The Broken Heart CHAPTER 8.
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Nothing of more than ordinary interest occurred, until Emeline sprang up and verged on to womanhood. Now all of Mrs. Morrison's anxieties became aroused. She remembered her own false step, and trembled for her glad-hearted but inexperienced child. She was, however, spared much trouble on this account, for one who was all in character she could have wished him — a young and industrious mechanic, first won upon the affections of Emeline, and continued to hold them until it was agreed on all sides that they should be married.
And they were married. Emeline Morrison became Mrs. Williams. For three or four years, everything went on pleasantly enough, and Mrs. Morrison's heart was happy in the affection of her daughter and son-in-law — and their two sweet babes. Though living in a very humble condition, by carefulness and prudence, the income of Mr. Williams was sufficient to make them comfortable.
But alas! a sad change began to show itself. In those times, everyone was in the habit of drinking strong liquors, and still there were but few cases of abandoned drunkenness. Occasionally, it is true, someone would fall a victim to the demon of alcohol — and one of these it seemed, was to be Mr. Williams. Several times he had come home from his work in a condition which showed that he had been indulging himself too freely; and gradually there was a diminishing of the weekly amount of earnings. Mrs. Morrison ventured a mild remonstrance, and for the first time received an unkind answer.
Emeline was not so keenly alive to the danger, as her mother — though she soon felt that all was not right; and many a tear wet her eyes in the silence of the night, though she hardly knew why she wept.
Ten years from the day that Mrs. Morrison gave the hand of her daughter to Mr. Williams, she saw her, with five small children, and an idle, drunken husband — turned out of her home, and all of her furniture sold for rent. A second time in her life, was she called upon to bring into action all the resources of a tried spirit. She still had preserved, untouched, her little treasure, now nearly thirty years since its deposit in a Savings' Bank. It had continued to accumulate, until there stood to her credit over seven hundred dollars. The time had come to draw upon it, and she did so for the purpose of buying some necessary articles of furniture for a small house, which she took for her daughter and grandchildren.
Since his family had been turned out of doors and only kept from immediate suffering by the kindness of a neighbor, Williams was not to be seen — but as soon as they were again tolerably comfortable, he walked into their little asylum, provided by Mrs. Morrison, with an air of perfect freedom. It was a sore trial for her to see an idle, drunken man, eating up the bread she had bought for his children, and thus hastening the time when she would be no longer able to meet their needs. But there was no redress. He had becomeunfeeling — even brutalized.
But a new and keener sorrow came upon the mother and daughter. All of the children were taken down with scarlet fever, and after great suffering, four of them died — one each day for four successive days. Two at a time were these little ones, escaped from the evil to come, borne out to the lonely graveyard. But for the living one, the last of the dear little flock — were now all their feelings interested. Hour after hour could be seen the mother and daughter seated, one on each side of the bed, where the little sufferer lay, eagerly watching every motion, every symptom — their hearts now trembling in hope, and now almost ceasing to beat in silent oppressing despair. The last of the jewels was a little girl, three years old, whose glad young face, and sweet bird-like voice, had often chased from both her mother and grandmother, the burden of care that oppressed the one, and of sorrow that weighed down the heart of the other.
It was midnight, and still they leaned over her, watching her dear face, and listening to her painful breathing. There was no sound, other than that which came faintly from the sufferer, to disturb the deep silence of the hour. In another room, the father slept in leaden insensibility. Suddenly the bright blue eyes of the little sufferer unclosed, and, looking first at the one, and then at the other of the anxious faces that bent over her — she closed them again, with a murmur of disappointment.
"What does little Emily want?" said her mother, in a tender tone.
"Where's father?" asked the child, again opening her eyes, and looking around.
"He's asleep, my dear," replied her mother, soothingly.
She closed her eyes again with a faint sigh, and lay for half an hour, as motionless as before. Again she lifted the dark lashes from those innocent orbs, again looked about, and again asked, "Where's father?"
"He's asleep, my child," said the mother. "Do you want him?"
"I want to see my father. Where is my father?" she asked eagerly.
Mrs. Williams left the bed-side of her sick child, and entered the room where her husband was asleep. She endeavored to rouse him from his deep slumber, but he answered her gentle effort to awaken him by a drunken growl, and turned himself over. She now shook him more violently. He opened his eyes, and with an angry exclamation, pushed her half across the room.
