Difference between revisions of "Volume III. The Mother CHAPTER 8."

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A Strong Contrast.

Nearer than Mrs. Hartley had supposed, lived for many years an old but now almost forgotten friend — Florence Armitage; or rather, Mrs. Archer.

We will introduce her on the very night that Marien's birthday party took place, by way of contrast. The house in which she lives is a small, comfortless one, in an obscure street not far from the residence of Mr. and Mrs. Hartley. Her father has become poor, and her husband, whose habits are more irregular than when a single man, receives a small salary as clerk, more than half of which he spends in self-indulgence; the other half is eked out to his wife, who, on this pittance, is compelled to provide for five children. She has had six, but one is dead.

It was a clear bright evening outside, but there was nothing cheerful in the dwelling of William Archer. The supper table was in the floor, and on it burned a poor light. The mother sat near the table, with an infant on her lap, mending a pair of dark stockings with coarse yarn of a lighter color. A little girl, three years of age, was swinging on her chair, and a boy two years older was drumming on the floor with two large sticks, making a deafening noise. This noise Mrs. Archer bore as long as she could, when her patience becoming exhausted, she cried out in a loud, fretful voice —

"Bill! Stop that noise!"

The boy paused for a single moment, and then resumed his amusement.

"Did you hear me, Bill? you heedless wretch!" exclaimed the mother, after she had borne the sound for some time longer.

There was silence for about a minute — and the noise began again.

"If you don't stop that, Bill, I'll box your ears soundly," screamed the impatient mother.

The boy stopped for the space of nearly two minutes this time; then he went on again with his drumming.

"Do you want me to send you to bed without your supper?"

"No, I don't," replied the child.

"Then hush that noise, or I shall certainly send you to bed. You set me almost crazy!"

Bill, as his mother called him, laid himself back upon the floor, and commenced kicking up his heels. After having amused himself in this way for some time, his drum-sticks were again resorted to, and the room was once more filled with the distracting din he made. Mrs. Archer bore it as long as she could, and then she boxed the child's ears soundly.

After the cries this correction had died away, all was quiet enough for a quarter of an hour, when Mr. Archer came in to tea.

Twelve years had changed him sadly. His brow was gloomy, his eyes sunken, and his lips closely drawn together, giving his countenance an expression of sternness. He looked at least twenty years older. He did not even cast his eyes upon his wife as he entered, but drew a chair to the table, and taking a newspaper from his pocket, began reading it.

"Bill, go and tell Jane to bring up tea," said Mrs. Archer.

The child went out into the passage, and cried down to the cook, in a tone of authority —

"Bring up tea!"

No notice was taken of this by the parents. Jane came up with the tea, looking as sulky as possible.

"Here, take the baby," said Mrs. Archer, handing Jane the child in a most ungracious manner. Jane took the child quite as ungraciously as it was offered, and managed to keep it crying most of the time they were at supper.

"Where is John?" asked Mr. Archer, looking up at his wife when about half through with his silent meal.

"Who knows, for I don't! He came in from school, but was off at once as usual. He is going to ruin as fast as ever a boy was."

"Why do you let him run the streets in this way?"

"He's got beyond me. I don't pretend to try to manage him. I might just as well tell him to go, as to stay. It would be all the same to him. It's high time that you had taken him in hand. Florence is at her grandmother's, and I intended sending John after her an hour ago. But he hasn't shown himself."

Mr. Archer did not reply; he felt worried and angry. While they were yet at the table, John, a lad of some eleven years old, came in, and threw his hat down in the corner.

"Go and hang your hat up, sir," said his father. "Is that the place for it?"

John did as he was ordered.

"Now, where have you been, sir?" was the father's angry interrogation.

"I've been playing."

"What business have you to go off without asking your mother? If ever I hear of this again, I'll give you such a beating as you've never had in your life. Don't sit down to the table! Go, put on your hat again, and be off to get your sister Florence."

"Where is she?"

"Where is she?" mimicking the tones and manner of the boy. "At your grandmother's," said Mr. Archer. "Go along after her, and be quick. She ought to have been home more than an hour ago."

John went out slowly and sulkily.

"If that boy goes to ruin, you will have no one to blame but yourself," said Mr. Archer, ill-naturedly.

"I don't know how you are going to make that out," returned his wife in a voice quite as unamiable as that in which he had spoken.

"You have no government over him."

"I have quite as much as yourself," retorted Mrs. Archer.

"Humph! You think so, do you?" — he spoke in a sneering tone.

"I think just what I say. If you paid the least attention to your children, they would grow up very differently. As it is, I have no comfort with them, and never hope to have any. I expect to see them go to ruin."

"So I would think, by the way you let them run wild. You talk about my government over them, but I would like to know what I can do, when I am not with them for an hour each day. Whatever is the result, you will have only yourself to blame."

