Chapter VII: Evil Communications

"WELL to be sure, Mrs. Hill, you 'do' bear your troubles! Mrs. Smith, she says to me, says she, 'If there's a true hero in the world, it's Mrs. Hill; she don't ask nobody's pity, nor nobody's help, but she goes and works herself to death before anybody will hear a complaint.' That's true, I says, but then it'll tell inwardly, poor thing, and we do feel it a duty, Mrs. Hill, to warn you, because you don't look the woman you did three months ago, and you'll be in your grave before you know it. You'll excuse me for venturing to speak, because it seems a liberty like; but, as I says, if it's done respectful and in real kindness, Mrs. Hill's too good a woman to take it amiss."

Mrs. Hill's countenance underwent several changes during this unexpected speech. She had never been a gossip, and this woman, and the set to which she was supposed to belong, had been considered altogether beneath her notice. Neither had any of the neighbours presumed to make free with her and her griefs to her face. But she was not insensible to the charm of notoriety among them, if it took a form so flattering to her self-love, and her sense of injury and oppression.

She had opened the door, and assumed the coldest expression of reserve when she perceived her visitor, but the knock had been modest, and the woman stood so respectfully inquiring after her health and welfare that she could not but thaw a little, and invite her to take a seat, and bear patiently with her company for a few minutes.

In those few minutes, Mrs. Swinden profited by her opportunity; she got an invitation "to drop in again," which she failed not to do, and to her own great contentment found herself on another visit, seated in Matthew Hill's comfortable chair, with a fair prospect of a share in Mrs. Hill's supper.

"And you don't sleep much, I'll be bound," said she, in a pitiful tone; for supper without something "good" to drink with it was not at all to her mind; "who can wonder, with such troubles to bear, and not knowing what may happen to rob the dear children of their only friend? And you are getting weaker and weaker, and doing nothing to keep what strength you've got left."

As for strength, Mrs. Hill could not really plead any conscious difference at present, but when one feels cross and disagreeable, and disinclined to do one's duty, it is a very welcome suggestion that one is weak and delicate, and ought to be very careful—and Mrs. Hill gave a gentle nod and a sigh, in acknowledgment of the discernment of her visitor.

But with regard to sleep, there was some truth in the remark. Mrs. Hill's sleep was broken by sensations that irritated her greatly. In the dark, and in her dreams, conscience made itself heard, and spoke of temper and pride, and self-will, and an unforgiving spirit, which had drive her husband to the desperate step that had almost widowed her, and robbed her home of its head, and her children of their protector.

Then would arise the thought of him—a wanderer, his home affections wounded and his fault exposed, yet the proof of his remembrance in the money sent through his friend, Benjamin Field, to save her and his children from suffering by his absence.

Thus, sleep was wooed in vain, and Mrs. Hill longed for daylight and occupation to hush the tumult within, and build up again her defences of injured innocence and self-righteousness. She tried to think that God was on her side, or at least she was sure He ought to be, and it was not for her to change places with the offending party; "she" was not going to "give up" in that manner.

"Indeed, you must take something to make you sleep, dear Mrs. Hill, and with your leave, I'll just step down street and bring you just a cordial—nothing strong, you know—but only what will soothe you nicely, and get you a night's rest."

"Oh, dear, no; don't take that trouble, I can bear it all; it isn't likely I can sleep, you know, as people do who've no sorrows," murmured Mrs. Hill. It had never struck her that there was anything in the world to make sleep, and she thought she had certainly been very forgetful of herself.

Mrs. Swinden had got outside the door, but putting her head in again, she said, "You know if the health needs it, it's no sin, even if you did take the pledge."

"'I' take the pledge!" exclaimed Mrs. Hill. "You don't suppose there ever was any need for 'me' to do such a thing?"

"No, indeed I don't, but I didn't know but what you might when—when—"

"When Matthew did, I suppose. No, 'I' don't need to promise to be sober. I know when I've had enough, I should think, else I 'would' be ashamed of myself."

The tempter had struck the right chord for her purpose, and straightway went off for the "cordial."

"I've got only just enough for two nights," said she, settling herself again, and looking to the kettle; "now I'll take the liberty to make it right for you myself."

"You must have the rest, Mrs. Swinden, if you please, I couldn't take it else. Yes, indeed, you must, and I must pay for it, too."

This was too obliging to be resisted, and over their glasses of spirit and water, the two women, so very different in character, habits, and position, got very intimate and confidential, and talked over their wrongs and their unappreciated merits until the candle spit and sputtered in its socket and warned Mrs. Swinden to depart.

She had spent the proceeds of a portion of wearing apparel given to her by the lady who had employed her, in procuring the dose for the evening, and now repaid by Mrs. Hill, could not resist another glass on her way home, where she found her husband stumbling in, swearing and knocking about because there was no light, no supper, no fire, and no sound but the low wail of the youngest child, who had not been well all day, and lay huddled up with the others in a corner, where they had crept and fallen asleep.