Sick at heart, she returned to the bedside of her suffering child, whose eager eyes, now widely and fixedly unclosed, sought her own.
"Mother, I want to see father;" she said, as her mother bent again over her. "Why doesn't father come?" Mrs. Williams burst into tears, and covering her face with her hands, sobbed as if her very heart would break.
"Don't cry, mother; father won't be cross any more. Father! where's my father?" She now called out in a loud, clear voice, "Father, come!"
That thrilling voice was heard, even by the drunkard in his slumber. The door suddenly opened, and the father stood by the bed-side of his sick child. The violence of the fever which had been consuming her, seemed now to have given way; her little hands were moist and cool, and her eyes shone with an unearthly brightness. She raised herself with an unexpected strength, and taking the hand of her father, she looked up to him with an expression that an angel's face might wear, and her voice that was strangely musical and sweet, stole out, and the words,
"Father, be good!" thrilled every heart-string with a wild emotion.
For a moment more, that sweet, earnest, appealing look was fixed in the face of her father, and then her eyes gradually closed, her muscles relaxed, and she sank back upon her pillow. The heart of the strong man was shaken, and the fountain of tears long sealed up, were touched. He bowed his head and wept bitter tears of repentance.
No look, no word, no sigh — beamed from the eye, or passed from the lips of the dear little sufferer through the hours that intervened until the dawning of the morning. As still as if death had parted the spirit from its earthly covering, did she lay. Mr. Williams, now wide awake both in mind and body, scarcely left the bedside a moment; but either sat or stood near the last one of his little flock, watching with intense interest for some living change to pass over the features of his child. But hour after hour, he looked in vain.
Forgetful of his accustomed alcohol in the morning, forgetful of everything but the insensible babe whose innocent thoughts, even in the extremity of life had been filled with his wrong doings — he continued to watch over her through all the day, scarcely induced to allow food to pass his lips.
Night, gloomy night, with lightning and storm, came on again. Hushed in a deep slumber, had Emily lain all the day, her breathing so low as scarcely to be distinguished. The physician had come in and looked at her, but had gone away, without remark on her condition, or prescription, simply saying that he would come again in the morning. Silently did they all gather round the bed, none thinking of rest, as the storm outside deepened into a tempest. The quick, intense flashes of lightning, came in through the uncurtained windows, paling the dim light, and seeming to play round the face of the innocent sufferer, giving it the livid, ghastly appearance of death. The deafening crash that would follow, was scarcely heard, as the three would bend nearer, startled at the deathlike expression that the fierce light had thrown upon the face of the child, to ascertain if she were still alive.
She was the last of five dear children — how could they give her up? Even to pray that she might be spared, did the mother presume — forgetful that the God of infinite Love and Wisdom, who sees all for the best — cannot be moved to grant a prayer that would change His merciful and wise providence.
The hearts of the parents were now oppressed — for they had almost ceased to hope. They could not hide from themselves the truth that Emily, in the last twenty-four hours, had failed rapidly. Now she lay before them, with a face only exceeded in whiteness, by the snowy pillow on which it lay and with a form shrunk to half its ordinary size. The motion of her chest was so slight, that it scarcely seemed to agitate the blanket which enclosed it, and, except for this, there was about the child no sign of life.
The pale light of the morning came in, and as it gained strength, revealed to the anxious watchers, more of death in the face of the hushed sleeper, than the dim lamps had shown. Each bent forward with a yearning fear about their hearts an intense oppression. But the tale was soon told. Once did the eye-lids slowly unclose — once did the orbs which had been hidden for hours, look up with their brightness undiminished — once did a feeble but sweet smile play round her lips — and then all was fixed in the rigidity of death!
In silence and in tears, did they bear out the body of their last babe, and lay it with the rest. As the heavy clods rattled upon the coffin lid, Williams inwardly swore to be again the industrious citizen, the tender husband, and the kind son-in-law that he had been in past years — now passed forever. But no sudden resolution can change the will. The shock of powerful affliction; the roused sense of evil doing, may for a time keep down the passions, strong by indulgence; but unless something beyond and above mere human resolves is called to the aid — the victim to a love of evil will again sink back, and again return to wallow in the mire of sensuality.
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