Chapter IX: Woes and Warnings

"TWO hours!" It was very annoying, but had to be borne, so Matthew Hill strolled into the town, still undecided about the course he should pursue towards his wife and family, but resolving to take some steps very soon. Perhaps he would write.

He was passing a stationer's shop, and it struck him to go in and ask leave to write a letter.

"Hadn't you better buy the paper and go over there to write it?" said the proprietor of the shop, who was not accustomed to have working men come in to write letters in his shop amongst his stylish customers. He had, too, been greatly disturbed with some occurrences in the day, and was not disposed to volunteer the necessary space and accommodation.

Matthew looked across the street where the stationer pointed with his pen as he spoke. It was a public-house, and several people were lounging about the door and talking together.

"No, thank you," said he, "I can't: one of those places nearly ruined me, and I never go into one again if I know it. But, if I'm in your way here, perhaps I can manage it at the station."

"No, friend, you shall write a dozen letters if you like, and I'm ashamed of myself for proposing it. The fact is, I've had a deal of trouble to-day, and selfishly wanted to be quiet."

And before Matthew could pay for his paper, the good man had bustled round his counter, cleared a little table, and set a chair and all the needful things for the letter, excepting the words to compose it.

To find these was no easy matter to Matthew, and he had bitten away all the beauty from the top of the pen before anything appeared at the other end of it.

Jane ought to write first; she ought to say she was sorry for her behaviour, and that she wished he would come back. Of course she ought, but then she wouldn't, and he needn't expect it—she was much too proud for that. Wouldn't he give something to see that proud spirit humbled!

With these thoughts, he found it difficult to write, "My dear wife," so he altered it to "My dear Jane;" but Jane was his wife, so there was not much difference, and he scratched it over, making a great blot.

Then he bit hard at the pen again, as the idea of his bright rosy clean children playing with "that woman's filthy little reptiles, and she herself frequenting 'his' house," roused all sorts of fierce feelings within him. "What did it all mean? What triumph had she gained over his once neat, pretty, and industrious Jane?"

Then the sheet of paper was deliberately torn to fragments, which were patted together to prevent a litter, until a bright thought occurred; another sheet was taken, and the letter was written in a few minutes, the shopkeeper, beguiled from his sorrow, looking on the while with much interest and some curiosity.

The reader may know its contents:—

"MY DEAR FRIEND,—Send me ALL particulars you can get about my home and family. Tell me everything. I am well in health, and have plenty of work, but shall send no more money until I know how it is spent, schooling paid, and all going straight.

"Address Mr. Matthews, Post-office B—, to be called for.

"Yours truly,
MATTHEW HILL.

"P.S.—Excuse trouble; think of me kindly, as you always did.

"To Mr. Benjamin Field,
Foreman at — Works."

"I must shake hands with you," said the stationer, when the epistle was enveloped and stamped, "and decline any payment for such small accommodation. It did me good to see a fine tall working fellow like you object to the public-house. I've seen sad havoc of health and happiness through going there, and so I suppose have you."

"That's true enough, sir. I've made havoc of my own, but I hope it's over now, for I've had a hard lesson."

"I hope it is, indeed," said the stationer, kindly. "I never had the temptation myself, thank God, but a relation of mine was grievously addicted to drinking, and the misery of it comes on all belonging to a drunkard. He always meant to reform, poor fellow, and many a pledge he signed and broke, and wouldn't take the only way there was to cure him."

"What was that, sir, may I take leave to ask?" said Matthew, eagerly.

"The help of God," said the stationer: "trust in the strength of One who has promised to uphold all who lean upon Him. If he would but have given himself to the Saviour who pitied and died for sinners, and have sought the gift which the good Father is willing to bestow on all who ask Him, poor Edward might have been here now, a useful, happy man. It's of no use for a man to trust in his own heart; the Bible says he is 'a fool' who does so, for 'the heart is deceitful above all things,' and not fit to be trusted; but 'whoso trusteth in the Lord, mercy shall compass him about,' and keep him, too, from 'the ways of the destroyer.' Seek God's gift of the Holy Spirit, my good friend, if you would keep clear of old temptations, and be indeed a new man, peaceful and upright in this life, and safe for the life to come."

"Might I ask, sir, if it's not too great a liberty, whether your friend or relation gave up the drink at last?"

"Well," said the stationer, leaning across the counter, and speaking in a low tone, "we don't know much about him, at last. He ruined all his prospects here, and brought his family down to misery and poverty, and then ran away to avoid seeing the fruit of his own folly. We only know that after some time, he died in some benevolent institution in America, where he had been placed, broken down with disease and want. Poor Edward! A fine young man he was once as you could wish to see."

