Ten nights in a bar-room and what I saw there/Night the Fourth
NIGHT THE FOURTH.
DEATH OF LITTLE MARY MORGAN.
"WHERE are you going, Ann?" It was the landlord's voice. Time—a little after dark.
"I'm going over to see Mrs. Morgan," answered his wife.
"What for?"
"I wish to go," was replied.
"Well, I don't wish you to go," said Slade, in a very decided way.
"I can't help that, Simon. Mary, I'm told, is dying, and Joe is in a dreadful way. I'm needed there—and so are you, as to that matter. There was a time when, if word came to you that Morgan or his family were in trouble———"
"Do hush, will you!" exclaimed the landlord, angrily. "I won't be preached to in this way any longer."
"Oh, well; then don't interfere with my movements, Simon; that's all I have to say. I'm needed over there, as I just said, and I'm going."
There were considerable odds against him, and Slade, perceiving this, turned off, mutter ing something that his wife did not hear, and she went on her way. A hurried walk brought her to the wretched home of the poor drunkard, whose wife met her at the door.
"How is Mary?" was the visitor's earnest inquiry.
Mrs. Morgan tried to answer the question; but, though her lips moved, no sounds issued therefrom.
Mrs. Slade pressed her hands tightly in both of hers; and then passed in with her to the room where the child lay. A glance sufficed to tell Mrs. Slade that death had already laid his icy fingers upon her brow.
"How are you, dear?" she asked, as she bent over and kissed her.
"Better, I thank you!" replied Mary, in a low whisper.
Then she fixed her eyes upon her mother's face with a look of inquiry.
"What is it, love?"
"Hasn't father waked up yet?"
"No, dear."
"Won't he wake up soon?"
"He's sleeping very soundly. I wouldn't like to disturb him."
"Oh, no; don't disturb him. I thought, maybe, he was awake."
And the child's lids drooped languidly, until the long lashes lay close against her cheeks.
There was silence for a little while, and then Mrs. Morgan said in a half-whisper to Mrs. Slade:
"Oh, we've had such a dreadful time with poor Joe. He got in that terrible way again last night. I had to go for Doctor Green and leave him all alone. When I came back, he was in bed with Mary; and she, dear child! had her arms around his neck, and was trying to comfort him; and would you believe it, he went off to sleep, and slept in that way for a long time. The doctor came, and when he saw how it was, left some medicine for him, and went away. I was in such hopes that he would sleep it all off. But about twelve o'clock he started up, and sprung out of bed with an awful scream.
Poor Mary! she too had fallen asleep. The cry wakened her, and frightened her dreadfully. She's been getting worse ever since, Mrs. Slade.
"Just as he was rushing out of the room, I caught him by the arm, and it took all my strength to hold him.
"'Father! father!' Mary called after him, as soon as she was awake enough to understand what was the matter—'Don't go out, father; there's nothing here.'
"He looked back toward the bed, in a frightful way.
"'See, father!' and the dear child turned down the quilt and sheet, in order to convince him that nothing was in the bed. 'I'm here,' she added. 'I'm not afraid. Come, father. If there's nothing here to hurt me, there's nothing to hurt you.'
"There was something so assuring in this, that Joe took a step or two toward the bed, looking sharply into it as he did so. From the bed his eyes wandered up to the ceiling, and the old look of terror came into his face.
"'There it is now! Jump out of bed, quick! Jump out, Mary!' he cried. 'See! it's right over your head.'
"Mary showed no sign of fear as she lifted her eyes to the ceiling, and gazed steadily for a few moments in that direction.
"'There's nothing there, father,' said she, in a confident voice.
"'It's gone now,' Joe spoke in a tone of 
"There it is now! Jump! Out of bed, quick! Jump out, Mary! See! it's right over your head!"
"'Here, father! Here!' Mary called to him, and he sprung into the bed again; while she gathered her arms about him tightly, saying in a low, soothing voice, 'Nothing can harm you here, father.'
