PUBLISHED BY THE AMERICAN TRACT SOCIETY.
THE
EVENTFUL TWELVE HOURS;
OR,
THE DESTITUTION AND WRETCHEDNESS
OF
A DRUNKARD.
“It is a sorrowful heart,” said I to myself, as I raked over the dying embers upon the hearth, to throw a transient gleam of light over my dreary cottage—“It is a sorrowful heart that never rejoices; and though I am somewhat in debt at the Blue Moon, and the landlady of the Stag has over and over again said she’d never trust me, still she has not yet refused me, only at first. Many’s the shilling I have paid them both, to be sure,” said I, rising involuntarily and going to the cupboard: “I had better take a mouthful before I go out, for it’s no use to wait any longer for Mary’s return.”
Just at this moment the eldest of my two children inquired in a piteous tone, “if that was mother.” “Your mother? no,” said I; “and what if it was, what then?” “Because, father,” continued the child, “I thought perhaps she had brought a loaf of bread home, for I am so hungry.” “Hungry, child,” said I; “then why did you not ask me before you went to bed?” “Because, father, I knew there was no bread. When mother sent me to get a loaf this morning at the grocer’s, Mrs. Mason said our last month’s bill had not yet been settled, and she could not trust any more; and so we have only had a few potatoes. When mother went out to look for work, she promised to bring a loaf home very early.” “Why, Jane,” said I, “this is a new story—what, is there nothing at all in the house?” “No, father, nothing; and that is not all, father; mother cried this morning about it when she went out; and though she never uses bad words, said something about cursed drink: she said she should be back before dark, and it has now been dark a long time, and hark, how it rains.”
The fire flickered up a little, and at this moment the latch of the door clicked; I peeped up through the gloom, a pang of conscious shame stealing through my frame; but it was not my wife, as I of course supposed—it was Mrs. Mason. I was surprised and confused. “Where is your wife, James?” said she, in a mild, firm tone. “Is that mother?” said my child again, in a rather sleepy tone; “I am so glad you are come, I am so hungry.” “That child,” said I, “has gone to bed without her supper to-night,” fumbling about at the same time upon the mantel-piece for a bit of candle, which I could not find. “Yes,” said Mrs. Mason, very gravely, “and without its dinner too, I fear; but where is your wife, James? for I am come to see whether she brought any thing home with her for herself and family; for I could not feel comfortable after I had refused your child a loaf this morning, just as I know the refusal was.” I now stammered out something about “sorry,” and “ashamed,” and “bad times.” “But where is your wife, James?” “She is, perhaps, at neighbor Wright’s,” said I, briskly, glad to catch an opportunity of a minute’s retreat from my present awkward position; “I’ll just step and see. Jane, get up, child.” “No, James,” said Mrs. Mason, in a tone not to be misunderstood; “no, James, I wish she was sitting by their comfortable fireside; I called in there just now, as I came along, to pay a little bill, and they spoke very kindly of your wife, and hoped she might be enabled to rub through this winter—but I will call again in half an hour: Mary will have come home, I hope, by that time.”
The door closed upon her, and I remained in a kind of half stupor; my month’s unpaid bill, my public-house scores, my destitute home; these and a thousand things connected with my situation, kept me musing in no very comfortable frame of mind, when the latch again clicked, the door opened, and through the half gleam of one flickering flame, I just caught the glimpse of a form, that in the next instant, cold and wet, sunk lifeless in my arms. It was Mary. As she sunk down upon me, she just said, with a shudder, “Cold.” Shall I stop to tell you of the agony of my mind? Shall I endeavor to relate a portion of the thoughts that chased each other with a comet’s rapidity through my brain; the remembrance of our past comforts, and our happiness too? Recovering after the lapse of an instant, I called, “Jane, Jane, get up, and make haste; your mother is come home, and is very ill and faint; get a light”—she was quickly at my side—“get a light,” for the little unfriendly flame had ceased to burn.