CHAPTER II.
ITS RESULTS.
HERE'S mother, Mrs. Warren?" inquired a girl of about seven or eight years of age, with pallid face, and dress hanging in tatters about her bare feet, as she slowly dragged up the broken stairs to the one room where her father and mother, herself, and four younger children lived and slept.
"You needn't ask me, child. She's locked her door, and the little uns are inside; and here's the key. I 'spect she's off on a spree." The child took the key, and sighing heavily, proceeded on her way. Two of the children were screaming loudly, but ceased their cries as she entered the room, and began, one to crawl, and the other to toddle, towards the only being in their little world who never struck or kicked them, but tended them with the love and gentleness which, but for her, they would never have known.
"Mammie's left us all alone, Mattie; and Fan and baby has been crying all the morning, and Bob and me's been doing all we can, and they won't do nothing but scream," exclaimed the eldest of the four children in wearied tones.
"That's right, Melie; you're good children; but I've come home, and 'll look after the lot of you. What's for dinner? Did mammie say?"
"There's some crusts left up on the mantel," answered Melie.
"Bob, you just climb up and fetch 'em down, and I'll nurse the baby, and, Fan, you come right away and sit by me." Mattie picked up the dirty, tear-stained baby, and seated herself on the only chair in the room. She had been to school all the morning, and, while ostensibly puzzling her little brain with the mysteries of "the three R's," her heart had been full of fear for those little ones in the house. What if her mother should leave them with the door unlocked, and Fan and baby should find their way headlong down those dark, steep stairs? Or, suppose the window in their room should by any means become unfastened, and one of them should fall to the pavement beneath; for Mattie remembered that, only the week before, a drunken mother had let her baby drop from her arms out of the window at the top of the house into the court below, from whence it had been picked up a shapeless, bleeding mass. So she was greatly relieved that everything had gone well in her absence. As for Fan's and baby's crying, that was to be expected while she was away.
"I shan't go to school this afternoon; 'taint to be expected as I can, although teacher'll be just mad, being as it's near 'xamination time," declared Mattie.
"That's prime, Mattie! What'll we do? Not stay up here all the time?" cried Bob.
"In course not. We'll have our dinner, and then we'll just get a breath of air in the park. It'll do baby good; won't it, darling?" said Mattie, stooping over her puny charge as fondly as if he were the bonniest baby in the land, instead of a feeble, wan-faced infant, upon whom, as indeed upon each of the group which surrounded him, there was stamped the unmistakable imprint of an inherited curse.
"I'm glad mammie's out, Mattie. I wish you was our mammie, and could take us clean away," said Bob, hanging about Mattie's chair.
"When I get bigger and can earn money, that's what I'm going to do, you know, Bob. Me, and Melie, and you'll just work and keep the children, and we won't have 'em knocked about, poor little mites, will we?"
"No, we won't, but I wish we was big enough now," sighed Bob, to whom the tempting prospect was sufficiently familiar and delightful to help him to bear bravely the privation of his daily lot.
"Well, we ain't, so it's no use wishing we was," responded matter-of-fact Mattie; "but I'll tell you what I do wish, and that is as mammie and daddie'd just turn over a new leaf, and stop the drinking. Then we'd never need to be talking of running away and leaving 'em; for I tell you, we'd all pretty soon know the difference."
"Tell us what a nice home we'd have afore long, and what jolly things we'd get to eat," said Bob.
"Don't you be so greedy, Bob. 'Tain't the want of good things to eat as troubles me so much. It's the rows, and the swearing, and the kicking, and beating, as takes the life out of one," and Mattie's face grew dark as she spoke.
"Mattie," asked Melie, as she munched away at her crust; "do all mammies get drunk like ourn?"
"They do about here, I b'lieve," answered Mattie, somewhat dubiously; "but lor, no, child, in course they don't. There's the lady in the shop where we buy our penn'orths of bread, as allers is as kind and pleasant spoken to her little uns as—as—"
A comparison was not speedily forthcoming, but Bob finished his sister's sentence by saying: "Like you are to all of us, Mattie."
"I'd hate to speak cross to bits of things like you," answered Mattie loftily, but with a little glow at her heart because of the spontaneous tribute to her sisterly care. "We'd better be off, I'm thinking," she said presently, and tying an old rag under the baby's chin by way of head-gear, she passed her own battered straw hat to Melie, saying:
"You can wear it this afternoon; I'll be quite hot enough carrying baby, without putting anything on, I guess."
As for Bob and little Fan, the lack of outdoor apparel troubled them not at all; indeed, the trouble would have been if any such unusual and uncomfortable addition to their scanty wardrobe had been forthcoming.
