COALS OF FIRE.
The gloomy month of November, 1859, was drawing to its close. The
weather, as usual at that time of the year, was dull and sober, and the
skies were dark and lowering. More than three months had elapsed since
the journey to New York, and Mrs. Savareen and her affairs had ceased
to be the engrossing topics of discussion among the people of Millbrook
and its neighborhood. She continued to live a very secluded life, and
seldom stirred beyond the threshold of her own door. Almost her only
visitors were her father and brother, for her stepmother rarely
intruded upon her domain, and indeed was not much encouraged to do so,
as her presence never brought comfort with it. The little boy continued
to grow apace, and it seemed to the fond mother that he became dearer
to her every day. He was the sole light and joy of her life, and in him
were bound up all her hopes for the future. Of late she had ceased to
scan his features in the hope of tracing there some resemblance of his
absent father. Since her visit to Amity street, _that_ fond
illusion had wholly departed, never to return. She had ceased even to
speak to him about his other parent, and had begun to regard herself in
the light of an actual widow. Such was the state of affairs when the
humdrum of her existence was broken in upon by a succession of
circumstances which it now becomes necessary to unfold.
It was rapidly drawing towards six o'clock in the evening, and the
darkness of night had already fallen upon the outer landscape. Mrs.
Savareen sat in her little parlor with her boy upon her knee, as it was
her custom to sit at this hour. The lamp had not been lighted, but the
fireplace sent forth a ruddy blaze, making the countless shadows
reflect themselves on the floor, and in the remote corners of the room.
To both the mother and the child, this hour, "between the dark and the
daylight" was incomparably the most delightful of the twenty-four, for
it was consecrated to story-telling. Then it was that the boy was first
introduced to those old-time legends which in one form or another have
thrilled the bosoms of happy childhood for so many hundreds of years,
and which will continue to thrill them through centuries yet unborn.
Then it was that he made the acquaintance of Little Red Riding Hood,
Jack the Giant Killer, and the Seven Champions of Christendom. The
mingled lights and shades from the blazing logs of hickory in the
fireplace lent additional charm to the thousand and one stories which
the mother recounted for the child's edification, and I doubt not that
Jack's wonderful bean-stalk is still associated in Master Reggie's mind
with that cosy little room with its blended atmosphere of cheerful
twilight and sombre shadow.
A few minutes more and it would be tea time. It would never do,
however, to break off the story of the Babes in the Wood just at the
time when the two emissaries of the wicked uncle began to quarrel in
the depths of the forest. The child's sympathies had been thoroughly
aroused, and he would not tamely submit to be left in suspense. No, the
gruesome old tale must be told out, or at least as far as where the
robin redbreasts, after mourning over the fate of the hapless infants
"did cover them with leaves." And so the mother went on with the
narrative. She had just reached the culminating point when an
approaching footstep was heard outside. Then came a knock at the door,
followed by the entrance of Mrs. Savareen's father. It was easy to see
from his face that this was no mere perfunctory call. Evidently he had
news to tell.
"Something has happened, father," said Mrs. Savareen, as calmly as she
could.
"Well, yes, something has happened. It is nothing very dreadful, but
you had better prepare yourself to hear unpleasant news."
"It is that man--he has come."
"Yes, he has come to town."
"Is he at the door?"
"No, he is at my house. I thought I had better come over and tell you,
instead of letting him come himself and take you by surprise."
"What has he come for, and what does he want?" inquired Mrs. Savareen,
in a harder tone of voice than she was accustomed to use.
"Well, for one thing he wants to see you, and I suppose you can't very
well avoid seeing him. He is your husband, you know. He knows nothing
about the journey to New York. He has no means, and looks shabby and
sickly. I shouldn't wonder if he isn't long for this world."
"So you didn't tell him anything about the New York trip?"
"No, I didn't exactly know what your views might be, and he looked such
a worn-out, pitiful object that I held my tongue about it. I think you
had better see him and hear what he has to say."
It appeared that Savareen had arrived at Millbrook by the 4:15 p.m.
train from New York, and that he had slunk round by the least
frequented streets to his father-in-law's house without being
recognised by any one. It might be doubted, indeed, whether any of his
old friends would have recognised him, even if they had met him face
to face in broad daylight, for he was by no means the ruddy, robust,
self-complacent looking personage they had been accustomed to see in
the old days when he was wont to ride into town on his black mare. His
clothes were seamy and worn, and his physical proportions had shrunk so
much that the shabby garments seemed a world too wide for him. His face,
which three months ago had been bloated and sodden, had become pale and
emaciated, and the scar upon his left cheek seemed to have developed
until it was the most noticeable thing about him. His step was feeble
and tremulous, and it was evident that his health had completely broken
down. He was in fact in a state bordering on collapse, and was hardly
fit to be going about. His financial condition was on a par with his
bodily state. He had expended his last dime in the purchase of his
railway ticket, and at the moment of reaching his father-in-law's door
he had been well-nigh famished for want of food. When a loaf of bread
and some slices of cold meat had been set before him, he had fallen to
with the voracity of a jungle tiger. He had vouchsafed no explanation
of his presence, except that he felt he was going to die, and that he
wanted to see his wife and child. As he was tired out and sorely in
need of rest, he had been put to bed, and his father-in-law, after
seeing him snugly stowed away between the sheets, had set out to bear
the news to his wife.
There could be no doubt as to what was the proper thing to be done.
