by Ellen Wood
“Won’t you sit down, Mrs. Reed?”
“Law no! I’m off to find him out, and get some money from him. It’s hard lines with us, at the best, since our lodgers left, and it’s harder when he gets drunk on wages night, for then the money melts like butter. Not but what I’m loth to leave your fire, and turn out into it; so comfortable as you be here, to be sure!”
The woman moved to the door as she spoke. The rain was coming down in torrents.
“You will get a dreadful soaking,” exclaimed Mrs. Gould. “Have you an umbrella?”
“A crazy old thing, bent and broke. But no umbrella won’t be of much good to-night. Good evening for the present.”
Away she clanked in her pattens, through the garden gate and along the road. The first thing the wind did, was to take the “crazy old umbrella,” and turn it inside out. She went on in the rain, not knowing at which of the public-houses she might find him, and with something very like a malediction in her heart on all of them. They were numerous, and she tried several unsuccessfully. It was a weary search, and she grew disheartened; she was wet to the skin, and returned to Prospect Row, hoping he had gone home.
“Has he been for the key?” she asked, putting her head inside Mrs. Gould’s door.
“No; here it is. Have you seen any thing of my husband?”
“I have seen nothing of either of them. I wish the beer-houses were burnt!” added Mrs. Heed, in exasperation. “What a life is mine, to be tied to such a sot!”
Back again to the search. She must have money for her marketings, and she must try and prevent him getting intoxicated. Just before eleven o’clock, the hour when the shops closed, she heard where he was. An acquaintance, bent on the same errand as herself, gave her the information that he and about fifteen others were at that noted public, the Pig and Whistle, “a-topping theirselves stupid.”
“All that way!” exclaimed poor Mrs. Reed. She went splashing wearily on, till she arrived at it, and she asked to see him. He came sullenly out of the tap-room, pipe in mouth, chafing at the jokes of his companions, who asked him if he was in leading strings that his missis must come after him. He was fresh, not yet worse, and in a shocking humour; for drink always put him in one, though he was a civil man when quite sober.
“What do you want a-coming hunting after me?” he exclaimed with a scowl.
“What do I want!” she retorted, “why money, for one thing. You know the house is empty. Coals, and candles, and bread, and tea, and potaters, and soap, and salt, and meat—”
He stopped her with an oath, threw down five shillings, and told her to go along and get the things.
“What is the use of five shillings?” she asked, pushing it back. But he buttoned up his breeches pockets, and told her she might take that or none.
“Won’t you come home with me?” she resumed, not choosing to argue the matter then.
Home with her! was the answer. A pretty piece of impudence she must be to ask that.
He went back to the company and the tap-room, as he spoke, and she, in a tone between scolding and crying, called out that he must be a good-for-nothing brute, to keep her trapesing about after him on such a cruel night.
Before she had time to quit the hospitable door of the Pig and Whistle, a slatternly woman, with a red face and bold aspect, dashed into it, the rain dripping off her.
“Is he here?” she demanded, her breath redolent of spirits, and her voice unsteady.
The landlord’s answer was a movement of his thumb in the direction of the tap-room. She was passing toward it with a fierce step, but he interposed and stopped her.
“None of that, Dame Tailor. You can’t go in there to make a row; we know you of old. If you want him, I’ll fetch him out”
“Fetch him out, then, and be quick about it.”
This woman and her husband lived in a room in the town — one room. They might have done so well, for he was a clever workman, but drink was his bane, always had been from a young man, and drink was now hers. She was a smart, well-conducted, tidy young woman once, and she made him a well-conducted wife. Yes, she was; even that virago, with her offensive words, and her black hair hanging about her face. But his confirmed ill courses soured her temper and broke her spirit. Her children, born to rags and wretchedness, died off as they came, dying principally of hunger. Cold, weary, and sick at heart, she used to go hunting after him, as Mrs. Reed has just done after her husband, and he would meet her with abuse, insult, and at last with blows. All the good that was in her was thrown back upon her heart: maddened and despairing, she learned to fly to the same source to drown her sorrow, and soon she became as confirmed a drinker as he was.