"Had he a happy home, sir?" asked Matthew, with deep interest.

"Yes, until he made it otherwise, for it is a dreadful thing for a respectable young woman to find herself bound to a drunkard, you know. She bore up pretty well, his poor young wife did, until he went away, and then—" The good man paused, observing the eager attention and distressed look of his listener.

"Go on, please sir," murmured Matthew. "What happened? Did she die of the trouble?"

"Worse than that," said the stationer, brushing his hand across his eyes, "she got reckless. Friends did what they could to help her, and wondered for some time why nothing succeeded. At last they found it out; she had taken to drinking herself, and yesterday, in an awful fit of drunken madness, she killed her little child. The inquest," he added, speaking rapidly, "was held over there this morning, and those people are most likely talking it over. She is committed for trial, and I suppose will be imprisoned for life; she is quite mad still, and doesn't seem to know what she has done. But there, my good friend, I don't know what made me tell you all this. I'm not used to be so ready with my tongue, and it's done you no good, I see."

Mr. Hill had turned deathly pale, and sat down.

"I know why, sir," he said, at last, while the stationer stood by him in pity and some alarm. "I thank you, too. It will do good, and no harm, I believe. I am all right now."

And Matthew stood up, shook himself, drank the glass of water kindly offered to him, and reached the station in time for the train.

"Poor fellow," thought the shopkeeper. "I've drawn a bow at a venture, and the arrow has hit, I suspect. He's a noble-looking workman as ever I saw, but there's a sign of sorrow in his face. God help him to keep right, and forgive him for Christ's sake if he's gone wrong."

Benjamin Field sat turning his friend's letter over and over in his hands, and considering what to do; his wife, with her darning-needle stopped short in its rapid career up and down a thin place in a stocking, seemed considering too.

"Suppose we go down together, you and me," said Mr. Field, "and tell her I've got a clue to Matthew, and that he is very anxious to hear of her welfare, and all about home?"

It was just what Ellen was thinking, and bonnet and cloak were on in an instant. It was nearly nine o'clock, and the little ones were fast asleep, so she could go with him nicely.

The knock of visitors at that hour was neither expected nor welcome at Mrs. Hill's door, but she rose to open it, a very little way, and just showed part of her face at the crevice.

"We've come to speak to you, Mrs. Hill," said the gentle voice of Mrs. Field. "Benjamin has news, good news."

"It's very late," said Mrs. Hill, coldly; "won't it do in the morning?"

"Oh no, you'll sleep better for it; do let us come in and tell you," said Ellen, earnestly, while Benjamin drew back with an impatient pout of annoyance.

Thus urged, Mrs. Hill reluctantly opened the door, making a great difficulty about it, and affording time for somebody to snatch a bottle from the table and softly retreat into the back kitchen.

There were two chairs, however, before the fire, and two glasses on the table, but not seeming to notice the tell-tales, Benjamin and Ellen began to speak kindly and pleasantly, and Mrs. Hill was composing herself to listen with the air of a martyr, when a tremendous knocking at the door startled the whole party.

The visitor was not inclined to wait, for the door was impatiently opened from without, and the blue coat and shining buttons and hat of a policeman appeared.

"Is one Mrs. Swinden here?" he asked. "Or do you know where she is?"

"She isn't here, you see," said Mrs. Hill, quickly; "but what's the matter?"

"Matter enough, and she must be found. Can you tell me anything about her?"

"She has been here, but I dare say she's nearly home by this time," said Mrs. Hill, rather hesitatingly, and bursting with curiosity to know what could be the matter.

"Well, they said she was sure to be here, or at the public, and I called there first. Her drunken husband has met his fate, at last; he's been run over on the line, and when they carried his poor cut-up body home, the children stupidly were allowed to see, because nobody was there to order or do anything and one of them is in a fit, dead off, and another is screaming enough to wake the father, if he could be woke any more in this world. God help them poor things, they ought to have been in bed out of the way of such a sight. I wonder where their mother can be, though she ain't any better than him that's gone."

Their mother! There she stood in the back kitchen hearing every word, and not easily deciding whether to scream, or faint, or rush forward, until the policeman's concluding sentence worked the finish to her excitement. She flew at him with loud abuse, declaring that he was telling nothing but lies, and getting up a tale to frighten her.

"Hold off, you fury," said the policeman, calmly; "go home and you'll see for yourself. I'm not going to argue with such as you."

"I'll go with you, if you like," said Mr. Field, as the woman rushed out. "Ellen, you stay with Mrs. Hill till I come back."

And he and the policeman left the two horror-stricken women together.

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