DELUSIONS DISPELLED.
MRS. HILL had buried her baby, and the close and kind attentions of
Mr. and Mrs. Field had kept less faithful friends away, so that the
influences for good had for a time another opportunity. But there were
days when even they could not be always at hand, and Jane had learned
to find resources against thought and conscience.
Matthew did not come, neither had Benjamin Field heard from him again,
and the suspense was trying. The sufferings of the little girl,
"father's pet," were a perpetual reproach to her unhappy mother, and
often she pretended that occupation about her household duties kept her
from the child's bedside.
For Daisy was very weak and pale, and did not care to get up, though
the doctor had said she might run about again, provided she was careful
not to play too roughly.
"And you must mind and not knock her about," said he to her brother,
who heard joyfully that his little playmate might come downstairs.
"I don't knock her about," said the boy, his eager smiles turning to
indignant frowns; "it was—" He paused suddenly, his face crimsoned, and
he hid it in Daisy's pillow.
"Well, my child," said the doctor, "I'm glad to see that you cannot
tell a falsehood without feeling ashamed of it. How could your sister
get such a hurt except in some rough gambols that you got up to
together? Well, well, you'll both be careful in future, I dare say.
Mrs. Hill, if you could borrow somebody's perambulator, a ride would do
the little maid good."
And so the doctor felt it safe now to give up the case into the
mother's hands. Who could bring a sick child round so well as a kind
and watchful mother?
Mrs. Hill said nothing. She could not comfortably look her own children
in the face, and a sort of fear, almost dislike, sprang up against her
own boy, who had so nearly defended himself at her expense.
And had she not allowed a false imputation to rest upon him? How would
"he" feel towards "her?" She felt despicable in his eyes, and in her
own; and, unsoftened by true penitence, made herself harder and colder
than ever.
Daisy begged to lie still; no perambulator was sought for—Mrs. Hill did
not like "borrowing;" and there was no improvement. Often the little
feverish lips would utter the dear name of "father," and Jane knew that
a kind word from her would bring him to that bedside, but she would not
speak or write it, and the little one longed in vain. It was affecting
to see how the children, in the habit of former days, tried to keep
themselves and their room tidy even now.
"Brother, what are you doing?" Daisy asked one day, when he had been
very quiet for some time.
"Only cutting out some letters," said he; "I'll show you soon."
So Daisy tried to be patient.
At last, he jumped up from the floor, bringing his slate and showing
her some letters cut out of any odd papers or advertisements, such as
are constantly left at people's doors.
"You can't read it, Daisy, but I can. I've written it on my slate first
to be sure. I've got all the letters, and now I'll read them to you."
So, feeling very proud and happy, he read:—
"DEAR FATHER, COME HOME; DAISY WANTS YOU."
"Oh, how nice!" cried Daisy, her bright eyes dilating. "Will he come?"
"I hope so. I'm going to make Mr. Field send it in a letter he knows
where. I shall stick them on a paper if I can find a bit."
[Illustration: JOSY'S LETTER TO FATHER.]
"Will mother let you?" asked his sister, apprehensively.
"I haven't told her; I don't want to," he replied, with a cloudy face.
"You mustn't tell her either."
After a long search in every place he could think of, a half sheet of
white paper was found; he begged a morsel of gum, and the letters,
in tolerable order, were stuck upon it. He was always ready to run
on errands when anything was wanted, and impatiently waited his
opportunity.
At last it came, and, running into Mr. Field's, he hastily confided the
paper to Mrs. Field, begging her to get it sent as soon as possible,
for poor Daisy sadly wanted her father, and so did he.
Mrs. Field, deeply touched, clasped the little fellow in her arms, and
the tears came into the eyes of both.
"Oh, if mother would do so," said he; "but I must run back." And
rubbing away the drops, he set off amidst assurances that the letter
should go that day. And it did so.
"Well!" said Daisy, eagerly, as, out of breath, he rushed up to her
side.
"It's all right; it will go," said he.
"And father will come and see Daisy again. Oh, brother, but what if I
was to go away like baby—would you mind?" said she, softly.
"Oh, Daisy, don't say that; I can't bear it," said the boy, quickly.
"I won't if you don't like, but it was only Jesus taking her away in
her sleep, because perhaps He thought mother wasn't—couldn't mind her
well enough," she added, hesitatingly.
"But I'm minding you, He needn't come for you," said the brother,
anxiously.
"Where's your mother, children?" asked a loud, sharp voice of some one
who stood looking on them from the end of the room.
Josy had not latched the door below, Mrs. Hill was not in sight, and
the visitor walked up to where she had heard the sound of voices.
"Are you not well yet?" said she, advancing as the children shuffled
close together. "Oh, I'm not going to do any harm to you. Where's your
mother, I say?"
"I'm here," said Mrs. Hill from below. "Please to come down. Why did
you go upstairs?"
