Little of an interesting nature occurred for about a year, when she received a letter from her husband at Cincinnati. He stated that having despaired of getting along in the business he had entered into on leaving—which had involved him in debt, he had left with a company of traders for Mexico, and had just returned with a little money, with which he wished to go into business. But that if he returned to—, he would be troubled, and all he had taken from him. He enclosed her a hundred dollar note, and wished her to come to him immediately, and to leave—without letting any one know her destination. He professed much sorrow for having left her in so destitute a condition, but pleaded stern necessity for the act.
Mrs. W. did not hesitate a moment. In four days from the time she received the letter, she was on the way to Cincinnati. Arrived there, she was met by her husband with some show of affection. He was greatly changed since she had seen him, and showed many indications of irregular habits. He appeared to have plenty of money, and took rooms for his wife in a respectable boardinghouse. The improvement in his child pleased him much. When he went away it was only about five months old—now it was a bright little boy, and could run about and chatter like a bird. After some hesitation in regard to the kind of business he should select, he at last determined to go into the river-trade. To this Mrs. Warburton gently objected; because it would keep him away from home for months together. But his capital was small, and he at length made his first purchase of produce, and started in a flat-boat for New Orleans. Poor Mrs. W. felt as if deserted again when he left her. But at the end of three months he returned, having cleared four hundred dollars by the trip. He remained at home this time for two months, drinking and gambling; and at the expiration of that period had barely enough left to make a small purchase and start again.
Her troubles, she plainly saw, were just beginning again, and Mrs. Warburton almost wished herself back again in the city, for which, though there she had no friends, her heart yearned.
Her husband did not return, this time, from his river-voyage, for three months; nor did he send his wife during that time any money. The amount left her was entirely exhausted before the end of the second month, and having heard nothing of him since he went away, she feared to get in debt, and, therefore, two weeks before her money was out, applied for work at a cigar-factory. Here she was fortunate enough to obtain employment, and thus keep herself above absolute want.
Long before her husband returned, her heart had fearful forebodings of a second blighting of all its dearest hopes. Not the less painful, were those anticipations, because she had once suffered.
One evening in June, just three months from the time her husband left, she had paused from her almost unremitted employment, during the violence of a tremendous storm, that was raging without. The thunder rattled around in startling peals, and the lightning blazed from cloud to cloud, without a moment's intermission. She could not work while she felt that the bolt of death hung over her. For half an hour had the storm raged, when in one of the pauses which indicated its passing away, she started at the sound of a voice that seemed like that of her husband. In the next moment another voice mingled with it, and both were loud and angry. Fearfully she flung open the door, and just on the pavement, drenched with the rain, and unregardful of the storm, for one more terrible raged within, stood two men, contending with each other in mortal strife, while horrible oaths and imprecations rolled from their lips. One of these, from his distorted face, rendered momently visible in the vivid flashes of the lightning, and from his voice, though loud and disguised by passion, she at once knew to be her husband. His antagonist was not so strong a man, but he was more active, and seemed much cooler. Each had in his hand an open Spanish knife, and both were striking, plunging, and parrying thrusts with the most malignant fury. It was an awful sight to look upon. Two human beings striving for each other's lives amid the fury of a terrible storm, the lightnings of which glanced sharply upon their glittering knives, revealing their fiend-like countenances for an instant, and then leaving them in black darkness.
For a few moments, Mrs. Warburton stood fixed to the spot, but, recalling her scattered senses, she rushed towards the combatants, calling upon them to pause, and repeating the name of her husband in a voice of agony. The result of the strife was delayed but an instant longer, for with a loud cry her husband fell bleeding at her feet. His antagonist passed out of sight in a moment.
Lifting the apparently lifeless form of her husband in her arms, Mrs. Warburton carried or rather dragged him into the house, and placed him upon the bed, where lay their sleeping boy. She then hurried off for the nearest physician, who was soon in attendance.
The first sound that met the ear of Mrs. Warburton, on her return, was the voice of her dear child, eagerly calling, "Pa! pa! wake up, pa!"—And there was the little fellow pulling at the insensible body of his father, in an (sic) extacy of infantile joy at his return.
