The Broken Heart CHAPTER 9.
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Ten years had rolled away since the never-to-be-forgotten night in which the last dear child passed into the world of spirits. In a small, poorly furnished room, was laid in her last moments, a pale-faced mother, who had but a few days before given birth to an infant. Suffering and privation had worn away her flesh, and she was little more than a breathing skeleton. Seated by the bedside was an old woman, also emaciated and care-worn, who bent her eyes, filled with glances of affection, upon the child of her many thoughts, now evidently drawing near the moment of death.
The reader will recognize in these two lonely women, the widow Morrison, and her long suffering child. But where, he asks, is Williams? Alas! his spasmodic repentance was soon followed by a moral collapse, and he speedily returned to the habits of a miserable drunkard. He had continued to eat his bread in idleness — bread earned by the patient and hard labor of his wife and her mother. Not long did the treasure she had laid up for sickness, extremity, or old age — last the widow Morrison. She could not see her own child lack. It had been exhausted years before this time of painful extremity.
Night had just closed in on a still evening in autumn. The breathing of the dying woman had grown less and less labored, and, as if passing into a gentle slumber, she had laid herself back upon the pillow with closed eyes, and a peaceful expression of countenance. With intense interest did Mrs. Morrison regard the face of her daughter, watching the feeble play of every muscle that showed the mind to be active, although the body was calm and almost motionless.
Suddenly the door was swung rudely open, and with a heavy step, came reeling in the drunken husband. The noise startled Mrs. Williams from her sweet dream, and she lifted herself with a wild expression and gesture from her pillow.
Mrs. Morrison's raised finger, and low "h-u-s-h," was answered by —
"Shut your trap, old woman! I want none of your back-talk! I should be allowed to hear my own feet in my own house!"
"O James! James!" said his wife, in a faint voice, "you will kill me!"
"Women are hard to kill. You've been saying that for the last ten years — but you are here yet. Come, get up! I want some supper!" and the drunken wretch actually caught her by the arm, and, but for the timely interference of her mother, would have dragged her out upon the floor.
This resistance was answered by a blow upon the face of Mrs. Morrison, so powerful as to knock her insensible upon the floor. This was more than the feeble body of Mrs. Williams could endure. With one loud, piercing shriek, that seemed to embody the agony of a broken heart — she fell back upon her pillow and was dead in an instant!
For an hour did Mrs. Morrison lay, void of sense or motion, upon the floor. The wretched father, when he saw the awful result of his drunken anger, was sobered instantly. But even in his sober moments — he had no thought, no affection for others. He thought only of himself, and precipitately left the house. When Mrs. Morrison recovered from the stunning effects of the blow and fall — she found the body of her daughter lying cold in death across the bed, and the infant under her, only protected from injury by a pillow, close beside which it lay in a gentle sleep.
Her cup of sorrow now seemed full, and for the first time for many years, all energy of mind forsook her. She seated herself by the bedside, and gave way to thoughts of despair. From this, she was roused by the entrance of a neighbor, who came in to see if she could be of any service for an hour or two, in relieving Mrs. Morrison from the care of her daughter. She found use for all her kind intentions.
It were needless to dwell on the oft-told scene of burial. Mrs. Williams' body was removed in due time. Her husband did not make his appearance, and none knew where to find him, or cared to have him present.
One week after the death of her daughter, while the widow Morrison was sitting in her lonely dwelling, holding in her arms all that now made life desirable — the door slowly opened, and a pale, haggard-looking man entered, and silently seated himself in a chair. There was a strange fear expressed in his face, and his eye glancing wildly and nervously about, occasionally looking with something like terror towards the door, as if he had just escaped from someone who sought his life. Presently he got up, and coming close to the alarmed widow, said, in a husky whisper
"You won't let them hurt me, will you? Hark! See! They are coming! Quick! hide me! hide me! There now! Don't move, nor tell them I am here!" And he crouched down behind her chair, in a paroxysm of terror, the large drops of perspiration streaming over his face and falling to the floor.
In speechless alarm, Mrs. Morrison looked at the terrified being, and all at once discovered that the pale, emaciated, horror-stricken wretch by her side — was none other than the husband of Emeline!
"Keep off! keep off!" he suddenly screamed out, "Go away oh! OH! OH!" in a loud, prolonged yell of agony. Then cowering down upon the floor, he hid his face in his hands and trembled in every limb.
"What is the matter, James?" said Mrs. Morrison, laying the child upon the bed, and regarding the terrified man, evidently bereft of his senses, with a look of pity mingled withfear.
"Oh mother! evil spirits in every form are after me. See! see! It comes! it comes!"
"What comes, James?"
"The great red dragon, with eyes of flame! See, he is coming down from the ceiling. Save me! save me! oh! o-h!" the last interjection prolonged into a wild scream of terror.
"It is gone!" he said, breathing more freely, and an expression of returning reason lighting up his face. "Oh mother! I shall die, if they are not kept off. Why did you let them in? There, now! one of them is pushing his head under the door. Be off! be off! You can't hurt me now! No, you know you can't."
The wretched man sprung from his recumbent position as if a knife had pierced his heart; flung himself upon the bed, and buried himself beneath the clothes. The infant narrowly escaped being crushed to death.
Mrs. Morrison, whose bewildered senses began to come back to her, picked up the child and ran with it into a neighbor's. Several men went into the house, and after trying in vain to quiet the alarmed and wretched being, laboring under an attack of alcoholic delirium tremens, had him conveyed to the Alms-House, where he rapidly grew worse, and died in less than a week.
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