"That's just it. Instead of staying at home with your children, and trying to make something out of them — you are off every night, who knows where — but after no good, of course."

"Hold your tongue, madam!" Mr. Archer gave his wife an angry scowl as he said this.

The wife felt little inclination to contend further. There was a brutality in her husband's tone and manner that stunned her. She said nothing more.

While the father and mother were engaged in a war of words, the little boy, before mentioned, was amusing himself by spinning his spoon around in his plate, which made a most annoying clatter, and served to add to the irritation felt by both Mr. and Mrs. Archer, although the cause was not noticed until their contention was over.

"Be quiet, child!" said the mother, as the noise of the rattling spoon continued to fall upon her ear.

She might as well not have spoken. If any change was produced by her words, it was an increased vigor in the movement of the spoon.

She laid her hand upon the boy's head and said — "Don't make that noise, Bill — you irritate me."

The moment the pressure of the hand was removed, like a reacting spring, the movement went on again; the noise, if anything, louder than ever. A vigorous slap on the ear signified that poor Mrs. Archer's patience was exhausted. Almost simultaneous with the loud scream of the child, came the loud bang of the door. Her husband had precipitately left the house. A state of sad, dreamy abstraction settled upon the mind of Mrs. Archer. Although Bill, as the little fellow was called, fairly yelled out from passion and pain, she did not hear him.

Jane, the cook, who was nursing the babe, waited patiently for some time after Archer had left, to be called up from the kitchen. But minute after minute passed, and no summons came. It was nearly a quarter of an hour before she ascended to the dining-room. She found Mrs. Archer in a state of entire absent-mindedness, with her head resting on her hand — the little boy was fast asleep in his chair.

The mother roused up on the entrance of the cook, and said —

"Here, Jane, give me the baby, and take this child up and put him to bed before you clear off the table." The fair young face and glowing cheeks of the little boy, as Jane lifted him up, met the mother's eye. She sighed deeply, and again fell into her former dreamy state.

In a little while John and Florence came in. Florence was a sweet-faced child, just nine years old. Her disposition was mild, and she was very thoughtful — rendering her mother much service in her attentions to the younger children. Her first act was to go up to her mother and kiss her, and then kiss the babe that lay upon her lap.

"Have you had a pleasant time, dear?" asked Mrs. Archer.

"O, yes, mother. I have had a nice time. Grandma baked us a whole basket full of cakes, which I have brought home; and she let me help her. I cut them all out. Where is Willy and Mary?" she added, looking around. "They must have some cakes. Oh, dear! Here's sis' fast asleep on the floor. Shall I wake her up, mother, and give her a cake?"

"No, dear, I wouldn't wake her now. The cakes will taste just as good to her in the morning."

"Where is Willy?"

"He's in bed. Jane took him up stairs."

"Shall I hold the baby, while you undress Mary?" asked Florence, as she took off her bonnet and shawl.

"Yes, you may."

"Dear little boy!" murmured Florence, as she took the child from her mother's arms, and sat down with it upon a low stool.

"I want some supper," said John, pouting out his lips, and looking as ugly and ill-natured as possible.

"There's some bread and butter for you. Sit down and eat that, and then take yourself off to bed," replied his mother.

"I want some tea."

"You'll not get any."

"I'll go and ask Jane to give me some."

"Take care, sir; or you'll be sent off without mouthful!"

As rudely as possible, John sat down upon the corner of a chair, and commenced eating. The moment his mother left the room with Mary in her arms, his hand was in the sugar-bowl; a portion of the contents of which were freely laid upon his bread and butter.

"If I don't get tea — I'll have sugar!" he said.

He was in the act of helping himself from the sugar-bowl for the third time, when his mother came in. The consequence was that he got his ears soundly boxed, and was sent off to bed.

Florence continued to nurse the babe, or rock it in the cradle, for an hour, when she became too sleepy to hold up her head. Kissing her mother affectionately, the child said good night, and went off, alone, to her room, where she undressed herself and retired for the night. But no prayer was said — her mother had never taught her this best of infantile lessons.

Mrs. Archer sat up sewing until nearly eleven o'clock, and then sought her pillow. As usual, her husband had not yet returned. It was past midnight when he came home.

Too many of the evenings that were passed in the family of Mr. and Mrs. Archer, were similar to the one we have described. The influence upon the children was, of course, only bad. The evil qualities of mind they inherited, instead of being weakened and subdued — were quickened into a premature activity. There was no strength of principle, and noregular system in the mother's mind to counterbalance the indifference of the father. Had she been fitted for the high and holy duties of a mother, she would have left a far different impression upon her children's minds than she had made. The good would have been developed — and the evil held in a state of quiescence. She would have stored up in the minds of her children, good and true principles which would remain there, and save them in the day when the trials of mature life came.