"Pa come home!—Pa come home, mamma!" And the little fellow clapped his hands, and shook the body of his father in the effort to wake him.
The mother gently lifted her child from the bed. His little face instantly changed its expression into one of fear, when he looked into his mother's countenance. "Pa's very sick, and little Charles must keep still," she whispered to the child, and sat him down in the next room.
When the physician arrived, he found that the knife had entered the left breast just above the heart, but had not penetrated far enough to destroy life. There were also several bad cuts, in different parts of his body, all of which required attention. After dressing them, he left the still insensible man in the care of his wife and one of his assistants, with directions to have him called should any alarming symptom occur. It was not until the next morning that there was any apparent return of consciousness on the part of the wounded man. Then he asked in a feeble voice for his wife. She had left the bed but a moment before, and hearing him speak, was by his side in an instant.
"Julia, how came I here? What is the matter?" said he, rousing up, and looking anxiously around. But overcome with weakness from the loss of blood, he sank back upon the bed, and remained apparently insensible for some time. But he soon showed evidence of painful recollection having returned. For his breathing became more laboured, under agitated feelings, and he glanced his eyes about the room with an eager expression. After a few minutes he buried his face in the bed-clothes and sighed heavily. Distinct, painful consciousness had returned.
In a few days he began to grow stronger, and was able to sit up; and with the return of bodily vigour came back the deadly passions that had agitated him on the night of his return home. The man, he said, had literally robbed him of his money, (in fact, won it); had cheated him out of every dollar of his hard-earned gains, and he would have his life.
When hardly well enough to walk about, Warburton felt the evil influence of his desire for revenge so strong, as to cause him to seek out the individual who, he conceived, had wronged him, by winning from him, or cheating him out of his money. They met in one of the vile places in Cincinnati, where vice loves to do her dark work in secret. Truly are they called hells, for there the love of evil and hatred of the neighbour prompt to action. Every malignant passion in the heart of Warburton was roused into full vigour, when his eyes fell upon the face of his former associate. Instantly he grasped his knife, and with a yell of fiendish exultation sprang towards him, like some savage beast eager for his prey. The other gambler was a cool man, and hard to throw off of his guard. His first movement was to knock Warburton down, then drawing his Spanish knife, he waited calmly and firmly for his enemy to rise. Blind with passion, Warburton sprang to his feet and rushed upon the other, who received him upon the point of his knife, which entered deep into the abdomen. At the same instant, Warburton's knife was plunged into the heart of his adversary, who staggered off from its point, reeled for a few seconds about the room, and then fell heavily upon the floor. He was dead before the cool spectators of the horrid scene could raise him up.
From loss of blood Warburton soon fainted, and when he came to himself, he found that he had been conveyed to his home, and that his weeping wife stood over him. There were also others in the room, and he soon learned that he was to be conveyed, even in the condition he was then in, to prison, to await his trial for murder.
In vain did his poor heart-stricken wife plead that he might be left there until he recovered, or even until his wound was dressed; but she pleaded in vain. On a litter, faint from loss of blood, and groaning with pain, he was carried off to prison. By his side walked her whom no ill treatment or neglect could estrange.
Three months he was kept in jail, attended daily by his uncomplaining wife, who supported herself and little boy, with her own hands, sparing much for her husband's comfort. The wound had not proved very dangerous, and long before his trial came on, he was as well as ever.
The day of trial at length came, and Mrs. Warburton found that it required her strongest efforts to keep sufficiently composed to comprehend the true nature and bearing of all the legal proceedings. Never in her life before had she been in a court of justice, and the bare idea of being in that, to her awful, place, stunned at first all her perceptions; especially as she was there under circumstances of such deep and peculiar interest.
Next to her husband, in the bar, did this suffering woman take her place: and that husband arraigned before. his country's tribunal for the highest crime—murder! How little did she dream of such an awful situation, years before, when a gay, thoughtless, innocent girl, she gave up in maiden confidence, and with deep joy, her affections to that husband. Passing on step by step, in misery's paths, she had at last reached a point, the bare idea of which, had it been entertained as possible for a moment, would have almost extinguished life. Now, her deep interest in that husband who had abused her confidence, and almost extinguished hope in her bosom, kept her up, and enabled her to watch with unwavering attention every minute proceeding.
