Chapter XVII: 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."

"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.

————————