of Duncanville.
"Have you had enough to eat, Madge?" inquired Jessie, scarcely knowing how
to act the part of an agreeable hostess.
"Indade, miss, but she has eaten more like a hungry pig than a gal," said
Mary, before Madge had time to reply.
Jessie could not keep from laughing at Mary's not very complimentary
comparison. Hence, she turned her head so as not to hurt the little girl's
feelings. As soon as she could make her face straight and sober again, she
sat down beside Madge, and taking her hand, said--
"Would you like to see my doll?"
But Madge had other and higher thoughts than of dolls or playthings. She
was in a sort of wonder-world. She could not satisfy herself with regard
to the meaning of the change brought about in her during the last hour or
two. That pleasant kitchen, the neat dress she wore, the bath by which she
had been cleansed from the filth of poverty, the pleasant faces she had
seen, and the kind voices she had heard, all seemed to her like a gay
dream, and she was expecting, ay, and fearing too, that the next minute
she should awake and find herself sitting and shivering in the cold wind,
under the stone wall, waiting for her ungentle mother. But when Jessie
touched her hand and spoke so kindly to her, every thing seemed real, and
her heart sent up gushes of gratitude to the little friend who, like some
good fairy, had conjured away her rags, and pain, and cold, and hunger.
After gazing silently into Jessie's eyes a few moments, as if she was
trying to look into her soul, she said--
"Little girl, will you let me love you?"
"To be sure I will, and I will love _you_ too," replied Jessie, in tones
that seemed like angel's music to the little outcast, whose ears had long
been unfamiliar with loving words.
Then Jessie threw an arm round Madge and pressing her to her bosom, gave
her a kiss. Oh, how warmly did the outcast girl return it! She clung to
Jessie as the wild vine does to the supporting branch, and embraced her
with an ardor which told more eloquently than words could utter it, how
grateful she was for the love which Jessie had offered her.
When Madge withdrew her arms from Jessie, she sat back in her chair and
gazed at her long and silently. After a time the tears filled her eyes,
and in broken accents she asked--
"Does any one know where my mother is?"
Jessie told her she was probably in the village, and that she would, most
likely, see her in the morning. Madge begged hard to be taken to her that
night, but was finally persuaded to wait until the morrow.
"That child has a great deal of _heart_," said Uncle Morris, after hearing
Jessie's account of her interview with Madge. "We must do what we can to
rescue her from the influence of her drunken mother."