“I don't think he would leave me, even if I could part with him,” observed Mrs. Sheppard, smiling through her tears.
“I don't think he would,” acquiesced the carpenter. “No friend like the mother, for the babby knows no other.”
“And that's true,” rejoined Mrs. Sheppard; “for if I had not been a mother, I would not have survived the day on which I became a widow.”
“You mustn't think of that, Mrs. Sheppard,” said Wood in a soothing tone.
“I can't help thinking of it, Sir,” answered the widow. “I can never get poor Tom's last look out of my head, as he stood in the Stone-Hall at Newgate, after his irons had been knocked off, unless I manage to stupify myself somehow. The dismal tolling of St. Sepulchre's bell is for ever ringing in my ears—oh!”
“If that's the case,” observed Wood, “I'm surprised you should like to have such a frightful picture constantly in view as that over the chimney-piece.”
“I'd good reasons for placing it there, Sir; but don't question me about them now, or you'll drive me mad,” returned Mrs. Sheppard wildly.
“Well, well, we'll say no more about it,” replied Wood; “and, by way of changing the subject, let me advise you on no account to fly to strong waters for consolation, Joan. One nail drives out another, it's true; but the worst nail you can employ is a coffin-nail. Gin Lane's the nearest road to the churchyard.”
“It may be; but if it shortens the distance and lightens the journey, I care not,” retorted the widow, who seemed by this reproach to be roused into sudden eloquence. “To those who, like me, have never been able to get out of the dark and dreary paths of life, the grave is indeed a refuge, and the sooner they reach it the better. The spirit I drink may be poison,—it may kill me,—perhaps it is killing me:—but so would hunger, cold, misery,—so would my own thoughts. I should have gone mad without it. Gin is the poor man's friend,—his sole set-off against the rich man's luxury. It comforts him when he is most forlorn. It may be treacherous, it may lay up a store of future woe; but it insures present happiness, and that is sufficient. When I have traversed the streets a houseless wanderer, driven with curses from every door where I have solicited alms, and with blows from every gateway where I have sought shelter,—when I have crept into some deserted building, and stretched my wearied limbs upon a bulk, in the vain hope of repose,—or, worse than all, when, frenzied with want, I have yielded to horrible temptation, and earned a meal in the only way I could earn one,—when I have felt, at times like these, my heart sink within me, I have drank of this drink, and have at once forgotten my cares, my poverty, my guilt. Old thoughts, old feelings, old faces, and old scenes have returned to me, and I have fancied myself happy,—as happy as I am now.” And she burst into a wild hysterical laugh.
“Poor creature!” ejaculated Wood. “Do you call this frantic glee happiness?”