After the indictment was read, and the State's Attorney, in a comprehensive manner, had stated the distinct features of the case, which he pledged himself to prove by competent witnesses, poor Mrs. Warburton became sick and faint. A clearer case of deliberate murder could not, it seemed to her, be made out. Still, she was sure there must be palliating circumstances, and longed to be permitted to rise and state her impressions of the case. Once she did start to her feet, but a right consciousness returned before she had uttered a word. Shrinking into her seat again, she watched with a pale face and eager look, the course of the proceedings.
Witness after witness was called on the part of the state, each testifying distinctly the fact of Warburton's attack upon the murdered man, and his threat to take his life. Hope seemed utterly to fail from the heart of the poor wife, when the testimony on the part of the prosecution closed. But now came the time for the examination of witnesses in favour of the prisoner. Soon Mrs. Warburton was seen upon her feet, bending over towards the witness' stand, and eagerly devouring each word. Rapid changes would pass over her countenance, as she comprehended, with a woman's quickness of perception, rendered acute by strong interest, the bearing which the evidence would have upon the case. Now her eye would flash with interest and her face become flushed—and now her cheek would pale, and her form seem to shrink into half its dimensions. Oh! who can imagine one thousandth part of all her sufferings on that awful occasion? When, finally, the case was given to the jury, and after waiting hour after hour at the court-house, to hear the decision, she had to go home long after dark, in despair of knowing the result before morning, it seemed hardly possible that she could pass through that night and retain her senses. She did not sleep through the night's long watches—how could she sleep? Hours before the court assembled, she was at the court-house, waiting to know the fate of one, who now, in his fearful extremity, seemed dearer to her than ever. Slowly passed the lingering minutes, and at length ten o'clock came. The court-room was filled to suffocation, but through the dense crowd she made her way, and took her place beside her anxious husband. The court opened, and the foreman of the jury came forward to read the verdict. Many an eye sought with eager curiosity, or strong interest, the face of the wife. Its calmness was strange and awful. All anxiety, all deep interest had left it, and as she turned her eye upon the foreman, none could read the slightest exhibition of emotion. "GUILTY OF MURDER IN THE SECOND DEGREE!" Quick as thought a hundred eyes again sought the face of Mrs. Warburton. It was pale as ashes, and her insensible form was gently reclining upon the arm of her husband, which had been extended to save her from falling.
When recollection returned, she was lying upon her own bed, in her own chamber, with her little boy crying by her side. Those who had, from humane feelings, conveyed her home, suffered the dictates of humanity to die in their bosoms ere her consciousness returned; and thus she was left, insensible, with no companion but her child.
In due course, Warburton was sentenced to eight years imprisonment, the first three years to be passed in solitary confinement. During the first term, no person was to be allowed to visit him. The knowledge of such a sentence was a dreadful blow to Mrs. Warburton. She parted from him in the court-room, on the day of his sentence, and for three long, weary years, her eyes saw him not again.
But a short time after the imprisonment of Warburton, another babe came into the world to share the misery of her whose happiness he had, in all his actions, so little regarded. When able again to go about, and count up her store, Mrs. Warburton found that she had little left her beyond a willing heart to labour for her children. It would have been some comfort to her if she had been permitted to visit her husband, but this the law forbade.
"Despair is never quite despair," and once more in her life did Mrs. Warburton prove this. The certainty that there could be no further dependence upon her husband, led her to repose more confidently in her own resources, for a living, and they did not fail her. She had long since found out that our necessities cost much less than our superfluities, and therefore she did not sit down in idle despondency. Early in the morning and late at night was she found diligently employed, and though her compensation was not great, it was enough to supply her real wants.
For two years had she supported thus with her own hands herself and children. The oldest was now a smart little fellow of five years, and the youngest a fair-haired girl of some two summers. Thus far had she kept them around her; but sickness at last came. Nature could not always sustain the heavy demands made upon her, and at last sunk under them.
