The Prodigal Daughter CHAPTER 7.
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Three years more passed away, during which no change for the better occurred in Mrs. Anderson's health. She had still to toil, in weariness, beyond her strength, and with all her toil, could but scantily supply the needs of her two children. What added seriously to her burden, was the fact that her husband had grown so debauched and idle, that no one would employ him, and he had now fallen back for support on the feeble arm of the woman he had so cruelly wronged from the beginning.
While he was away, and stayed away from his little family, they were as happy as they possibly could be under the circumstances which surrounded them; but now, the constant presence of their debased father, and his ill-nature and frequent authoritative, arbitrary manner — robbed them of that pleasure which they once enjoyed. Whenever he could get liquor, he would drink until intoxicated — and then come home to sicken the hearts of his wife and children, not only by his revolting appearance, but by his crossness and interference in almost everything.
James, now twelve years old, could earn his mother three dollars, and sometimes more than that, every week.
Little Alice was growing every day dearer to the heart of her mother. Amid poverty and distress, she had labored to sow in her young mind, the seeds of pure thought and gentle emotions. Every Sunday, and frequently in the evenings when her father was out, would she read to her mother from the Holy Book. It was a touching sight, to see that child, not nine years old, tracing with her tiny fingers, the lines of the Holy Record, and to note the pale countenance of the sick mother, over which would pass the quick flashes of pious emotion, when the low sweet voice of the child lingered on passages of comfort to the afflicted.
And it was a sight to make an angel weep, when the drunken father would come in, and sometimes with wicked curses and blows, drive that trembling child from her little seat by her mother's side, and fling the sacred book with a curse to the floor. Thus were even the new sources of comfort springing up for her, turned into active causes of pain.
One morning little Alice drooped about, and, after breakfast drew a small stool up to a chair, and laying her head upon her arms, and her arms down upon the chair, was soon fast asleep. Much occupied, her mother did not notice that anything ailed the child, until late in the afternoon, when casting her eyes more particularly upon the face of Alice, who still slept, she thought that it looked very red, and placing her hand upon her cheek, found it hot with fever. She roused her immediately, when she complained of a sore throat, and a burning all over her. In great concern, Mrs. Anderson waited until dark, when her husband came in.
"I wish you would go for the doctor, William!" she said. "Alice is very sick, and I feel a good deal alarmed about her!"
"What's the matter with her?"
"She has a high fever, and complains of a sore throat."
"Well, I don't think it worth while to send for a doctor. She's been eating too much, I suppose, and will be better by morning."
"Indeed, William, she has eaten hardly anything today. Do go for the doctor. You do not realize how very ill she is!"
"I shall not go for the doctor — for I don't see any use," he replied, angrily.
"Well, never mind, then," his wife replied, soothingly, for she dreaded his becoming angry. "James will be home by eight or nine o'clock, and he can go."
"No he won't!" was the drunken father's reply. "No doctor shall come into the house this night. There is no need of one."
Mrs. Anderson said not another word. She knew that it would be useless to waste words with her husband, who had as usual been drinking. With excited and alarmed feelings, she made use of all the means in her power, to allay the fever that was burning through every vein of her beloved child. Though so feeble herself as to be scarcely able to move about, she was buoyed up with an artificial strength, and spent most of the evening in bathing Alice's feet, preparing her hot drinks, and using every means that suggested itself, for breaking the fever and restoring moisture to the skin. But all her efforts were vain.
About eight o'clock, James came home. The father had gone out an hour before.
"What is the matter with little Alice, mother? "he asked, alarmed at her ill looks, and his mother's distressed countenance.
"She is very sick, James, and is getting worse all the while."
"Then I will go at once for the doctor."
"No, James, you needn't go after him tonight."
"Why mother? she is very sick."
"I know that. But she will no doubt be better by the morning."
"But suppose she is worse? See how much time would be lost?"
"True, true. But your father says we must not send for the doctor tonight."
"Why?"
"He does not think Alice is very sick."
The boy's lip curled. But a single steady glance from his mother, made him hide the thoughts that were in his mind.
"But she is very sick now," he said, after a few moment's pause, "and surely he would rather have you send for the doctor, did he know how bad she was."
"You cannot go tonight," his mother replied, mildly.
By nine o'clock, the fever had increased greatly, and Alice now tossed herself about and moaned as if in much suffering. Still the father came not; and the two who loved the child and sister with an affection increased ten fold, at the sight of her danger and misery, stood by the bedside in silent agony. At length James, whose thoughts had been busy and excited, started from the bedside, saying passionately,
"I don't care what father says! I will go for the doctor!"
"James! James!"
But the excited boy heard not, or regarded not, for he passed out swiftly, and was soon at the office of a physician.
Fortunately the doctor was in, and seeing the alarm depicted in the boy's countenance, instantly attended the summons.
The father, the son, and the physician, all entered the room where lay the sick child, together. The former just drunk enough to be cross, unreasonable, and tyrannical.
"Didn't I tell you not to send for the doctor?" were his first angry words, regardless of the presence of the physician. "There's nothing the matter with Alice. Come, get up, you little fake!" addressing the sick child, and making an effort to pull her up from the bed.
Quick as thought James was by his side, and with a force and decision beyond his years, pushed his father, who, staggering away from the bed, fell over a chair upon the floor. Recovering himself, Anderson made towards the boy, who kept out of the way until the physician, who was a stout strong man, took hold of the inebriate, and placing him by main strength upon a chair, told him in a stern voice, that it he were not at once quiet, he would call in a policeman, and have him removed. This threat had the desired effect.
While this was passing, a grey-headed old man, stood just outside of the half-opened door, looking in upon the excited group. He seemed moved by the scene, for he dashed off a tear which fell unbidden to his cheek. The mother stood near the bed, with her face, expressive of the keenest anguish, turned partly towards the door. There were no tears in her eyes. Her hands were firmly locked together, and she was glancing steadily upwards, as if earthly hope had utterly failed. The sick child had raised herself in alarm, and was staring wildly around. All this the eye of the old man took in. A moment or two he gazed, as if horror-stricken, and then turned and passed hastily out. The slight noise which this movement occasioned, attracted the attention of those within the room, and broke the spell which bound them.
The humane physician proceeded immediately to examine into the real condition of the child. The mother eagerly watched his countenance, again all alive with interest for the little sufferer. But she gathered no consolation from his countenance which seemed to express much concern and anxiety, as he felt the pulse long, and thought longer before he made any remark.
"What do you think of her, doctor?" at length inquired the mother, in an earnest, trembling voice her nervous agitation increasing her anxiety and alarm tenfold.
"She is a very sick child, madam. But her disease will no doubt yield to active treatment. Send your son to my office in a few minutes for medicine." Then turning to the father, he said, sternly:
"The life of your child depends upon her being kept perfectly quiet. If you make any more disturbance, you may consider yourself, if she dies — her murderer!"
This nearly sobered him; and he remained quiet, and showed much interest in the condition of little Alice.
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