Rejoicing in their liberty, and strong in the protection of the elder sister, they slowly threaded their way through crowded thoroughfares, until they came to the outskirts of the great manufacturing town, where the park of which Mattie had spoken was situated.
"That's right! we've got here at last! But you're real heavy, baby, I do declare," said Mattie, as she sank exhausted on the first seat with her burden; and although any one else would have considered that, judging from the said baby's appearance, such a statement was decidedly unfounded, Mattie being small for her own not very advanced age, might, for obvious reasons, have been excused for making the rash charge.
"Now, be sure and behave yourselves. Don't get wild, or touch them pretty flowers, or that man in the buttons there'll be down on us in a jiffy, and turn us out quicker than we comed in," said Mattie, when they had rested and recovered themselves after their weary trudge. The afternoon waned at last, and the children turned their steps homeward.
"I wonder whether mammie's comed home; we'll catch it if she has," said Melie apprehensively.
"Don't you be a bothering of your head about that," replied Mattie sharply, turning upon the child, who was lagging behind with her little sister. "Mammie's safe enough, I'll be bound, somewheres till midnight, and she'll be too dead drunk when she comes in to do anything but tumble into a corner like a pig; that's a mercy!"
Melie looked cheered at the information, and trudged on bravely. Just as they were about to enter their dingy court, Bob caught sight of a man who was walking slowly down the road with a placard in front of him and another behind.
"Mattie, just look at that funny man," he exclaimed.
"Oh, haven't you ever seen the likes of him afore? Wait a minute,—and I'll see what it says on them boards," and Mattie read,—as what girl of her tender years, however destitute and forlorn, in this age of educational advantages could not?—"A Band of Hope Meeting will be held at the —— Road Board Schools this evening, at half-past six. All children will be welcome."
"Why, that's my school," said Mattie; "I declare I should like to go, though what on earth a Band of Hope Meeting is, goodness knows, for I don't."
"Don't leave us again, Mattie," urged Melie; "we'll be so lonesome by oursel's."
"Let's see," said Mattie thoughtfully; "it says, 'all children will be welcome.' I've a good mind to take the lot of you; and if they won't let us in with baby, why, we can come back again, I s'pose."
"What a heap of treats we are having, Mattie! You're a real good 'un!" cried Bob, cutting a somersault in view of the unusual and delightful combination of events.
"You, Bob," called Mattie, somewhat ungraciously it might seem, "stop that, and help Melie along with Fan."
Tea, which had consisted of the remains from dinner, being over, a neighbouring church clock chimed the hour, and Mattie prepared for the evening entertainment. Baby was sleeping, and resented Mattie's attempts to remove the worst of the grime from his face; but she persevered, for she felt that the credit of the family was entirely in her hands, and she was not going to risk losing it for the sake of sundry struggles and tears from its youngest member. They were all ready at last, and Mattie surveyed the effect of her handiwork with satisfaction.
"Now, you all jest keep behind me, and don't be grinning, or up to any of your larks, or they won't let you in," said Mattie, as they neared the building.
She presented herself before the door with the baby asleep in her arms, the other children tremblingly bringing up the rear. A gentleman with a kindly face was standing near the entrance.
"Do you think you can manage your baby, my little woman?" he asked, stooping to Mattie.
"Bless you, yes, sir. He's better with me than his own mammie, and'll sleep like a top all the time; and," she added, glancing behind, "these 'ere little uns belong to me too, and if you'll let us all in, I'll see as they behave theirselves."
"I'm very glad to see you all, my dears, come in;" and, with his heart aching at the revelation of the misery which was written in unmistakable characters on the faces of these young children, the gentleman led them to prominent places near the platform.
Oh, the rich enjoyment of the next hour! The wonderful music, the fine singing, and the simple words from the two or three gentlemen who were there, fell upon Mattie's ears with telling effect, and after the meeting was over, she exchanged a few hurried words with Melie and Bob, and then they all went forward to the table in front of the platform.
"Please, sir," said Mattie to the secretary who sat there, "you said as any as wanted to sign against the drink was to come to you after you'd finished talking; and me, and Melie, and Bob here wants to sign, only they can't write yet."
"We'll manage that, my dear; but have you thought about this signing and what it means?"
"Oh, yes, sir; it means as we're never to put our lips to mammie's drops when we fetch 'em from the public, and never to touch the drink at all."
"Yes, that's quite right," said the secretary, with a half smile. "I see you know all about it, and will doubtless keep your own pledge; but what about these little ones? Will they understand and remember that they mustn't touch the drink when once they've signed against it?"
"Don't you be a-troubling of yourself about them, sir; they're little, but they're sharp enough, and I'll look after 'em," replied the elder sister.