There are many more cases of extreme suffering in this country than persons are generally willing to believe. These extreme cases are among those whose peculiar feelings will not allow of their making known their real condition. They are such as were once members of some social circle, far removed indeed from the apparent chances of poverty. Their shrinking pride, their yearning desire for independence clings closer and closer to them, and operates more and more powerfully, as they sink lower and lower, from uncontrollable causes, into the vale of want and destitution. Beggars with no feelings, and no claims beyond those of idleness and intemperance, thrust themselves forward, and consume the bread of charity, that should go to nourish the widow and the orphan, who suffer daily and nightly, rather than ask for aid.
One to whom the idea of eating the bread of charity had ever been a painful and revolting one, was Mrs. Warburton. So long as she was able, she had earned with untiring industry, the food that nourished her children. But close confinement, insufficient nourishment, labour beyond her strength, and above all, a wounded spirit, at last completed the undermining work, which threw down the tottering and feeble health that had long kept her at her duties.
It was mid-winter when she was severely attacked by a bilious-pleurisy. For some weeks she had drooped about, hardly able to perform half her wonted labour—most of that time suffering from a hard cough and distressing pain in the side, which was augmented almost to agony while bending steadily, and for hours over her work. Taking, as it did, all that she could earn to keep herself and children in comfort during the winter, she had nothing laid up for a time of more pressing need; and, as for the last few weeks, she had earned so little as to have barely enough for necessaries, when helplessness came, she was in utter destitution, Her wood was just out, except a few hard, knotted logs; her flour was out, and her money gone. When she could no longer sit up, she sent her little boy for a physician, who bled her, and left her some powerful medicines. The first gave temporary relief, and the latter reduced her to a state of great bodily and mental weakness. He did not call in again until the second day, when he found the children both in bed with their mother, who was suffering greatly from a return of the pain in her side. The room was chilly, for there was no fire, and it was intensely cold without, and the ground covered with a deep snow. He again bled her, which produced immediate relief, and learning that she had no wood, called in at the next door, where lived a wealthy family, and stated the condition of their poor neighbour A child of six years old stood by his mother while the physician was speaking. The lady seemed much affected when told of the sufferings of the, poor woman, politely thanked the physician for making her acquainted with the fact, and promised immediate attention.
That evening there was to be at this house a large party. Extra servants had been employed that day, and all was bustle and preparation.
"Sarah," called the lady, a few minutes after, to her housekeeper—"Sarah, Dr. H—was here just now, and said that the poor woman who lives next door is sick and out of fuel. Tell John to take her in an armful of wood, and do you just step in and see what more she is in want of."
"Yes, ma'am," responds Sarah, and muttering to herself some dissatisfaction at the order, descends to the kitchen, and addresses a sable man-servant, and kind of doer-of-all-work-in-general, in doors and out,
"John, Mrs.—says you must take an armful of wood in to Mrs.
Warrington; I believe that is the woman's name who lives next door."
"Who? de woman whose husband in de (sic) Penetentiary?"
"Yes, that's the one, John."
"Don't love to meddle wid dem guess sort of folks, Miss Sarah. 'Druder not be gwine in dere," responds the black, with a broad grin at his own humour.
"Well, I don't care whether you do or not," responds Sarah, and glides swiftly away, satisfied to do one part of her order and forget the other, which related to her going in to see the poor woman herself. Mrs.—shifted off the duty on her housekeeper, and she contented herself by forgetting it.
Little William, who was present with his mother when the doctor called, was, like all children, a true republican, and had often played with the child of the sick woman. He had seen his little playmate but a few times since the cold weather set in; but had all his sympathies aroused, at the doctor's recital. Being rather more suspicious of the housekeeper than his mother, and no doubt for good reasons best known to himself, he followed on to the kitchen, and was an ear-witness to what passed between John and the sub-mistress of the mansion.
"Come, John, now that's a good fellow," said he to the negro, after the housekeeper had retired, "take in some wood to poor Mrs. Warburton."
