For John's Sake Part 20

Richard rapidly made his way to his mother's cottage; but when he reached it, all was darkness, and there was no answer to his repeated knocks. "Out nursing again, I suppose," he muttered, and not knowing whither to turn his steps for the evening, for he was determined not to return home till late, he stood hesitating.

"Well, d.i.c.k, my boy, what brings you away from your home and your wife to-night? It's a strange thing to clap eyes on you these days," said a voice at his side; and turning, he saw a man with whom he had formerly worked.

"You're right; I don't often turn out of nights; but I wanted to see my mother, and I find she's out."

"The very ticket! your wife won't be expecting you back just yet; and we want a sociable, sensible fellow like you at our workmen's club. You've promised me many a time to come and see us; now's your chance!" said the man, clapping him on the shoulder.

"I don't care if I do look in," said Richard after a moment's deliberation; "but I mustn't be late."

"Come along, then," answered the man, well pleased with the chance of introducing a manly fellow like Richard to his companions in the neighbouring tavern, where the meetings of the club were nightly held.

Suffice it to say, that late that evening Richard was helped to the door of his home by some of its members, with the understanding that he was to be enrolled among their number on the following evening. It would take too long to picture Jane's distress when she met him after her long waiting and remorse. Her husband in such a condition, and none to blame but herself! She did not sleep that night, and in those dark hours she determined that the past should be retrieved. She watched him anxiously the next morning, but he never spoke, except to answer her questions in monosyllables. Long before his time for returning from work had arrived, the kitchen was spotlessly clean, the kettle singing on the s.h.i.+ning grate, and Jane herself arrayed in a clean gown and new ribbon.

"Surely, he'll want to stay at home to-night, when he sees how pleasant everything looks again," said she to herself. When he came in, he took no apparent heed of his surroundings, but drank his tea in moody silence. When he had finished, he rose and took his hat, but Jane started up, crying:

"Oh, Richard, pray don't leave me again to-night! See how nice everything is, and I promise you it shall always be so."

"Don't take on so, la.s.s," he said, touched by the sight of her tears; "I won't be long away, but I've made a promise, and must stick to it," and with that Jane had to be content. But though she watched until she grew weary he came not to cheer her loneliness. She had carelessly permitted him to leave her side, and now other influences were around him, and she must reap the consequences of her folly. From that time Jane's evenings were spent in solitude and tears. In vain she sought to keep her husband under the safe shelter of his own roof. When he would have yielded to her entreaties, his companions came and carried him away in triumph.

Eventually, Jane grew resentful and careless, and when her first little one was born she had settled down to habitual neglect of her home and her own person. The responsibility of motherhood roused her to fresh efforts, which, if she had persevered in them, might have proved successful, but she soon relapsed into her slatternly ways, and was content to spend her days listlessly nursing her baby, and musing upon the wretchedness of her lot. At first Richard had taken considerable pride in the tiny atom of humanity which had found its way into the home; but baby came in for her share of neglect, and after a while her father took little notice of her.

"Poor little baby! your father doesn't care for you or me! He loves the drink and his public-house mates a deal better than the pair of us,"

sighed Jane many a time. Well, Jane, who sent him to the public-house to find friends and amus.e.m.e.nts, in the first place? You have no one to thank but yourself you know, or you might know, if you would care to think. But Jane seldom did think, and the gulf in the cottage home between husband and wife grew wider and deeper as the months and years rolled away. Children were born to their lot of misery and neglect, and Jane had hard work to fill their hungry mouths and cover their nakedness. Pitifully small grew the weekly sum which Richard brought home to meet the growing need of those who belonged to him. How else could it be when so large a portion of his hard-earned money went to support the wife and children of the thriving publican whose house Richard patronised every evening of the week?

"I don't know how you expect me to get bread and pay rent with that pittance," said Jane one Sat.u.r.day evening as he threw a few s.h.i.+llings into her lap.

"If it isn't enough, why don't you go out, then, and earn for yourself, like many a better woman than you is doing?" he growled.

How low Richard had sunk! But he had only gone down one step at a time.

"And who'd look after your children, I'd like to know, while their mother's away slaving?" retorted his wife.

"Precious little looking after such dirty brats want. Something to eat once or twice a day, and mud to make pies of, and they're enough like their dirty mother to be satisfied," said Richard, scowling in disgust at his miserable-looking wife, who replied:

"I'm a good match for you, whatever you may say, although I should be sorry to have your red nose and bleared eyes." Richard muttered an oath, and his wife disappeared, having gone as far as she deemed prudent.

"I've a good mind to go out cleaning after all. It's a new idea. I can't sit in the house, and fold my arms in idleness while the children want bread," said Jane to herself that evening. "It's true enough that the children don't want much looking after. I dare say Mrs. Jones would take baby and give the others their food for a few pence, if I could get work."

"I declare I'll do it!" she presently decided.

There was little difficulty in getting work, and for her children's sake Jane worked as she had never done before. With the continual strain on body and mind she grew prematurely old and worn; but there was no help for it. She must work now until all strength failed, for Richard's money ceased altogether, and the children were wholly dependent upon her exertions.

