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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