Tailor came out staggering, a black-looking fellow, six feet high, and a scene of disturbance ensued. She was come for money to get more drink, and he would not give it her; he told her she was top-heavy already. She retorted that he was. Threats poured from the man, screams of rage from the woman, and oaths from both. The landlord put a summary end to it; he expelled her from the door, threatening her with the lock-up if she returned, and Tailor went, staggering and muttering, back to the tap-room.
Mrs. Tailor flew up the street, scolding and raving, with all the rage of a violent and half-crazy woman. The Brown Bear was the first public-house she passed; it stood invitingly open, and she turned into it, and called for gin and water, promising to pay on the following Monday.
“Who’s to know whether I may trust you?” cried the landlady.
“I’ll pay you, if I pawn the coat off Tailor’s back. I swear it. There!”
The gin and water was supplied, and more after it: for landladies know that these drinking debts generally are settled; whether by the pledging of coats or of any other article, is of no moment to them.
Mrs. Reed went forth from the public-house with the five shillings in her hand, but the clocks had then struck eleven, and the shops were closed. On her way up the street, she encountered many women going on the same errand that she had been. Some, now it was too late to buy what they wanted, were returning home; others were pacing before the public-house doors on that pitiless night, humbly waiting for their inhuman husbands, not daring to leave them to get home alone, in the state in which they knew they would be. Inhuman then; kind and civil if they would but keep sober.
Jessy had finished her work, and she sat with her Bible before her, when Mrs. Reed once more entered. She closed the book.
“Well,” said she, “have you found him?”
“Yes; when eleven o’clock had gone. He’s down at the Pig and Whistle; there’s a tap-room full of ‘em, and he’ll come home drunk, for he’s pretty far gone toward it now. Look here!”
She stretched out her hand, and exhibited the five shillings.
“He gave me that — and we want every’ thing! I wonder a judgment don’t overtake the beer-houses, I do. Look at the state I’m in!”
Poor thing! she was indeed in a comfortless state. Wet, as if she had been in a pool of water.
“There’s that unfortunate Nance Tailor bad again. She came after Tailor to the Pig, and a fine row there was, for both of ’em was in for it. The landlord put her out, and she went screeching and blaspheming up to the Brown Bear; and there she’ll stop till it shuts up.”
“She’ll drink herself to death, that woman will.”
“She has had enough to drive her on to it, like some of the rest of us. Your husband’s not come home, for I saw him in the tap-room down there at the Pig. I’m sure it’s all enough to wear the life’s hope out of one. It’s well that you can sit there so calm, and read that good book. I am never in the frame of mind for it.”
“The more crosses we have, the more we ought to go to it, for it is in trouble that we find its comfort,” murmured Mrs. Gould. “I have taught Richard to care for it a little. He did not when we married; and I think it is that which has kept him steadier than some.”
The woman looked into the fire. The expression of her face seemed to say there was no comfort
for her any where.
“That was kind of Mr. Danesbury having the men before him yesterday,” resumed Mrs. Gould.
“Did he have them? What for?”
“He had them all before him in the long room, and said it had come to his knowledge that their habit of frequenting the public-houses at night was growing much more common than it used to be. He told’ them that it ruined their energies, wasted their means, and brought discomfort on their families; and he begged them to be more thoughtful and to put a check upon their love for drink. He said he would rather raise the wages of every man who would undertake to keep from the public-house, than that they should go on drinking worse and worse, as they were doing.”
“There! Now look at Reed! He wouldn’t tell me, ‘cause he knowed he should not take the advice. No more will any of ‘em: they’ll go to the public, in spite of the master. Good night, Mrs. Gould. I wish we was all in Heaven together; ’twould be better for us.”