Mrs. Savareen made the fire safe, put on her bonnet and shawl and
locked up the house. Then, taking her little boy by the hand, she
accompanied her father to the old house where, six or seven years
before, the handsome young farmer had been in the habit of visiting and
paying court to her. On arriving she found the invalid buried in the
deep, profound sleep of exhaustion. Consigning her boy to the care of
her stepmother, she took her place by the bedside and waited. Her vigil
was a protracted one, for the tired-out sleeper did not awaken until
the small hours of the next morning. Then with a long drawn
respiration, he opened his eyes, and fixed them upon the watcher with a
weak, wandering expression, as though he was unable to fully grasp the
situation.
The truth found its way to him by degrees. He shifted himself uneasily,
as though he would have been glad to smother himself beneath the
bedclothes, was it not for lack of resolution. A whipped hound never
presented a more abject appearance.
His wife was the first to speak. "Do you feel rested?" she asked in a
gentle tone.
"Rested? O, yes, I remember now. We are at your father's."
"Yes; but don't talk any more just now, if it tires you. Try to go to
sleep again."
"You are good to me; better than I deserve," he responded, after a
pause. Then great tears welled up to his eyes, and coursed one after
another down his thin, worn face. It was easy to see that he was weak
as water. His long journey by rail without food had been too much for
him, and in his state of health it was just possible he might never
rally.
The womanly nature of the outraged wife came uppermost, as it always
does under such circumstances. Her love for the miserable creature
lying there before her had been killed and crucified long ago, never to
be revived. But she could not forget that she had once loved him, and
that he was the father of her child. No matter how deeply he had
wronged her, he was ill and suffering--perhaps dying. His punishment
had come upon him without any act of hers. She contrasted his present
bearing with that of other days. He was bent, broken, crushed. Nothing
there to remind her of the stalwart, manly young fellow whose voice had
once stirred her pulse to admiration and love. All the more reason why
she should be good to him now, all undeserving as he might be. Our
British Homer showed a true appreciation of the best side of feminine
nature when he wrote--
"O woman, in our hour of ease,
Uncertain, coy, and hard to please;
When pain and anguish wring thy brow,
A ministering angel thou!"
She rose and approached the bed, while her gaze rested mildly upon his
face. Drawing forth her handkerchief, she wiped the salt tears from his
cheeks with a caressing hand. To him lying there in his helplessness,
she seemed no unfit earthly representative of that Divine Beneficence
"whose blessed task," says Thackeray, "it will one day be to wipe the
tear from every eye." Her gentleness caused the springs to well forth
afresh, and the prostrate form was convulsed by sobs. She sat by his
side on the bed, and staunched the miniature flood with a tender touch.
By-and-by calm returned, and he sank into a profound and apparently
dreamless sleep.
When he again awoke it was broad daylight. The first object on which
his eyes rested was the patient watcher who had never left her post the
whole night long, and who still sat in an armchair at his bedside,
ready to minister to his comfort. As soon as she perceived that he was
awake she approached and took his wasted hand in her own. He gazed
steadily in her face, but could find no words to speak.
"You are rested now, are you not?" she murmured, scarcely above her
breath.
After a while he found his voice and asked how long he had slept. Being
enlightened on the point, he expressed his belief that it was time for
him to rise.
"Not yet," was the response; "you shall have your breakfast first, and
then it will be time enough to think about getting up. I forbid you to
talk until you have had something to eat," she added, playfully. "Lie
still for a few minutes, while I go and see about a cup of tea." And so
saying she left him to himself.
Presently she returned, bearing a tray and eatables. She quietly raised
him to a sitting posture, and placed a large soft pillow at his back.
He submitted to her ministrations like a child. It was long since he
had been tended with such care, and the position doubtless seemed a
little strange to him. After drinking a cup of tea and eating several
morsels of the good things set before him he evidently felt refreshed.
His eyes lost somewhat of their lack-lustre air of confirmed
invalidism, and his voice regained a measure of its natural tone. When
he attempted to rise and dress himself, however, he betrayed such a
degree of bodily feebleness that his wife forbade him to make further
exertions. He yielded to her importunities, and remained in bed, which
was manifestly the best place for him. He was pestered by no
unnecessary questions to account for his presence, Mrs. Savareen
rightly considering that it was for him to volunteer any explanations
he might have to make whenever he felt equal to the task.
After a while his little boy was brought in to see the father of whom
he dimly remembered to have heard. His presence moved the sick man to
further exhibitions of tearful sensibility, but seemed, on the whole,
to have a salutary effect. Long absence and a vagabond life had not
quenched the paternal instinct, and the little fellow was caressed with
a fervor too genuine to admit of the possibility of its being assumed.
Master Reggie received these ebullitions of affection without much
corresponding demonstrativeness. He could not be expected to feel any
vehement adoration for one whom he had never seen since his earliest
babyhood, and whose very name for some months past had been permitted
to sink out of sight. His artless prattle, however, was grateful in the
ears of his father, who looked and listened as if entranced by sweet
strains of music. His wasted--worse than wasted--past seemed to rise
before him, as the child's accents fell softly upon his ear, and he
seemed to realize more than ever how much he had thrown away.
In the course of the forenoon Mrs. Savareen's stepmother took her place
in the sick chamber, and she herself withdrew to another room to take
the rest of which she was by this time sorely in need. The invalid
would not assent to the proposal to call in a physician. He declared
that he was only dead tired, and that rest and quiet would soon restore
him without medicine, in so far as any restoration was possible. And so
the day passed by.
In the evening the wife again took her place at the bedside, and she
had not been there long ere her husband voluntarily began his chapter
of explanations. His story was a strange one, but there was no room to
doubt the truth of any portion of it.