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.