"Without a moment's delay, I gave him the morphine left by Doctor Green. He took it eagerly, and then crouched down in the bed, while Mary continued to assure him of perfect safety. So long as he was clearly conscious as to where he was, he remained perfectly still. But, as soon as partial slumber came, he would scream out, and spring from the bed in terror and then it would take us several minutes to quiet him again. Six times during the night did this occur; and as often, Mary coaxed him back. The morphine I continued to give as the doctor had directed. By morning, the opiates had done their work, and he was sleeping soundly. When the doctor came, we removed him to his own bed. He is still asleep; and I begin to feel uneasy, lest he should never awake again. I have heard of this happening."
"See if father isn't awake," said Mary, raising her head from the pillow. She had not heard what passed between her mother and Mrs. Slade, for the conversation was carried on in low voices.
Mrs. Morgan stepped to the door, and looked into the room where her husband lay.
"He is still asleep, dear," she remarked, coming back to the bed.
"Oh! I wish he was awake. I want to see him so much. Won't you call him, mother?"
"I have called him a good many times. But you know the doctor gave him opium. He can't wake up yet."
"He's been sleeping a very long time; don't you think so, mother?"
"Yes, dear, it does seem a long time. But it is best for him. He'll be better when he wakes."
Mary closed her eyes, wearily. How deathly white was her face—how sunken her eyes—how sharply contracted her features!
"I've given her up, Mrs. Slade," said Mrs. Morgan, in a low, rough, choking whisper, as she leaned nearer to her friend. "I've given her up! The worst is over; but, oh! it seemed as though my heart would break in the struggle. Dear child! In all the darkness of my way, she has helped and comforted me. Without her, it would have been the blackness of darkness."
"Father! father!" The voice of Mary broke out with a startling quickness. Mrs. Morgan turned to the bed, and laying her hand on Mary's arm said:
"He's still sound asleep, dear."
"No, he isn't, mother. I heard him move. Won't you go in and see if he is awake?"
In order to satisfy the child, her mother left the room. To her surprise, she met the eyes of her husband as she entered the chamber where he lay. He looked at her calmly.
"What does Mary want with me?" he asked.
"She wishes to see you. She's called you so many, many times. Shall I bring her in here?"
"No. I'll get up and dress myself."
"I wouldn't do that. You've been sick."
"Oh, no. I don't feel sick."
"Father! father!" The clear, earnest voice of Mary was heard calling.
"I'm coming, dear," answered Morgan.
"Come quick, father, won't you?"
"Yes, love."
And Morgan got up and dressed himself—but with unsteady hands, and every sign of nervous prostration. In a little while, with the assistance of his wife, he was ready, and supported by her, came tottering in to the room where Mary was lying.
"Oh, father!"—What a light broke over her countenance.—"I've been waiting for you so long. I thought you were never going to wake up. Kiss me, father."
"What can I do for you, Mary?" asked Morgan, tenderly, as he laid his face down upon the pillow beside her.
"Nothing, father. I don't wish for anything. I only wanted to see you."
"I'm here, now, love."
"Dear father!" How earnestly, yet tenderly she spoke, laying her small hand upon his face. "You've always been good to me, father."
"Oh, no. I've never been good to anybody," sobbed the weak, broken-spirited man, as he raised himself from the pillow.
How deeply touched was Mrs. Slade, as she sat, the silent witness of this scene! "You haven't been good to yourself, father—but you've always been good to us."
"Don't, Mary! don't say anything about that," interrupted Morgan. "Say that I've been very bad—very wicked. Oh, Mary, dear! I only wish that I was as good as you are; I'd like to die, then, and go right away from this evil world. I wish there was no liquor to drink—no taverns—no bar-rooms. Oh dear! Oh dear! I wish I was dead."
And the weak, trembling, half-palsied man laid his face again upon the pillow beside his child, and sobbed aloud.
What an oppressive silence reigned for a time through the room!
"Father." The stillness was broken by Mary. Her voice was clear and even. "Father, I want to tell you something."
"What is it, Mary?"
"There'll be nobody to go for you, father."
The child's lips now quivered, and tears filled into her eyes.
"Don't talk about that, Mary. I'm not going out in the evening any more until you get well. Don't you remember I promised?"
"But, father"—She hesitated.
"What, dear?"
"I'm going away to leave you and mother."