"Because I'd a mind to," said Mrs. Swinden, rudely, and turning to go
down again.
"We'll shut her out," said the boy, running to close the door. "I can't
bear her—the ugly woman! She makes me feel angry and wretched."
But Mrs. Swinden heard the words, rushed instantly back again, and gave
the boy a sharp box on the ears, whereupon Daisy screamed with rage and
terror, and her brother struck out arms and legs with heedless fury.
Jane was on the point of springing to the rescue, when she checked
herself, suppressed her passion, and called from below, "I'm here; come
down if you want me. Please don't meddle with the children."
"I'll kill you if you dare to kick at me again, sir," shouted the
woman. "A pretty way to bring children up to be sure. I wonder you
arn't ashamed of him." And red with anger and exertion with the
scuffle, she stood before Mrs. Hill, wondering much that the mother had
not come up to take the part of her child.
"I'm sorry if he was naughty to you," said Mrs. Hill, with a strange
mixture of pride and fear in her tone. "What is it you want me for?"
"Well, I suppose I can sit down; and though it's daytime, I dare say
you can find me something to drink—I'm thirsty-and then I'll tell you."
"I've only my beer that's left for supper," said Mrs. Hill; "you shall
have that and welcome."
And she produced a bottle and emptied the contents into a glass, which
the woman drank off at one breath.
"I should like some more," said she, impudently.
"I'm sorry; I've no more in the house," said Jane, in a great fright
at her behaviour. "But if you would get some for yourself, here's the
money for it."
"A paltry sixpence," said Mrs. Swinden, taking it, nevertheless. "Now,
we had better have a settling. You must pay me for the gin, and the
cordials, and all I've got for you at odd times."
"I don't owe you anything," said Jane; "I paid you every penny you ever
spent for me, and more too."
"Oh, no, you didn't; you've lost count, Mrs. Hill. You get plenty of
money from your husband, you know; and I am a lone widow, and it's a
shame for you to be in my debt. So pay me at once, or something on
account."
Mrs. Hill again protested against the claim.
"Very well, take your choice. If you don't pay me, I'll summons you,
and expose everything. I'll tell how you went to the Lion for drink,
because you were afraid to go again to the Crown. I'll tell how you
behaved that night you got drunk the first time, and the trouble I had
with you. Ha, ha! Do you think I've forgotten what the pretty, tidy
Mrs. Hill looked like? Who'd ever have believed it? Will you pay me
now, I say?"
"How much do you say it is?" gasped Jane, white with shame and passion.
"Ten shillings now, for those things I said, and the rest when I can
look up the account," said the triumphant woman, maliciously.
"This is the last I will ever give you," said Jane, hastily counting
out the sum, almost the last in her possession. "Now go, and never
darken my door again."
"That's as I please," said her late friend, saucily, and slowly moving
towards the door; "I'll come when I choose. Good-by for the present,
and teach your boy better manners than to call ladies ugly, specially
when they're such friends as me."
As soon as she was over the threshold, Jane dashed the door close,
bolted and locked it, against the jeers and laughter of the "lady"
outside, sat down and covered her face, pressing her hands upon her
forehead, and groaned, and almost foamed with a frenzy of passion.
Poor Matthew's wish that the proud spirit might be humbled began to be
fulfilled now. Oh, what a sense of horrible degradation was crushing
her! What frightful shame to lie at the mercy of such a person as this!
Bolts and bars could not keep out the bitterness of such a condition as
the tempter's insulting mockery had set before her. What could she do?
Oh, had she but cast herself, all helpless and sinful as she was, at
the feet of the compassionate Jesus, she might have found peace; peace
by the blood that cleanseth from all sin, and the Spirit that renews to
holiness; but there is "a sorrow that worketh death," a taste of "the
worm that dieth not," and this was gnawing at the heart of the unhappy
Jane.
Long she sat swelling with rage and shame. Bitterly she cursed the
tempter who had triumphed over her, and there was nothing but despair
in the end. She had yielded herself to the soothing influences of a
fatal charm, and found herself entangled in the strong meshes of a
demon in disguise.
All at once she started up, and rushed to her cupboard. There stood
a bottle, nearly full of the strong spirit to which she had begun to
resort in secret, and instead of dashing it to fragments, and bursting
her bonds, she swallowed glass after glass of it with mad haste, and
any action, however wild or shocking, was not too bad for the raving
maniac she became.
With incoherent fury, she denounced Mrs. Swinden, and threatened
revenge; she kicked and broke her furniture, and threw several things
into the fire, tossed the cradle, lately occupied by her lost baby,
out into the yard, threw Matthew's chair after it, smashed a whole row
of plates on the shelf, and made so fearful a noise that passers-by,
failing to open the door, managed to take a look in at the window, and
passed on, saying, "It's only a drunken woman!"—The most hateful thing
on the face of the fallen earth.
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