Scarcely had Mrs. Reed left, when Richard Gould came in. Not quite gone — only half so. His wife put the supper before him without’ speaking: he did not eat it, but went off to bed. The next morning he awoke, got up early, and went out to get the shoes for the children; for it had become a custom for some of the inferior shops in Eastborough to open for an hour or two on the Sunday morning. Perhaps the necessities of the workmen’s wives had originated it. His head was aching; his wife was grieved; his wages were sensibly diminished. He begged her to say nothing at Mr. Harding’s, and protested he never would be tempted out on a Saturday night again — as he had protested many and many a time before.
Poor Mrs. Reed had gone into her comfortless home, shivering and miserable. Yet she did not dare to crack up the fire, for the lump of coal on it was the last bit she had in the house, and she must keep it to boil the kettle in the morning, while she went out. A bitter feeling, a mixture of indignation and despair, stole over her heart, as she sat there waiting for her husband; despair at her unhappy misery, and indignation against public-houses in general, and her husband in particular. Her thoughts flew back to the time when she was a pretty young woman, the child of respectable, industrious parents, without a care upon her, and looking forward to a hopeful future. “Oh that I had never married!” she aspirated, that I could again be as I once have been!”
The tower clock tolled twelve, and those agents of much misery, the public-houses, closed for the night. Other nights the closing hour was eleven; Saturday, twelve. Why so? That the men, when they had money in their pockets, might enjoy increased facility of spending it? Let those answer who made the law. At three quarters past twelve — it took him that time to reel home — Reed tumbled in, awfully abusive, especially at there being no fire and no supper; and, in spite of his wife’s remonstrances, he managed to steady himself so as to crack up the coal and start it into a blaze. In vain she tried to get him to bed: he lighted his pipe, and savagely ordered her to go out and buy beer, being with difficulty made to understand that the taps were closed for the night. He would sit on, and he did; now dozing, now taking a few whiffs at the pipe, and now breaking out into half-connected sentences of abuse. She, poor, weary woman, was obliged to sit with him; left to himself, he might get burned, or set the house on fire: not only for that — he would not. permit her to go; he never did when he was in that state. At four o’clock he condescended to retire, she undressing him.
Before she seemed to have closed her eyes the children were awake and noisy, as children like to be. Fatigued and unrefreshed, she got up, he lying on, like a clod; and, telling her children to be still in bed, for their father was not well, she prepared to go out. But first of all, she looked into her husband’s pockets, painfully anxious as to the amount she might find there. His wages were fifteen shillings a week; it has been said that he was only an inferior workman; and she hunted out six-and-seven pence-halfpenny. With a sensation of despair, she examined on, but there was no more. Three-and-fourpence-halfpenny gone in one night! She put it back, and wrung her hands.
“Father got drunk last night, I know,” whispered the eldest child to the rest, as soon as his mother’s back was turned. “It was pay-night.” He was beginning, child though he was, to be wise in such matters.
Mrs. Reed laid out her five shillings, eking it out to the best advantage, returned, made the fire, got up the children, and gave them their breakfast. Toward dinner-time her husband came shivering down, looking miserably cold and uncomfortable, and very angry with himself. For he was not a bad or unfeeling man, except when under the influence of drink. His wife was sullen and would not notice him; but at last she asked him, giving way to the burden that was lying at her hearty how ever he came to spend so much as three-and-sevenpence-halfpenny. He didn’t know how, he answered; he couldn’t recollect. Somebody called for spirits, and then others called for spirits: there was a good deal drunk among ‘em, one way or t’other. Ninepence of it was an old score which he owed. What was to be done about the landlord? was her next ominous question. He must let her have all that he had got remaining. Oh yes! he would let her have it, he returned, full of contrition, and they sat down to dinner pretty peacefully. Of course, ale was wanted to drink with that, and the eldest child was dispatched to the nearest tap for it.