"Oh, no—no—no, Mary! Don't say that."—The poor man's voice was broken.—"Don't say that! We can't let you go, dear."
"God has called me." The child's voice had a solemn tone, and her eyes turned reverently upward.
"I wish he would call me! Oh, I wish he would call me!" groaned Morgan, hiding his face in his hands. "What shall I do when you are gone? Oh, dear! Oh, dear!"
"Father!" Mary spoke calmly again. "You are not ready to go yet. God will let you live here longer, that you may get ready."
"How can I get ready without you to help me, Mary? My angel child!"
"Haven't I tried to help you, father, oh, so many times?" said Mary.
"Yes—yes—you've always tried."
"But it wasn't any use. You would go out—you would go to the tavern. It seemed almost as if you couldn't help it."
Morgan groaned in spirit.
"Maybe I can help you better, father, after I die. I love you so much, that I am sure God will let me come to you, and stay with you always, and be your angel. Don't you think he will, mother?"
But Mrs. Morgan's heart was too full. She did not even try to answer, but sat, with stream ing eyes, gazing upon her child's face.
"Father, I dreamed something about you, while I slept to-day." Mary again turned to her father.
"What was it, dear?"
"I thought it was night, and that I was still sick. You promised not to go out again until I was well. But you did go out; and I thought you went over to Mr. Slade's tavern. When I knew this, I felt as strong as when I was well, and I got up and dressed myself, and started out after you. But I hadn't gone far, before I met Mr. Slade's great bull-dog, Nero, and he growled at me so dreadfully that I was frightened and ran back home. Then I started again, and went away round by Mr. Mason's. But there was Nero in the road, and this time he caught my dress in his mouth and tore a great piece out of the skirt. I ran back again, and he chased me all the way home. Just as I got to the door, I looked around, and there was Mr. Slade, setting Nero on me. As soon as I saw Mr. Slade, though he looked at me very wicked, I lost all my fear, and turning around, I walked past Nero, who showed his teeth, and growled as fiercely as ever, but didn't touch me. Then Mr. Slade tried to stop me. But I didn't mind him, and kept right on, until I came to the tavern, and there you stood in the door. And you were dressed so nice. You had on a new hat and a new coat; and your boots were new, and polished just like Judge Hammond's. I said: 'O father! is this you?' And then you took me up in your arms and kissed me, and said: 'Yes, Mary, I am your real father. Not old Joe Morgan—but Mr. Morgan now.' It seemed all so strange, that I looked into the bar-room to see who was there. But it wasn't a bar-room any longer; but a store full of goods. The sign of the Sickle and Sheaf was taken down; and over the door I now read your name, father. Oh! I was so glad, that I awoke—and then I cried all to myself, for it was only a dream."
The last words were said very mournfully, and with a drooping of Mary's lids, until the tear-gemmed lashes lay close upon her cheeks. Another period of deep silence followed—for the oppressed listeners gave no utterance to what was in their hearts. Feeling was too strong for speech. Nearly five minutes glided away, and then Mary whispered the name of her father, but without opening her eyes.
Morgan answered, and bent down his ear.
"You will only have mother left," she said —"only mother. And she cries so much when you are away."
"I won't leave her, Mary, only when I go to work," said Morgan, whispering back to the child. "And I'll never go out at night any more."
"Yes; you promised me that."
"And I'll promise more."
"What, father?"
"Never to go into a tavern again."
"Never!"
"No, never. And I'll promise still more."
"Father?"
"Never to drink a drop of liquor as long as I live."
"Oh, father! dear, dear father!" And with a cry of joy Mary started up and flung herself upon his breast. Morgan drew his arms tightly around her, and sat for a long time, with his lips pressed to her cheek—while she lay against his bosom as still as death. As death? Yes; for, when the father unclasped his arms, the spirit of his child was with the angels of the resurrection!
It was my fourth evening in the bar-room of the "Sickle and Sheaf." The company was not large, nor in very gay spirits. All had heard of little Mary's illness; which followed so quickly on the blow from the tumbler, that none hesitated about connecting the one with the other. So regular had been the child's visits, and so gently exerted, yet powerful, her influence over her father, that most of the frequenters at the "Sickle and Sheaf" had felt for her a more than common interest; which the cruel treatment she received, and the subsequent illness, materially heightened.
