Chapter III: More Things "put Out" Than the Brick

FOR a long time Mrs. Hill cleaned, dusted, and straightened without noticing the absence of her husband. But when she had finished her task and there was no one to say, "How nice and clean everything looks again!" And the baby had followed the other children to sleep and she felt alone, a fear came over her, and each tick of the clock seemed to warn her of worse troubles than a brick down the chimney. She guessed too truly where her husband must be.

She knew how he had been tempted before; she knew that he could not take much to drink without speedily losing his self-control; she knew, too, deep down in her secret heart, that she had driven him from home that night, and that if she had controlled her temper, allowed him to help in the sudden confusion, and made the best of a temporary annoyance, he would have been at his own fireside now, to enjoy the comfort her exertions had in a measure restored. We say in a measure, for, after all, if kindness and forbearance and affection be wanting, the brightest hearth looks cheerless, and the tidiest room feels forlorn and chill.

Many a time did Mrs. Hill stir the fire and slide her hand in and out of the stocking she was mending without knowing exactly why, for she never wasted her coals, nor left a thin place undarned. But she was restless and disquieted, and tried to persuade herself that she was very tired, and very ill-used, and ought to feel very much offended.

Eleven o'clock, and Matthew not returned! Such a thing had not happened for more than a year, during which time he had resisted many a temptation to spend an evening at "The Crown," and had borne with many a rude and hasty speech from lips that should ever be graced with humility and breathe "the law of kindness."

Fear began to mingle with pride and displeasure, and Mrs. Hill went to the door to look out and listen. The rain pattered down and the night was cold and dreary, and, glancing at a peg in the wall of the lobby, she noticed that Matthew must have gone out in his thin house-jacket, for his comfortable coat hung where he usually placed it on coming home.

Suddenly she heard sounds as of laughter and singing, and the tramp of feet approaching.

"He was safe, at any rate," she thought, and should not have the satisfaction of finding that she had watched and waited for him, so she took her candle and went quietly upstairs.

But it was some time before Matthew Hill found his own door, and when he did so at last, he stumbled into darkness, and after a few ineffectual calls and complaints, lay down on the floor as the safest place for a man who did not quite know whether he stood on his head or his feet.

He had a confused notion of something having gone wrong, and that, not feeling sure of being altogether in the right himself, it was as well to keep out of Mrs. Hill's way.

But, notwithstanding her pride in concealing the fact, Mrs. Hill "was" watching and listening with anxious interest. Alas! What wife could help it, when she had any regard for her husband, or any apprehension of the consequences of his intemperance? A drunkard! Who would not shudder with horror at the thought of a drunken husband and father?

After listening for some time, disgusted and indignant, Mrs. Hill heard nothing but a low growl occasionally, which subsided into a snore, and bursting into a passionate fit of tears, she threw herself on the bed and sobbed herself to sleep, leaving her wretched husband to his deserts, as she thought, in wet clothes and a tight neckcloth. The neck cloth nearly choked him, and the wet clothes gave him a fever.

How long she slept she knew not, but her candle had burnt almost into its socket, when a strange sound below seemed to arouse her. She rushed downstairs in time to save her husband's life; he was already black in the face, and a few minutes more would have sent him all unprepared into eternity.

She succeeded, however, in arousing him, and getting him to bed. And it was well she did, for in a few hours he was prostrate with rheumatic fever and unable to move at all.

About half-past eight o'clock came a gentle tap at the house door, and a man engaged on some work with Matthew Hill looked in.

"Hope there's nothing the matter," said he, kindly, "but Hill hasn't been with us this morning."

"No, he isn't likely," said Mrs. Hill, in a disagreeable tone; "getting drunk at night isn't the way to be at work in the morning."

"Well, well, I 'am' sorry!" replied the man. "Sure something must have happened to turn him, for it was only yesterday he was saying he had tried keeping sober so long now, that he didn't believe he would ever be in liquor again, and he cared for nothing but to make you and the children comfortable."