"'Fraid, Massa Billy, 'deed. 'Fraid of (sic) penetentiary—ha! ha!! ha!!!"
"She can't help that, though, John. So come along, and take the wood in."
"'Fraid, i'deed, Massa Billy."
"Well, if you don't, I'll take it in myself, and dirty all my clothes, and then somebody will find it out, without my turning tell-tale."
John grinned a broad smile, and forthwith, finding himself outwitted, carried in the wood, and left it in the middle of the floor, without saying a word.
Towards evening, just before the company assembled, little William, not at all disposed to forget, as every one else had done, the poor sufferers next door, went to the housekeeper's room, where she was busy as a bee with preparations for the party, and stationed himself in the door, accosted her with—
"Miss Sarah, have you been in to see Mrs. Warburton, as ma told you, to-day?"
"That's no concern of yours, Mr. Inquisitive."
"But I'd just like to know, Miss Sarah; 'cause I'm going in myself, if you hav'nt been."
"Do you suppose that I have not paid attention to what your ma said?
I know my own business, without instruction from you."
"Well, I don't believe you've been in, so I don't, that's all; and if you don't say yes or no at once, why, you see, I'll go right in myself."
"Well (coaxingly) never mind, Billy, I haint been in, I've been so busy; but just wait a little bit, and I'll go There's no use of your going; you can't do nothing."
"I know that, Miss Sarah, and that's why I want you to go in. But if you don't go in, I will, so there, now!"
"Well, just wait a little bit, and I'll go."
The child, but half satisfied, slowly went away, but lingered about the passages to watch the housekeeper. Night, however, came on, and he had not seen her going. All were now busy lighting up, and making the more immediate and active preparations for the reception of company, when he met her in the hall, and to his, "Look here, I say, Miss Sarah," she hurried past him unheeding.
The company at last assembled, and the hours had passed away until it was nine o'clock. Without, all was cold, bleak, and cheerless. Within, there was the perfection of comfort.
Little William had been absent for some time, but no one missed him. Just as a large company were engaged in the various ways of passing time, dancing, chatting, and partaking of refreshments, the room door opened, and in came Master Billy, dragging in by the hand, a little barefoot fellow about his own age, with nothing on but a clean, well-patched shirt, and a pair of linen trowsers. Without heeding the company, he pulled him up to the glowing grate, and in the fulness of his young benevolent heart, cried out,
"Here's fire, Charley! Warm yourself, old fellow! Hurrah! I guess I've fixed Miss Sarah now." And the little fellow clapped his hands as innocently and as gracefully, as if there had been no one in the room but himself and Charley.
All was agreeable and curious confusion in a few minutes, and scores crowded around the poor child with a lively interest, who, an hour before would have passed him in the street unnoticed.
"Why, Willy! what does all this mean?" exclaimed the father, after something like order had been restored.
"Why, pa, you see, this is Charley Warburton," began the little fellow, holding the astonished Charley by the hand, and presenting him quite ceremoniously to his father. "Doctor H—came here to-day, and told ma that his mother was sick next door, and that they had no wood. So ma tells Sarah to send John in with some wood, and to go in herself and see if they wanted anything. So Sarah goes and tells John to go and take some wood in. But John he wa'nt going to go, till I told him that if he didn't go I would, and if I went to carrying in wood, I'd dirty all my clothes, and then somebody would want to know the reason. So John he carried in some wood. Then I watched Sarah, but she didn't go in. So I told her about it. And then she promised, but didn't go. I told her again, and she promised, but didn't go. I waited and waited until night, and still Sarah didn't go in. Then you see, awhile ago I slipped out the front door, and tried to go in to Mrs. Warburton's. But it was all so dark there, that I couldn't see anybody; and when I called 'Charley,' here, his mother said, softly, 'who's there,' and I said 'it's only little Willy. Ma wants to know if you don't want nothing.' 'Oh, it's little Willy—it's little Willy!' says Charley, and he jumps on the floor, and then we both came in here. O! it's so dark and cold in there—do pa go in, and make John build them a fire."