"I suppose you're mother, then?" said the secretary, glancing compassionately down at the sleeping child in Mattie's arms.
"Pretty nigh," answered Mattie, concisely. "Tell me where I've to put my name; and, Melie, you sit down and hold the baby a minute."
The name was carefully written, and the other children made crosses in due form, each receiving a bright pledge-card, which they were told to hang up in their room; then, after receiving an invitation to attend another meeting of the same kind the following week, they left the place.
"Well, we've done something now," said Mattie, as they emerged into the street. "I'll tell you what, if we stick to it, as in course we shall, we'll have a jolly home one day, with no drinking and no beating; and, Bob, you'll be able to stuff away on the fat of the land yet."
"Prime!" ejaculated Bob, smacking his lips in gleeful anticipation of the good time coming.
"We'll get Fan and baby to bed, and then we'll see about hanging our cards somewheres. They'll not fetch anything at the pop-shop, so mammie won't be carrying 'em off, that's one comfort."
The three cards were presently hung up, affording a strange contrast to the begrimed and broken walls; and then the wearied children crept into their corners, and, on the rags which alone separated them from the floor, they slept the sleep of innocence and childhood.
There was a staggering step on the broken stairs at midnight, and at the familiar sound Mattie woke, and drew her baby brother closer to her protecting arms. The door was pushed noisily open, and some one stumbled across the room, muttering:
"Where's them brats, I wonder?"
Mattie held her breath, and a moment later she heard a roll on the floor, and knew that her miserable mother would lie where she had fallen in drunken slumber until the morning. As for her father, he was seldom able to mount the stairs; but, if he came home at all, lay at the foot, until aroused in the morning by his landlady's shrill tones, and ordered to seek his own room. So Mattie composed herself to sleep again; as, under such happy circumstances, what drunkard's child might not?
She was awoke next morning by the baby's fretful wail, and, the others beginning to stir, she sat up and pointed with a warning finger to her still sleeping mother.
"If you wake her, you'll catch it, you know, so hold your noise now, and I'll see if I can't get something for you to eat," she hoarsely whispered.
With stealthy movement she crept to her mother's side, and, finding her way to the pocket of her dress, she put her hand in and drew out a solitary penny. Holding it up, and nodding delightedly over her prize, she picked up the baby and disappeared down the stairs. When she returned there was a good-sized piece of steaming bread in her hand, and baby was already ravenously devouring his share.
"Eat it up, quick now, afore she wakes," whispered Mattie; and the children, nothing loth, soon left not a crumb to be seen.
"We don't often get such luck as that," chuckled Mattie, thinking of other times when the need had been as great, and not even a penny loaf wherewith to satisfy the cravings of her hungry charge had been forthcoming.
"Mammie's waking up," whispered Bob, shrinking back into his corner; and the little group in silence fixed their fascinated gaze upon the woman to whom they owed their being, as she yawned and stretched, and, finally, with a succession of groans, turned over, and faced her children.
Can it be the same? Are we not doing Susan Dixon a cruel injustice as we fancy that in yonder bloated face, with its bleared eyes and framework of dishevelled hair, we can discover a resemblance to the bright, happy wife, who, seven years before, had been so unsparing in her condemnation of those who, for the sake of indulging a degraded appetite, wrecked their own prospects, and blasted the young life and future happiness of their helpless offspring? Ah, no! for she, who so proudly had boasted of her own strength, had also been overcome and laid low by the mighty tyrant.
Little by little, with many a struggle at first, and many a fair-sounding promise, did she turn from the beaten track she had marked out for herself, and in the security of which she had prided herself, until now the very desire for a better life seemed hopelessly crushed with every trace of womanly feeling. She looked about in a half-stupified fashion for a while, then raised herself on her elbow, still continuing to groan.
"What's the matter, mammie?" Mattie ventured to ask.
"My head's fit to burst, child; you must fetch me a drop or I shall just go crazy," replied Susan, in thick, husky tones.
"Where's the money, mammie?" tremblingly asked the child, well knowing that the last coin had been spent in their frugal breakfast.
Susan felt in her pocket, and, to Mattie's intense relief, withdrew her hand, simply saying: "Drat it, every penny gone again! Just like my luck!"
Her glance went round the room, but there was absolutely nothing within those four walls which would fetch the price of a morning dram. Presently her eyes rested upon those three bright patches hanging against the discoloured wall, with a curious expression of wonder.
"What's them?" she asked at length.
"They're pretty cards as was given us by a gent yesterday, and he said we was to hang 'em up," answered Mattie, wondering what the effect of her reply would be, and devoutly hoping that, whatever untimely fate awaited the cards, she and the little ones might escape with no more than their usual share of rough and ready treatment.