One day she went to a new place to which she had been recommended by one of her constant employers. Whilst she was cleaning a window in the room where the mistress of the house was seated at work, the lady commenced a conversation. Usually reticent about her own affairs, Mrs. Martyn's gentleness touched Jane's desolate spirit, and the story of her wretchedness was soon told.

"Were you happy when you were first married?" Mrs. Martyn inquired, and was startled by the vehement answer:

"Oh, yes, ma'am, as happy as the day was long! My husband was so good, and always spent his evenings at home. Ah, we were happy!"

"What made the difference, my poor woman?" was the next question, and Jane hung her head. She had long ceased to blame herself for her share in the wrong which had blighted her life. It all came back to her now; conscience spoke, and would not be silenced, and told her that but for her wrong-doing, hers might still have been a happy home.

"It was my fault, ma'am," she faltered. "I was careless and neglectful of his comforts, and spoke sharply to him for no earthly reason, and he's that changed, I don't know him, and he gets worse. Look here, ma'am," and opening her dress she revealed a bruise, inflicted by a cruel hand, "that's the first time he's ever given me a real blow; but he'll not stop at that."

"Poor thing," said Mrs. Martyn, shuddering at the revelation of a sister's woe.

"Couldn't you try and win him back?"

"I tried years ago, and it was no use, and now he isn't worth it, ma'am," answered Jane.

"But suppose he could be drawn from his evil companions, and strong drink! Don't you think it would be worth while to have an affectionate father for your children, and a tender husband for yourself, Mrs.

Watson?"

"Yes, ma'am, if it could be done; but I don't believe it could," replied Jane, despondingly.

"Will you promise me to make one more effort if I help you, and ask Mr.

Martyn to look after your husband? He wouldn't be the first man whom my husband has helped out of the mire."

A flash of hope lit up Jane's face, and she said: "You're very kind to take any interest in a stranger, ma'am, I'm sure, and if it will please you, I'll try once more."

"That's right; now go on with your work as quickly as possible, and I'll do my best to arrange some plan for you."

Jane's fingers fled over her work, as she looked into a possible future of brightness for herself and her children. "Hoping against hope," she called it, and yet she continued to hope.

At four o'clock that afternoon, Mrs. Martyn came to her and bade her lay aside her work, and prepare to go home.

"Never mind finis.h.i.+ng, Mrs. Watson; the servant can manage very well now, and it is of the utmost importance that you should be home early to carry out my plan," said the lady. "Your husband comes home, you tell me, soon after six for his tea. Now you must have your kitchen as neat and clean as you can get it in the time. The fire must be bright, and the tea laid, and everything as much like it used to be as possible. In this parcel you will find a little good tea, and a chop for your husband, also a few other things which you may find useful. You may take the old carpeting you shook to-day; it will do to lay down before your fire-place. But, above all, you must be perfectly clean and fresh yourself, your best dress on, and a bright ribbon, if you have it, and your children to match. Don't forget anything, and Mr. Martyn will look in during the evening and see if he cannot persuade your husband to come with him to the Gospel Temperance Room and sign the pledge.

Remember, I shall be asking G.o.d to bless your effort, and I believe He will."

"Oh, ma'am," cried Jane, with streaming eyes, "how can I ever thank you for your goodness?"

"Don't wait to try, but run off, or you will not have time to prepare for your husband's return."

With hurried footsteps Jane sped home. Arrived there, she begged Mrs.

Jones to keep her baby until she was ready for her, while the other little ones were dismissed into the back yard. It was years since the grate had received such a polis.h.i.+ng, or the floor such a scrubbing. When it was finished, Jane surveyed the work of her hands with satisfaction.

"Now for myself," she said. Opening the bag Mrs. Martyn had given her, she discovered a white ap.r.o.n, two or three clean pinafores for the children, besides the things Mrs. Martyn had specified.

"I'll put on one of those print dresses I used to wear. It's faded and old-fas.h.i.+oned now; but it's clean, and that's more than the rags I've got are, and maybe Richard'll think I look something like I did years ago," said Jane; and, although there were lines of care on her forehead, and hollows in her cheeks, there was such an unwonted sparkle in her eyes as she tried the effect, that she scarcely recognised herself as the same forlorn-looking creature who had left the house that morning.

"Come, children, I want you." Three ragged, unkempt little ones came running in.

"Oh, mother, what a nice fire!" "Oh, mother, what a lovely cake!" and "Oh, mother, how grand you look, and what a clean floor you've made!"

were the exclamations that burst from the astonished trio, as they entered the room.

"Yes, it's a clean floor, and you must try to keep it so; and if you're good you'll get some cake when father comes home. Listen, children!

perhaps if you're very quiet and behave yourselves, father'll stay at home to-night and every night, and then I needn't go out to work any more, and leave you alone all day long."

"Oh, mother, that would be jolly!" they cried.

Jane had scarcely imagined what a little attention would do for her neglected children, and she exulted in the thought that their father would scarcely know them. Baby's turn came last of all; and finally Jane sat down, with all preparations made, in no little trepidation, to await her husband's arrival. His heavy step was heard at last, and she rose as he entered the room, while her children cl.u.s.tered round her.

"Beg pardon, missis," stammered Richard, after a moment's stupified pause; "I've made a mistake somehow."