During the child's innocent but feeling recital, more than one eye filled with tears. Mrs.—hung down her head for a moment, in silent upbraidings of heart, for having consigned a work of charity to neglectful and unfeeling servants. Then taking her child in her arms, she hugged him to her bosom, and said,
"Bless you, bless you, my boy! That innocent heart has taught your mother a lesson she will not soon forget." The father felt prouder of his son than he had ever felt, and there were few present who did not almost wish him their own. Little Charley was asked by Mr.—if he was hungry, on observing him wistfully eyeing a piece of cake.
"We haint had nothin' to eat all day, sir, none of us."
"And why not, my little man?" asked Mr.—in a voice of assumed calmness.
"'Cause, sir, we haint got nothin' to eat in the house. Mother always had good things for us till she got sick, and now we are all hungry, and haint got nothin' to eat."
"Here, Sarah, (to the housekeeper, who came in at the moment)—no, not you, either—do you, Emma, (to his wife,) give this hungry child some nourishing food with your own hands. He has a claim on you, for the sake of our little Willy."
Mrs.—was not slow in relieving Charley's wants and then, after excusing herself to the company, she visited, with John and Sarah, the humble, uncomplaining child of humanity, who had been suffering, so painfully, in the next house to her comfortable dwelling.
The light carried by John revealed, in the middle of the floor, the armful of wood, in large logs, almost impossible to kindle, which the servant had thrown down there without a word, or an offer to make a fire. Mrs.—'s heart smote her when she saw this evidence of her neglect of true charity. Enveloped in the bed-clothes, she found Mrs. Warburton and her little child, the former suffering from pain and fever, and the latter asleep, with tears glistening on her eyelashes. The room was so cold that it sent chills all over her, as she had come in without throwing a shawl around her shoulders.
"I am sorry to find you so sick, and everything around you so cold and comfortless," she said, addressing Mrs. Warburton.
"I don't feel so very sick, ma'am, only when I try to sit up, I grow so faint, and have to lie down again. If my little things had anything to eat, I wouldn't mind it much."
Just then, aroused by the voice of her mother, the little girl awoke, and began moaning and crying. She could not speak plain, and her "bed and mik, mamma"—"O, mamma, bed and mik," thrilled every heart-string of Mrs.—, who had never before in her life witnessed the keen distress of a mother while her child asked in vain for bread. She drew the child out of bed, and kissing it, handed it to Sarah, whose feelings were also touched, and told her to take the little thing into her house, and give it to the nurse, with directions to feed it, and then come back.
By this time, John, rather more active than usual, had kindled a fire, the genial warmth of which began already to soften the keen air of the room. Some warm drinks were prepared for Mrs. Warburton; and Mrs.—had the satisfaction to see her, in the course of half an hour, sink away into a sweet and refreshing slumber. On glancing around the room, she was gratified, and somewhat surprised, to see everything, though plain and scanty, exhibiting the utmost order and cleanliness. The uncarpeted floor was spotless, and the single pine table as white as hands could make it. "How much am I to blame," was her inward thought, "for having so neglected this poor woman in her distress and in her poverty!"
On returning to her company, and giving a history of the scene she had just witnessed, the general feeling of sympathy prompted immediate measures for relief, and a very handsome sum was placed in the hands of Mrs.—, by the gentlemen and ladies present, for the use of Mrs. Warburton. Rarely does a social company retire with each individual of it so satisfied in heart as did the company assembled at Mrs.—'s, on that evening. Truly could they say, "It is more blessed to give than to receive."
The incident just related, possessing a kind of romantic interest, soon became noised about from family to family, and for awhile it was fashionable to minister to the wants of Mrs. Warburton—whose health continued very delicate—and to her young family. But a few months passed away, and then one after another ceased to remember or care for her. Even Mrs.—, the mother of little Billy, began to grow weary of charity long continued, and to feel that it was a burdensome task to be every day or two obliged to call in or inquire after the poor invalid. Finally, she dismissed the subject from her mind, and left Mrs. Warburton to the tender mercies of Sarah, the housekeeper.