CHAPTER XXXI.
RICHARD ASHTON AND LITTLE MAMIE—MAMIE'S DREAM.
After Allie had left her father she hastened on, determined to get through her shopping as quickly as possible, so as to be ready to accompany him home. She now began to doubt if she did right to leave him, even for a moment, for might he not now be led by his appetite to some other groggery, and then what would be the result! She hastened out, and rejoiced to find him waiting for her, and together they silently wended their way home.
It was not their old home, for they were forced some time previous to this to remove from it to one that was much less pretentious; for now they had to exercise the most rigid economy.
Their present abode was a little rough-cast storey-and-a-half house, consisting of a main building and an addition. The main building contained three apartments down-stairs, one of which served for dining-room and parlor, and the other two were bedrooms. The up-stairs had not been finished, though they had managed to fix it up so that Eddie could sleep there; and by the mother's and sister's industry and skill it had been made quite comfortable; but it was not to be compared to the beautiful room which he possessed in his old home.
The addition contained the kitchen and pantry; and though very cold in severe weather, it served the purpose for which it was intended.
The principal apartment in the main building was very small; but though such was the case, and Mrs. Ashton was still weak and suffering, yet she and Allie had managed to give those little touches in its arrangement which indicated a cultured taste and made it snug and cozy.
The night in question, when Allie and her father came in, Mrs. Ashton was sitting in an easy chair, propped up by pillows. As she sat there, one could see that sickness and worry had wrought terrible ravages during the last year. Her thin, white face looked all the more ghastly because of her large, dreamy eyes; and her hands were so white and thin that they seemed as though transparent. Her hair, which had once been so golden, was now shimmering with silver; and no one who had known her a few years previous would recognize her now as the same person. Surely she had passed "under the rod." The suffering she had endured would have turned the rich purple wine of some women's natures into vinegar, and the drunkard's home would have been a miniature pandemonium; but it had not been so in the present instance. Ruth Ashton had borne her sorrows meekly; and, let me ask, what sorrow is greater than that which she had to bear? She had seen the man that she loved for his noble and manly attributes, ruined by strong drink; his bright intellect robbed of its lustre, and his loving heart made sluggish and cold. What shame she felt! For did not she and the children share in his degradation? What humiliation of spirit they endured! But she never spoke other than kindly to her husband. He had not the trite excuse of thousands of worthless husbands who are neglecting their homes and spending their money in the groggery, while their families are existing in squalor and famishing for bread. He could never say he was driven to drink by the naggings of a querulous wife; for though tried almost beyond human endurance—so tried, that the poor heart was well-nigh broken, and her flesh had almost failed—she never changed in her manner towards him, but was still the kind, loving wife she had been from the first.
When he and Allie came in, every eye was turned upon him to see if he was, as usual, intoxicated; and when Mrs. Ashton saw that he was almost as sober as when he left home, her heart was filled with joy.
"Hurry up, Mamie," she said, "and give your papa a seat. Take his hat, dear, and get his slippers. If you are not too tired, Allie dear, hurry up with the supper."
Ashton was touched by the thoughtful kindness of his long-suffering wife, and he went over to where she was sitting and tenderly kissed er. "You have been a true, good wife to me," he said; "God never blessed a man with a better one. So sinned against, and yet so forgiving; so faithful, so loving." Tears were in his eyes as he spoke, and then he gently kissed her again; but Ruth never uttered a word. He sat down on a chair which was near the table, and, leaning his head upon the latter, wept bitterly.
Little Mamie, who had grown considerably during the last year, had lost her baby manner, and possessed a mind much too mature for one of her age. She now spoke quite plainly, and seemed to understand the circumstances in which they were placed nearly as well as her elder brother and sister. She had of late always waited until she discovered what was her father's condition before she made any advances. If he was intoxicated she would sit, mute as a mouse, in the corner, with a look of thoughtful sorrow upon her face; but if he were not, she would steal gently up to him, climb upon his knee, and then, leaning her head upon his breast, kiss and fondle him, and coax him to tell her a story, or sing her one of his numerous hymns or songs.
And he always seemed happy to be the slave of this his youngest and frailest child, who, by her gentle witcheries, had so wiled herself into his affections as to have a power over him that no one else possessed.
He had not been sitting at the table long ere she gently crept up to him, and, climbing on to his knee, lifted his arm, and then nestled her cheeks to his until her streamlets of gold mingled with his grizzled locks.
