It nearly turned the poor mother’s brain, and I can quite understand it, for, oh! what should I do, if anything happened to my little one? Tom was nearly broken-hearted too; but, as he said, he had his work to go to every day, and that took his mind off his trouble. But it is so different for the woman, who has to be alone with her grief in the house, where everything reminds her of her lost one, and where she misses him every minute.
Tom came home always, directly his work was over, and he put on a cheerful face, and tried to get his wife to talk of something else, but she always came back to the one subject that was on her mind—her boy. Then Tom tried to do her good by taking her out to places of amusement now and then, and on Saturday evening they would go to a play, or a music-hall; but it was all no good. He would see his wife’s face change all of a sudden, and he would know that her thoughts were far away from the noise and the glare, and the smoke and the smiling faces round her; far away in the great cemetery, where her little boy lay buried.
Tom putting his big, rough hand across his eyes as he told me this, it brought the tears into mine. Poor woman! it must be so dreadful, when your life ought to be at its best, to be haunted like that.
Well, at last she got so melancholy and absent-minded that Tom saw it was no good taking her out, and he was quite unhappy about it. She loved him, and she loved her little girl, but she was one of those people who, when sorrow comes, haven’t the strength of mind to battle with it, but nurse it, and pamper it, and encourage it, giving themselves over body and soul to it, and brooding night and day, instead of making an effort to throw it off.
The home, which had once been so spick and span, now began to look dirty and untidy; the little girl was neglected, and when Tom came home if was a very different place that he came to from what it used to be.
He didn’t like to say much to the poor, broken-hearted woman; but he was only a man, and at last began to grumble a little, because things were going from bad to worse, and his home was really going to rack and ruin.
She didn’t say anything when he grumbled. She only cried, and that upset Tom awfully, so he said, “Come, come, missus, I didn’t mean to be unkind. Kiss me, and make it up. I know your poor heart’s broke, my lass, but life’s got to be lived, you know, my dear, and sorrows will come. Let’s make the best of it, instead of the worst. We’ve got each other, and we’ve got our little girl, God bless her, and we must be thankful for the blessings we’ve got, instead of grieving over those we’ve lost.”
Tom’s wife sighed, and said, in a weary sort of a way, she’d try; and she did try for a week or two, and Tom’s home was a little better; but after that she dropped back again into her old listless state, and nothing seemed to rouse her.
And then Tom made an awful discovery. The poor woman was doing what hundreds have done before—drinking to drown her sorrow, drinking quietly, never getting drunk, but only dazed and helpless.
He was nearly broken-hearted when he found it out, and he went down on his knees and prayed to her for God’s sake to give it up, or it would be ruin for all of them. But she didn’t seem to care now even for him, and his reproaches and prayers and entreaties only made her more miserable, and then she took more drink than ever.