Mrs. Hill felt a terrible prick in her conscience, but she made no remark to palliate her husband's fault, and chose rather to excite pity for herself as an injured person.

In less than an hour came another tap at the door. This time it was a messenger from Mrs. Oakland's—where she went occasionally to give a little assistance, and where she still received much kindness.

"Please, if it's quite convenient, and if the children are going to school this morning, missus will be glad to speak to you; and you are to bring the baby with you," said the errand-boy.

"Here, stop, boy! Is it anything particular, do you know?" inquired Mrs. Hill.

"I rather think it is," said the boy, "for the cook looked in a great fuss, and bade me run directly."

"What's the matter, I wonder!" grumbled Mrs. Hill to herself. "She hasn't got a brick down 'her' chimney, I suppose; such things don't happen to them as can afford it."

But being curious to know all about it, she dressed her baby very nicely, and, leaving the two older children at the infant school on her way, and without giving any explanation to the miserable sufferer in bed, she hastened to Mrs. Oakland's.

One of the young ladies seized the baby, and carried it off to the nursery, bidding Mrs. Hill go for pity's sake to mamma in the drawing-room.

There was Mrs. Oakland, with a little look of trouble in her face, but no ill-temper. Mrs. Hill took in the cause at a glance. All over the hearth, over the rug, over the beautiful carpet for at least two yards round, over the pretty furniture, the ornaments, the ottomans, over everything, more or less, that stood within range, lay a black cover of soot.

"Oh, dear!" exclaimed Mrs. Hill. "Has a brick come down the chimney?"

"I don't know," said the lady; "but the soot has, and spoiled all the covers that you did so nicely for me. I thought you could take them off, and see what can be done with them, before allowing any one else to touch them."

"The carpet's quite spoiled," said Mrs. Hill, inwardly glad that 'her' soot had found only a flagged floor. "Those ornaments will never come clean again," said she, pitifully; "and the new ottomans, with the young ladies' work, and the beautiful table-cover. Dear, dear! What a pity it is! What can be done?"

"We must make the best of it," said Mrs. Oakland, cheerfully. "I want to get the most delicate things away and shaken out before the carpet is touched. How thankful we should be that we had comfortable shelter last night. I suppose you felt the storm, Jane. How are your husband and children?"

Jane had then to tell what had happened, and Mrs. Oakland turned towards her with an earnest, anxious look.

"What made him go out last night, Jane?" she asked.

Mrs. Hill said she didn't know; she was cleaning up after the nasty brick had come down the chimney, and did not miss him until it got late.

"And did you ask him not to go out? Did you beg him to help you a little? Did you put your dear baby into his arms, and make it plead with him to keep from temptation?"

Jane's countenance fell before the appeal, and Mrs. Oakland guessed too truly how the miserable climax had been reached.

"Jane, Jane," said she, forgetting even the soot in her fear for the foolish woman before her, "you are deliberately ruining your own happiness, and helping your husband to add the ruin of home and family. Will nothing induce you to control that tongue and temper? Must you be taught your duty by terrible lessons in your own experience, such as I have often described to you from the experience of others? I do not wish to clear your husband of blame at your expense; his fault is very great, but I am sure his sorrow and shame will be great too. Pray go home at once, and attend to him kindly, and I will come and see him as soon as possible. Let us trust that all is not lost, and may God help you to fulfil the duty of a forgiving, loving wife."

Mrs. Hill was angry, and rudely replied that "she was not going to coax her husband to be good; that he knew his duty as well as she did, and was as much bound to do it; and she would not be dictated to by any one who could not see her side of the case; that he deserved to suffer, and she hoped he would;" and more to the same purpose.

But Mrs. Oakland took no notice, and following to the nursery whither the mother went for her child, she kissed the little bright face, and breathed over it a prayer that its baby life might be shielded from discords of home, and love and peace still unite the parents.

Jane was silenced but not softened, and went home to be as wilful and disagreeable as she considered the occasion required. Poor creature, she was very miserable too, as most people will be, and deserve to be, who forget "the beams" in their own eyes.