After dinner, while Mrs. Reed was putting the place to rights and washing up, he took his hat and sallied out. The public-houses were open, and in passing the Leopard he saw some of his acquaintances sitting at its window. He went in “only just to speak with them,” for his pricking conscience was whispering a warning; but they looked so comfortable and cosy with their pipes and jugs, that his old unhappy failing seized irresistible hold of him, and down he sat, and called for a pipe o’ bacca and a pint o’ mild ale. Others dropped in, one by one, till at length the room was pretty full. He sat there till nine at night — he was unable to tear himself away — and then went home. He had not toped himself into the state of the previous evening; by no means; and he would have asserted that he was perfectly sober, but he had further diminished his scanty stock of money. His wife, in towering indignation, had been fretting and scolding away her Sunday evening in a most unhappy frame of mind, and a loud and bitter quarrel closed it, which the children woke up to hear. And thus it went on; and that man, who ought to have kept his family in comfort, sunk them, week by week, into deeper poverty. Such were the existing circumstances with the minority of the working-men of Eastborough.
CHAPTER VIII.
ROBERT AND LIONEL. THE LAST OF GLISSON.
Several years again went by after the date of the last chapter, for over the early part of this history we can not afford to linger.
Arthur was now in partnership with his father, receiving a small share of the profits. The promise he had given of high excellence in earlier years had not been frustrated now that he had arrived at manhood. He was indeed all that the most anxious father could wish. Upon one point Mr. Danesbury’s opinion proved a correct one — the fleeting nature of college friendships. Arthur’s intimacy with Mr. Dacre had ended with his college life. They both quitted Cambridge at the same period. A letter or two had passed between them, and there it appeared to close, for Mr. Dacre went abroad, and Arthur heard no more of him. William was in London, articled to an eminent firm in Parliament Street — Civil Engineers. His future destination was likewise to be the Danesbury Works, where he would take the head of the engineering department. The younger children, Robert and Lionel, had left school this midsummer, and their callings in life were to be decided on.
Mrs. Danesbury was seated in her drawing-room, waiting tea, and getting cross. Nobody seemed to be remembering the tea hour, or her own exhausting patience, of which she had not a great stock. Her two sons were off somewhere; they had grown into fine youths, almost young men, and they had wills of their own. Their taste for wine had grown also; the Sunday glass of wine was now a daily one, and they had begun to say it was not enough — they should like two. Mr. Danesbury was surprised and hurt; he rarely took more than one
himself, and he said, No! But as soon as his back was turned, they helped themselves to the extra one, and Mrs. Danesbury sanctioned it: what harm, thought she, could two glasses of wine do strong, growing lads?
The first to enter the room, and encounter Mrs. Danesbury’s impatience, was Isabel. No longer a girl, but an elegant young woman, with a refined countenance and winning manner.
“Where have you been!” sharply began Mrs. Danesbury.
“Is it late? Oh; but the others have not come in, I see. I have been with aunt Philip.”
A displeasing announcement for Mrs. Danesbury, considering that Mrs. Philip Danesbury was her especial aversion: she would have barred all intercourse with her, had she dared.
“Aunt Philip has had bad news, mamma,” continued Isabel. “Her brother is dead, the Rev. Mr. Heber. He caught a fever after visiting some of his poor parishioners, and died. He was only ill a week.”
“What is to become of his family?” cried Mrs. Danesbury. “That clergyman was as poor as a church mouse.”
“It is a serious question. He has left no money behind him. Aunt Philip is going to invite the two daughters here.”
“With her! To stop?” sharply questioned Mrs. Danesbury.
“I suppose they will stop,” replied Isabel. “They will have no other home now. Their mamma died more than a year ago. Aunt Philip says they are admirable girls, every thing that could be desired.”
“Shameful!” ejaculated Mrs. Danesbury. “She will saddle the Danesbury money with the cost of their maintenance. She will make it an excuse for her income being augmented. I think she is helped pretty well as it is, with her eight hundred a year.”
“Mamma!” exclaimed Isabel, in a tone of remonstrance, the crimson of shame for her step-mother mounting to her forehead, “how can you speak so? Mrs. Philip Danesbury’s husband was papa’s brother, and she has as much right to her income from the business as papa has to his. Had my uncle Philip lived, he would have enjoyed a half share, not the small portion of eight hundred a year.”