Chapter VIII: Caught and Captured

"ANY news of your husband, Jane?" asked Mrs. Oakland, stepping in after a gentle tap as usual at the door. "I saw Mrs. Field yesterday, and she said that some more money had come for you. I hope there is more than money to tell me of."

"Nothing that I know of, ma'am," said Jane; "I'm sure I wonder that anybody troubles about him any more, the worthless—"

"Hush, Jane, I will not hear you speak of him in that way. It does no good; it helps to harden your own heart, and very sad for the poor children. I have not given him up, and don't intend to do so. But I wanted to know also why the little ones have not been at school this week, and only part of last week. I'm sure you know, Jane, that only real interest in them causes me to inquire about it."

Jane's colour rose as she replied,—

"It's my duty to save all I can, because I can't tell when the money may stop coming, and I must be ready with rent and things."

"That is very true, but I am nearly sure that one reason for sending it is that the children may be kept at school, and everything go on as usual at home."

But it was too evident that things were not going on quite as formerly.

Jane looked strange, and not so neat and tidy as she used to be; the window-blind was dirty and the hearth was unswept, though it was not particularly early. Could it be that deep hidden grief and wounded affection made the forsaken wife indifferent to anything? And the thought touched Mrs. Oakland's kind heart.

"Dear Jane," said she, taking the young woman's reluctant hand, and making her sit down beside her, "will you trust me with the real state of your feeling towards Matthew? If your heart is softened about his unhappy fault, I promise you that everything shall be done to find him, and I am sure we should succeed; but unless sure that you would receive him kindly, we dare not insist upon his coming home to coldness and reproaches."

"If you know where he is, then, ma'am, you can say that, if he stops till I ask him back, he'll stop a good bit yet," said Jane, bitterly. "I don't want any meddling between us, if you please; let him take his course, I say."

"I have no doubt it is a very miserable one, wherever he may be, and I know no more than you do," replied the lady, with wonderful patience. "But I know that he loved you dearly once, Jane, and was very fond and proud of his children, and while there are such feelings left to work upon, I would never despair of any one. Poor baby!" she added, turning to the cradle where the little one lay rocking near the fire. "You miss dear father's strong arms and game at play."

"Me want daddy—where's daddy?" said the youngest but one, taking courage before the lady to speak her mind, and looking sideways at her mother the while. "Daddy carry Daisy on his shoulder; never tired of me. Daddy sick now; he say, 'Pray God make poor daddy well again, and be a good man.'" And then the child hid her blushing face in the baby's coverlet.

Mrs. Oakland glanced from the child to the mother, and with tears in her eyes, turned to go.

"We shall be leaving home next month, Mrs. Hill; and if anything is heard of Matthew, or any clue to his address, I lay it on your conscience to inform me of it. You will always be kept aware of our movements."

Mrs. Hill curtseyed slightly and said, "Of course, ma'am."

"Poor Jane!" thought her faithful friend. "She is certainly much altered; her ill-temper never used to be so continuous, but only broke out now and then. I fear her pride is killing her."

If the lady had looked a little closer into the cradle, she would have seen something wrong there also, but she was too much occupied with the mother to notice the change in the baby.

The little creature looked sickly and strange, the full, round, firm cheek was white and flabby, the fat arms were become soft and thin. What could be the cause? Mrs. Hill said the child was teething, and very restless and troublesome, and so she had favoured it with some very decisive and effectual medicines to soothe it to sleep, and save herself the trouble of watching it. A little while before, Jane would have angrily denounced such practices as cruel and murderous; but it is wonderful how soon people become reconciled to means which favour their own selfish convenience, especially when embarked on a course they once shunned and condemned.

Jane had touched the verge of a whirlpool, and in the dizzy attraction was forgetting the dignity of the matron and the tenderness of the mother. And all the while, she was boasting of her great self-denials and her powers of self-control.

The Oakland family set out on a long journey, and at one of the midland stations had to wait a little time for the train to proceed. Mrs. Oakland sat on a bench near the door of the waiting-room, and her boys and girls were popping about the platform, peering into everything and observing everybody while papa was getting the tickets.

Presently Willy stopped short in a run, gave a shrill whistle, and dashed off again till he came up to his mother's side gasping for breath.

"Mamma, mamma, I've seen him!—He's there; look, look! It's Mr. Hill!"

Up sprang the lady, forgetful of cloaks, baskets, and umbrellas. "If you are sure, Willy, fly and keep him till I come."

Away sped the child like an arrow, and in a few seconds clung fast by the arm of a tall, respectable-looking man, who was standing with his hands in the pockets of his working jacket watching a train that had just come in. He looked down in astonishment on his young captor.