Mrs. Hill went to bed with a confused notion that she had long misjudged this kind woman, and nothing doubting that the misery she had heard of in her family was caused solely by the evil habits of the husband. She did not know that this worthy neighbour had originated the report of the strangling, and excited the appetite of her respectable circle for a trial for murder; but being very restless and unhappy, and tired of herself, she accepted from one who humoured her in her own conceits, the appearance of sympathy, which, true and warm but also faithful, she had rejected from safer friends.

However, she did sleep long and heavily, and awoke late with a headache. Well, so much time had been got over, and that was something, and a little bustling would soon make up for it.

The children had been long awake, and wanted their breakfast, and for the first time in their lives, their clothes were scrambled on without the usual washing and rubbing first. Then the fire was sulky, and the kettle wouldn't boil, and the wood that was stuffed between the bars to hasten it, operated just the other way, for Mrs. Hill, having forgotten to bring it in from the yard the evening before, a heavy shower or two during the night had soaked it well.

So nothing went right, and little items in the list of her wrongs were laid to Matthew's account. What a wonderful reckoner is a selfish, ill-tempered woman!

Mrs. Swinden failed not to "drop in" presently to inquire after her neighbour's welfare, and had a ready excuse for the headache, and cross, nervous condition of the poor patient.

"It's because you are so weak, you see. You've let your strength go down too far, but in a week or two you'll be all right, depend upon it. I shall see, as a duty, that you don't neglect yourself any longer."

And "the duty" was so interesting that she could not prevail on herself to leave her new charge alone, settling herself at Mrs. Hill's fireside as often as she could find or invent any excuse for doing so, and often lamenting the impossibility of inviting her to her own home, which was, she admitted confidentially, a very miserable one from a cause she could not bring herself to say much about.

"Ah, my poor husband!" she said, putting her apron to her eyes, and murmuring pathetically. "He'll be the ruin of us all; I'm afraid in my heart he will, in spite of all I can say or do."

Of course Mrs. Hill was at no loss to understand. Had not 'she' suffered enough from 'her' husband's temptation to drink, and did not 'she' know too well the misery it made?

"Ah, yes," she sighed, "wives had nothing to do but submit and suffer; drunken husbands were the plagues of the world—worse than the ten plagues of Egypt."

It was not long in coming to pass that the "little drop of cordial," mixed so carefully by Mrs. Swinden, seemed not quite sufficient to answer its purpose, and so after she was gone, Mrs. Hill, having a private bottle in reserve, would mix "just a drop more," for she needed both strengthening and sleep, and hadn't she "a right to what was necessary for her health and comfort?"

And the lone woman sat by her cheerless hearth, and felt more and more the need of consolation, and the desire to silence altogether the voice of conscience, which was fast subsiding into faint and occasional whispers within her. And the sleep she got was heavy and unrefreshing. Oh, fatal delusion! How many a victim began thus with the strengthening herself against sickness, and soothing the excitement of trouble; instead of waiting on Him who "giveth his beloved sleep," or comforts the wakeful hours with "songs in the night," and takes the weary and heavy-laden into His arms of pardoning love in Christ Jesus, and soothes them to rest with "the peace that passeth understanding."

"Ah, poor thing," said Mrs. Swinden, as she stood among the gossips at the street corner, where she was sure to have somebody's business to explain or inquire into, her own house not being a tempting scene for a consultation. "Poor thing, she's no better than her neighbours, after all, nor half as proud as I took her to be. You'll see," she added, with a significant nod.

"Well," said Mrs. Smith, diving in a little closer among the party while the greengrocer was in sight (she was in his debt for the herrings and stale cabbages on which she fed her husband and children when it was not convenient to get anything else, owing to supplies running short through the beer so needful to her delicate health), "well, she has took to you wonderful."

"Ay, she was losing sleep and getting so thin, and I persuaded her off the nonsense of going to bed on a drop of milk or porridge. She isn't the same woman to me since, 'cause she sees I'm her friend."

"And what about him?" asked one, eagerly.

"Oh, nobody knows; but he can hang himself if he likes so long as he only sends the money. She don't care a rush for him, and all right too; she's sick of doing for him from morning till night and no thanks for her pains."

"I say, Mrs. Swinden," said another woman, coming up and joining the group, with a jug in one hand and some pence in the other, "my James says your husband was going over the crossing last night just as the mail train came dashing by, and he and Kelly, who, you know, minds the rail there, had something to do to hold him back. Goodness me! It makes one shiver to think of it."

"Oh, then, don't think about it. He knows better than that anyway," said the wife.

"Well, you know best, in course, only I thought you ought to hear of it. James saw him home, but you weren't in, he said, and the children—"

"Oh, I'll see to him, never fear; he's as cowed as a beat dog when he's had too much if I come in sight. It's when he's sober that I've no peace of my life, always rating about nothing."

About nothing! Alas, poor man! But whoever began the mischief, they were equal now in all that distracted their home and degraded themselves.