"Let's look, can't you?" were the next impatient words; and Mattie took down the three pledges, and, handing them to her mother, stood patiently by, awaiting the result of the prolonged investigation. She was never more surprised than when it came. Tossing the cards aside, Susan threw her hands over her face, and rocked herself backwards and forwards in an agony of shame and remorse, while floods of tears poured through her fingers.
Mattie bore the sight as long as she could, and then said: "Don't cry, mammie; if you're bad, I'll run and fetch the doctor."
But Susan took no notice, and probably had not heard her child's words. By and bye her tears ceased, and she staggered to her feet, saying: "Oh, God! that I should have come to this, while he—"
What did her grief, her broken words mean? The children stood aghast; and, at that juncture, heavy footsteps were heard on the stairs, and directly the husband and father entered the room; his clear brow, fearless eye, and manly bearing all gone, and in their stead, darkness, sullenness, and feebleness.
"What's these?" he asked, for the gaudy cards had been thrown to the very entrance of the room, and in another moment his foot would have rested upon them.
Mattie sprang forward and placed them, without a word, in his hands. Susan crossed the room, and came to her husband's side.
"Who's been putting the brats up to this?" he asked, half angrily, turning to her.
"I don't know," she answered; "but, oh, George, look at the signature, and think what that man used to be, and how we couldn't find a name bad enough for him; and now he's respectable and well-to-do, and me and you's sunk lower than ever he did. Oh, dear! oh, dear!" and again Susan's sobs shook the room.
"Timothy Morris, as I live!" exclaimed George Dixon, dropping the cards in sheer amazement, while upon his mind there rushed a score of memories, some joyous and bright; others, and these of later days, sad and sin-shadowed.
"Don't carry on so, Susan," he said; "it makes me feel bad, for I've been as much in the wrong as you."
"Look at the signature, and think what that man used to be."—[Page 76].
"Oh, George, I wouldn't care if I'd only cursed and ruined myself; but look there!" and she pointed to the five children, who, half terrified at the scene, were huddling together in the corner.
"Come here, Mattie," she said; "go to your father, child, and ask him if he remembers the golden-haired, bonnie baby who sat on his knee and pulled his hair when he came home, nigh upon eight years ago, and told me that the drunken sot, whose name is on your pledge-card, had turned teetotal. Ask him if you look like that baby at all. Oh, you needn't turn away, George, for you know there's but one answer. And what's made the difference between that happy home, and this beastly place? and what's made me and you more like brutes than the loving couple we were, eh, George?"
With streaming eyes Susan stood before her husband, waiting for the answer to her questions.
Gnashing his teeth, as if in despair, he hissed out: "It's the moderate drinking as has worked all the mischief, woman, if you want to know; and may God's curse rest upon it!"
Mattie began to understand at length the meaning of her parents' distress, and hastened to proffer the only advice that was in her power to give.
"Daddie, mammie," she said, "won't you come and sign the pledge too? Then you won't never touch the drink again, and we'll have a nice home; and me, and Melie, and Bob'll stay with you, and never run away as we've been a talking of."
Then Melie and Bob came and said: "Oh, please do! We're so hungry and miser'ble all the time; and if you'll only give up the drink we'll be so good, and never want any beating."
George looked at Susan across the upturned faces of the children, and Susan looked back at him wistfully, earnestly.
"Susan," said George, in low, troubled tones; "if I promise now, can I ever keep my word? for I'm raging for a drop this minute."
Susan might have answered, "So am I," but, with a touch of returning womanliness, she hid her own suffering that she might minister to the need of the man who thus confessed his weakness.
"George," she answered steadily, "I had a praying mother once, and so had you. I once knew how to pray myself, and so did you; and if ever our mothers' prayers for us are going to be answered, it'll be now; and if ever we begin to pray for ourselves again, it'll be this very minute, or we shall be lost for ever!" And Susan fell on her knees, and passionately poured out her whole soul that forgiveness might be granted to herself and her erring husband, and that to their weakness and feebleness there might descend the almighty power and perpetual help of an Omnipotent Saviour.
Was that prayer answered? Could two souls so bound and tied by Satan's strongest fetters be loosed and set free, no longer slaves of a tyrant but children of a King? Let the new home in a new land, and the subdued brightness of their faces, and the happy abandonment of their children's glee answer, and say that once again the captives of the mighty have been taken away, and the prey of the terrible delivered.
In his own land, Timothy Morris hears, from time to time, of the well doing of his former neighbours; and rejoices that he has been the humble instrument of bringing light and succour to a household which had been darkened and degraded for years through the insidious advances of moderate drinking.