"Joe Morgan hasn't turned up this evening," remarked some one.
"And isn't likely to for a while," was answered.
"Why not?" inquired the first speaker.
"They say, the man with the poker is after him."
"Oh, dear! that's dreadful. It's the second or third chase, isn't it?"
"Yes."
"He'll be likely to catch him this time."
"I shouldn't wonder."
"Poor devil! It won't be much matter. His family will be a great deal better without him."
"It will be a blessing to them if he dies."
"Miserable, drunken wretch!" muttered Harvey Green, who was present. "He's only in the way of everybody. The sooner he's off, the better."
The landlord said nothing.
He stood leaning across the bar, looking more sober than usual.
"That was rather an unlucky affair of yours, Simon. They say the child is going to die."
"Who says so?" Slade started, scowled, and threw a quick glance upon the speaker.
"Doctor Green."
"Nonsense! Doctor Green never said any such thing."
"Yes, he did, though."
"Who heard him?"
"I did."
"You did?"
"Yes."
"He wasn't in earnest?"
A slight paleness overspread the countenance of the landlord.
"He was, though. They had an awful time there last night."
"Where?"
"At Joe Morgan's. Joe has the mania, and Mrs. Morgan was alone with him and her sick girl all night."
"He deserves to have it; that's all I've got to say." Slade tried to speak with a kind of rough indifference.
"That's pretty hard talk," said one of the company.
"I don't care if it is. It's the truth. What else could he expect?"
"A man like Joe is to be pitied," remarked the other.
"I pity his family," said Slade.
"Especially little Mary." The words were uttered tauntingly, and produced murmurs of satisfaction throughout the room.
Slade started back from where he stood, in an impatient manner, saying something that I did not hear.
"Look here, Simon, I heard some strong suggestions over at Lawyer Phillip's office today."
Slade turned his eyes upon the speaker.
"If that child should die, you'll probably have to stand a trial for manslaughter."
"No—girl-slaughter," said Harvey Green, with a cold, inhuman chuckle.
"But, I'm in earnest," said the other. "Mr. Phillips said that a case could be made out of it."
"It was only an accident, and all the lawyers in Christendom can't make anything more of it," remarked Green, taking the side of the landlord, and speaking with more gravity than before.
"Hardly an accident," was replied.
"He didn't throw at the girl."
"No matter. He threw a heavy tumbler at her father's head. The intention was to do an injury; and the law will not stop to make any nice discriminations in regard to the individual upon whom the injury was wrought. Moreover, who is prepared to say that he didn't aim at the girl?"
"Any man who intimates such a thing is a cursed liar!" exclaimed the landlord, half maddened by the suggestion.
"I won't throw a tumbler at your head," coolly remarked the individual whose plain speaking had so irritated Simon Slade. "Throwing tumblers I never thought a very creditable kind of argument—though with some men, when cornered, it is a favorite mode of settling a question. Now, as for our friend the landlord, I am sorry to say that his new business doesn't seem to have improved either his manners or his temper a great deal. As a miller, he was one of the best-tempered men in the world, and wouldn't have harmed a kitten. But, now, he can swear, and bluster, and throw glasses at people's heads, and all that sort of thing, with the best of brawling rowdies. I'm afraid he's taking lessons in a bad school—I am."
"I don't think you have any right to insult a man in his own house," answered Slade, in a voice dropped to a lower key than the one in which he had before spoken.
"I had no intention to insult you," said the other.
"I was only speaking suppositiously, and in view of your position on a trial for manslaughter, when I suggested that no one could prove, or say that you didn't mean to strike little Mary, when you threw the tumbler."
"Well, I didn't mean to strike her: and I don't believe there is a man in this bar-room who thinks that I did—not one."
"I'm sure I do not," said the individual with whom he was in controversy. "Nor I"—"Nor I"—went round the room.
