Chapter XXII: Sin and Punishment

WHEN Matthew returned with the doctor, they found Mrs. Hill talking wildly, sometimes screaming, sometimes fighting off some imaginary assailant, the frightened children awake, little Daisy sobbing on her pillow.

The doctor looked steadily at the wife by the light of the candle that Matthew brought to him, while she went on with her mutterings, trying to get up, and falling back in a rage at her helplessness.

"Father, father!" called the boy from his bed, where he was sitting up shivering with fear. "Don't you think poor baby's medicine would make her quiet? It always stopped baby screaming and let her go to sleep, oh, for so long."

"Ha! My little man, where is it?" said the doctor.

"In the cupboard downstairs, please; at least, it used to be."

Matthew went to look for it.

"My boy, had baby any of it the night she died?" asked the doctor, quietly, coming to Josy's bedside.

"Oh yes, sir, lots," said the boy.

Matthew brought two or three small bottles from amongst a good many large ones, and the doctor was soon satisfied.

"No, we shan't give her any of that. But now, Mr. Hill, you must remove the children to another room as soon as it can be done; this may be a long business, and you must get some one as nurse, for you cannot watch night and day."

"What is it, do you think, sir?" asked Matthew; anxiously.

"I shall judge better to-morrow," said the doctor.

"Is it from the fall that she rambles so?" he asked again.

"I am afraid not, but I shall tell better in a few hours more. Who did you say knocked her down?"

"That woman Swinden," replied Hill.

"Ah, she was not likely to fare better in such company, but I hope you'll be able to right things a little now you've come home. I will be here, please God, in good time in the morning."

"Sir," said Matthew, following him to the door, "you attended my little babe?"

"No, no, I did not see it till too late," said he, hastily. "But," thought he, as he walked along, "if I had had any idea of this. It's murder, murder and nothing short of it. Died in a fit, indeed! If it had been Mrs. Swinden's child, I should have known better, and detected the lie; but this woman's children used to be so well cared for, I never thought of questioning what she said at the time. But she seems to have taken to drinking, and what won't a drunken woman do!"

Matthew obeyed the directions he had received, and sat bathing the hot brow, until the excited patient became a little calmer, and as, fortunately for him, she was unable to rise, he set about such little preparations as he could make for removing the children into another room.

He felt no inclination to sleep, and it was a very worn and haggard face that Benjamin and his Ellen found ready to receive them the next morning. How kind, how undeservedly kind of his forbearing Lord to provide such friends in this great need, poor Matthew deeply felt.

Mrs. Hill's temporary calmness broke into fresh exhibitions of frenzy with the daylight, and it required actual force to keep her from rolling off the bed. Whether she knew whose firm hand restrained her from injuring herself, or into whose ear she poured her anger and fury, no one could tell. But her mind seemed to rove from one subject to another with startling rapidity. One moment she vowed revenge on "that woman;" the next, she loudly declared that her baby died in a fit, and the next that Matthew was an unnatural brute, and she hoped he would never come back, and so on.

Next morning, when the doctor had prescribed for Jane, he went to look at the little girl in the bed, whither her father had carried her. Josy, nicely washed, hair combed, and a clean pinafore from her own children's store, put on by Mrs. Field to hide his dirty frock and trousers, trotted about, doing as he was told, and watching his father's countenance with great contentment.

Matthew gazed approvingly upon him now and then, and the child was happy. But his pet flower, his sweet Daisy, troubled him.

"She's so light, sir," he said; "when I lifted her, I could scarcely think I was holding a child of her age."

"She is very thin and weak, certainly. I wish I had seen her again after the arm got well, but I understood she was going on comfortably."

"She never eats anything but what Mrs. Field brings and coaxes her to," said the little boy.

"Hum; well, perhaps father will manage her now," said the doctor, observing the smile of perfect delight which played over the wan little face as Daisy clasped her small fingers round her father's large ones, and looked up in his anxious face.

Before many more hours were over, Mrs. Hill was so violent that the doctor ventured to suggest to Mrs. Field the propriety of removing her to the lunatic's wing of the neighbouring hospital, where he thought she could be managed with less risk to herself and others.

But Ellen could not hint it to Matthew, and when the doctor at last did so himself, he started with alarm.

"Is it come to that?" said he, greatly distressed. "Is she really mad?"

"For the present," replied the sympathising doctor; "and as she does not know anything about it, she will not suffer anything until she comes to herself, and then you can bring her home immediately."

Matthew pondered drearily for a little.

"No, sir," at last he said, firmly. "Order anything or any person here that you think right for her to have, but I can't send her there, indeed I cannot."

"It will cost you a good deal to have such attention as she needs," suggested the doctor.

"Never mind, sir, I can get work; I will pay it all, but I can't send my wife there. Please not to name it again."

At last, excitement was followed by prostration: sense and intelligence returned, and weak as an infant she opened wondering eyes on her bedside watchers.

"Matthew," she whispered, faintly, and Matthew's hand clasped hers, and his manly head sank down on her pillow in a flood of thankful tears.

"Dear Jane; you forgive me, say you forgive me all."

"I forgive! Oh, Matthew! Let me get up, I want to get to work. Where are the children?"

"Josy, come here, your mother will know you now."

Josy timidly drew near, and Jane stroked his head, and bade him kiss her.

He obeyed, but there was no heartiness in the kiss; and then she asked for Daisy.

"Daisy is not strong enough yet," said Matthew; and there was something in the tone that made Jane try to see his face.

"And baby—I suppose they told you," said she, with a great effort, "that baby was teething, and—and—"

"And you thought she had a fit," said Matthew. "Yes, I heard it; Poor baby! But she is better off; its no use to grieve for her."

And Matthew rose rather hastily, and went to look again at his little girl.

"Daddy, will you walk me about now?" asked the little one; and, wrapping a small blanket round her, the father took her tenderly in his arms, and resting her head on his shoulder, walked up and down the little room for some time, thinking, and then asking for willingness to surrender this other treasure, that was fading away so gently before his eyes.

Yes, little Daisy was marked for a better world; a rude hand, and that hand her mother's, had struck the blow that began to crush the young life from its slender stem. Daisy had wanted love, and kindness, and care, and nourishment, just when she did not have them, and now she was going where no need is unsupplied.

Josy came and stood looking at them, and listening to words that at once appalled and fascinated him.

"Daisy going to heaven, Daddy come too," softly said the little child, stroking her father's face; "don't cry. Kind Mrs. Field told all about it. Jesus is there; and He wanted baby, and now He wants Daisy. Daisy so tired."

And the little head drooped wearily, and the poor father's heart felt bursting, and Josy sobbed outright.

"Kiss me, brother," said the little one, suddenly, "and you come to heaven too."

She did not ask for her mother, and Matthew feared the excitement for both if he took her into the room.

The good widow who had been found able and willing, for small payment, to come and "do" for the family, with Ellen Field's frequent loving attention, kept all straight, and provided everything that could tempt appetite and strengthen the little flower; but all in vain.

In a few days more, she passed away in her father's arms to the place where, safe from rough winds and stormy skies,—

"Beyond the smiling and the weeping,
Beyond the waking and the sleeping,
Beyond the sowing and the reaping—"

She found the blessed atmosphere of—

"Love, rest, and home."