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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