"Oh, papa!" she said, "don't cry—please, don't cry. I pray to God every morning and every night that He may keep the naughty men from giving you drink, and I am sure God will hear me; then you will be as you used to be, and mamma will not cry as she sometimes does now."
Mamie little thought how her words went home to her father's heart—what feelings of shame and remorse they awakened.
"Oh, papa!" she said, "I had such a wonderful dream last night. I dreamt I was in heaven, and it seemed such a beautiful place. There were flowers far more lovely than any I ever saw on earth, and the trees were filled with birds of all colors; and they sang so sweetly—more sweetly than any I ever heard. And there were thousands and thousands of bright angels, and they had harps in their hands shining like gold. And there were thousands of men, women, and children there, all dressed in white, with something bright and beautiful in their hands. And there seemed to be a great high throne, and some one sitting upon it—just such a throne as mamma showed me the other day in a book, only far more beautiful. And the face of the One who sat on the throne shone more brightly than the sun, and lit up all the place. Oh, papa! I was so happy—more than when I have been playing with Allie among the flowers on a bright summer's day. And the angels struck their golden harps; and as the people and children sang, the music was more delightful than I can tell. I felt I was selfish to listen all alone, and that I must run and tell you all, that you might hear it also. But, just as I was about to start, I looked up, and you were standing by my side, looking down at me. And, pa, you did not look like you do now, but as you used to look when I first knew you—as my own dear papa—only there was no gray in your hair. Then you smiled so sweetly upon me, that I knew you were happy; and your face was bright and shining. I asked you where was mamma, Eddie, and Allie, that I might tell them what we were enjoying, and you said they were not here yet, but would be by-and-bye.
"Then it seemed as if we all left the throne and wandered by the beautiful river and picked the beautiful flowers that were so fragrant. Then I said, 'Oh, papa, I wish my mamma was here!' and just at that time I awoke, and mamma was standing by my bedside, smiling; for, it being morning, the sun was filling my room with light, and little Dickie was singing. I told mamma my dream, and she said she thought it was because of what she was reading to me, and the stories she told me before I went to bed; for, papa, she read that chapter which speaks of the 'great multitude which no man can number, who washed their robes and made them white in the blood of the Lamb.' And she read me of the walls so high and beautiful, and of the streets of gold. She said no earthly home could equal it. And she thinks this, with Dickie's singing and the sun's shining, was what caused me to dream such a lovely dream. Do you think it was this that caused it, papa?"
Ashton looked down upon his fair, fragile young child, and, as he did so, he thought how far he had fallen from such purity as she possessed.
"No doubt, my dear," he said, "but your mamma's reading and the stories she told had something to do with your dream. But I think even the angels would come from heaven to whisper in the ears of one so good and beautiful as papa's little daughter."
"Oh, papa!" she said, "I wish we were all in heaven, and then we would be so happy. You would never drink again, because there would be no wicked men to give you whiskey; for mamma said, 'None that are wicked shall enter there,' and then mamma would not cry like she sometimes does now; because there shall be 'no sorrow there, and God shall wipe all tears from the eye.' Do you not wish we were there, papa?"
The tears were trickling down the cheeks not only of the father but also of Mrs. Ashton and Allie. She seemed to them too pure for earth, and fit for the association of those bright spirits of which she had been dreaming.
As her father did not speak—in fact he dare not make the attempt, for if he had he could not have controlled his emotion—her mother said:
"Mamie better not ask any more such questions. Papa, mamma, and all hope to be there some day; but we want to remain to work for and love each other until God sees fit to call us home. Now, my dear, do not say anything more about it to-night, because you make papa and mamma feel bad."
Mamie was subdued into silence, for a request from her mother always exerted a great power over her. She nestled so closely to her father's breast that she could hear the beatings of his heart, which, though he had fallen so utterly, beat only for his dear ones at home.
It would certainly have been a subject worthy of a great painter to depict that pure, beautiful child, sitting upon the lap of her sinful, erring father. Her face so smooth and radiant, his so seamed and gloomy. Her eyes large, full, and deep, with the light of a pure soul finding expression through them; his, blood-red and bleared from the effects of his recent and frequent debauches, and with the despair which was eating, like a canker, deep down in the heart, manifesting its intensity in those exponents of its happiness or misery.
"Papa, your supper is waiting for you," said Allie cheerfully.
"Come, mamma and Mamie, your chairs are ready."
But we will leave this family scene to take our readers back to
Porter's hotel.