"Why, Mr. Hill, don't you know me? Willy Oakland? Oh, I'm so glad I saw you. Here's mamma coming to speak to you, and you shan't run away any more. I'll hold you as tight as a prison," and, linking his hands round Matthew's arm, he jumped with glee.

The prisoner was evidently perplexed; he looked right and left, before and behind, as if thinking to shake off the boy and run, but after a moment or two, he gave up the idea of escape, and walked forward to meet the lady.

"Go, Willy, dear, find papa and tell him where I am," said Mrs. Oakland, advancing with outstretched hand to Matthew.

"Oh, Mr. Hill," said she, kindly, "why have you cast off your old friends? But we have no time to talk much; only say that you will go home. I do entreat you to return to your family, and have done with this foolish conduct."

"You don't know all, ma'am; you didn't see," muttered Matthew.

"Yes, I do know, I did see, and I grieve for the cross you have had to bear, but it cannot excuse you from duty to your family. You and Jane share a responsibility before God, and one has no right to throw the whole upon the other. You will go home, and set the example of forbearance and loving-kindness. Promise me this, and do it at once, before all is lost that makes home worth having; for we cannot understand Jane, she is much altered, and, oh, Matthew, if your neglect were to drive her to do something terrible, how would you feel? For your dear children's sake, I beseech you to go home immediately."

"I don't wish it," said Matthew, doggedly; "I've got work, and I'll send money, but I'll not go until—"

"Do you know one Mrs. Swinden?" interrupted Mrs. Oakland, quickly.

"What, the drunken, dirty gossip that sets the whole street by the ears when—But I beg pardon, ma'am, yes, I know who she is."

"She is the close friend of your wife, of our once neat, pretty, industrious Jane. She takes her dirty, ill-behaved children to your house to play with yours when she likes, and sits there herself for hours together; she exercises some strange power there. Matthew, will you suffer it?"

"I don't see how my going back will help it," said Matthew, though much startled at the news.

"It is your duty to rule your household and your children in the fear of God, and to keep them from evil influences. They have not attended school for some time, and it is said, though I am not accustomed to heed idle rumours, that this Mrs. Swinden boasts of a great victory over Jane about something too dreadful to think of. I hope, I pray, that it is untrue."

"Will she keep her temper, and not goad me to do wrong?" said Matthew. "Is she sorry for her hard, unkind treatment of me when I was ill and grieved at my sin, and needed some word of comfort?"

"I dare not say, for I do not know. But, Matthew, you must learn to do right for Christ's sake through trial and opposition if need be, without any conditions of having it made smooth for you first. But I must go. Where are you staying?"

"A letter to Mr. Mathews, Post-office B—, will find me sometime; but I don't live there, and can't be traced by that."

"The train is nearly ready, mamma. Our seats are taken," cried one of the boys, coming to hasten his mother.

"May God help you to a right mind, Mr. Hill. I am deeply sorry for your home trial, but again I warn you that you cannot throw off your duty there, and wife and children will one day be inquired for at your hands. How will you answer if you have deserted and ruined them?"

Mrs. Oakland hurried away and entered the carriage, and as the train rolled past the spot where Matthew stood, she looked anxiously at him and trusted she had made some impression. The children shouted to him, but he seemed not to see or hear. The train quickened and passed away, leaving Matthew Hill standing like one in a dream.

That Jane's vixenish temper was enough to provoke any man with a spark of feeling, no one would venture to deny, and he thought he had a right to get out of the way of it, and mark his displeasure in any way that seemed good to him, so long as he maintained his family by his own industry, and did not suffer them to burden the parish; in fact, he rather thought his conduct in that respect quite meritorious and magnanimous.

But Mrs. Oakland had thrown a new light over the matter, and he felt smaller, indeed very considerably shrunk in his own opinion, as her rapid but earnest words seemed to repeat themselves in his ear. Then the idea of his wife, the respectable and respected Mrs. Hill, who associated only with two or three of the nicest families in her own station in life, consorting with such a person as Mrs. Swinden, was as incomprehensible as it was odious and disgusting.

"Our once neat, pretty, industrious Jane," Mrs. Oakland had said.

Was she then no longer deserving of that description? She was his wife still, and he could not endure the thought of giving her company to one whom he had always considered a disgrace to her sex.

"Besides," thought Matthew, with increasing irritation, "that woman drinks. What on earth can bring her and Jane together? Jane, who could not but loathe her own husband when he fell into that temptation."

"Hollo, friend!" cried a porter, walking up to Mr. Hill. "When you've done dreaming, what train may you wish to go by?"

"Train to D—," said Matthew, starting.

"Gone, nearly ten minutes. Another in two hours passes through, and stops if there's any passengers; so till then you can finish your nap."

And the porter turned away laughingly, leaving the indiscreet passenger to amuse himself as he could, and bidding him "look a little sharper about him next time."

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