"But, as I wished to set forth," was continued, "the case will not be so plain a one when it finds its way into court, and twelve men, to each of whom you may be a stranger, come to sit in judgment upon the act. The slightest twist in the evidence, the prepossessions of a witness, or the bad tact of the prosecution, may cause things to look so dark on your side as to leave you but little chance. For my part, if the child should die, I think your chances for a term in the state's prison are as eight to ten; and I should call that pretty close cutting."
I looked attentively at the man who said this, all the while he was speaking, but could not clearly make out whether he were altogether in earnest, or merely trying to worry the mind of Slade. That he was successful in accomplishing the latter, was very plain; for the landlord's countenance steadily lost color, and became overcast with alarm. With that evil delight which some men take in giving pain, others, seeing Slade's anxious looks, joined in the persecution, and soon made the landlord's case look black enough; and the landlord himself almost as frightened as a criminal just under arrest.
"It's bad business, and no mistake," said one.
"Yes, bad enough. I wouldn't be in his shoes for his coat," remarked another.
"For his coat? No, not for his whole wardrobe," said a third.
"Nor for the Sickle and Sheaf thrown into the bargain," added a fourth.
"It will be a clear case of manslaughter, and no mistake. What is the penalty?"
"From two to ten years in the penitentiary," was readily answered.
"They'll give him five, I reckon."
"No—not more than two. It will be hard to prove malicious intention."
"I don't know that. I've heard him curse the girl and threaten her many a time. Haven't you?"
"Yes"—"Yes"—"I have, often," ran around the bar-room.
"You'd better hang me at once," said Slade, affecting to laugh.
At this moment, the door behind Slade opened, and I saw his wife's anxious face thrust in for a moment. She said something to her husband, who uttered a low ejaculation of surprise, and went out quickly.
"What's the matter now?" asked one of another.
"I shouldn't wonder if little Mary Morgan was dead," was suggested.
"I heard her say dead," remarked one who was standing near the bar.
"What's the matter, Frank?" inquired several voices, as the landlord's son came in through the door out of which his father had passed.
"Mary Morgan is dead," answered the boy.
"Poor child! Poor child!" sighed one, in genuine regret at the not unlooked for intelligence. "Her trouble is over."
And there was not one present, but Harvey Green, who did not utter some word of pity or sympathy. He shrugged his shoulders, and looked as much of contempt and indifference as he thought it prudent to express.
"See here, boys," spoke out one of the company, "can't we do something for poor Mrs. Morgan? Can't we make up a purse for her?"
"That's it," was quickly responded; "I'm good for three dollars; and there they are," drawing out the money and laying it upon the counter.
"And here are five to go with them," said I, quickly stepping forward, and placing a five-dollar bill alongside of the first contribution. "Here are five more," added a third individual. And so it went on, until thirty dollars were paid down for the benefit of Mrs. Morgan.
"Into whose hands shall this be placed?" was next asked.
"Let me suggest Mrs. Slade," said I. "To my certain knowledge, she has been with Mrs. Morgan to-night. I know that she feels in her a true woman's interest."
"Just the person," was answered. "Frank, tell your mother we would like to see her. Ask her to step into the sitting-room."
In a few moments the boy came back, and said that his mother would see us in the next room, into which we all passed. Mrs. Slade stood near the table, on which burned a lamp. I noticed that her eyes were red, and that there was on her countenance a troubled and sorrowful expression.
"We have just heard," said one of the company, that little Mary Morgan is dead."
"Yes—it is too true," answered Mrs. Slade, mournfully. "I have just left there. Poor child! she has passed from an evil world."
"Evil it has indeed been to her," was remarked.
"You may well say that. And yet, amid all the evil, she has been an angel of mercy. Her last thought in dying was of her miserable father. For him, at any time, she would have laid down her life willingly."
"Her mother must be nearly broken-hearted. Mary is the last of her children."
"And yet the child's death may prove a blessing to her."
"How so?"
"Her father promised Mary, just at the last moment—solemnly promised her—that, henceforth, he would never taste liquor. That was all her trouble. That was the thorn in her dying pillow. But he plucked it out, and she went to sleep, lying against his heart. Oh, gentlemen! it was the most touching sight I ever saw."
All present seemed deeply moved.
"They are very poor and wretched," was said.
"Poor and miserable enough," answered Mrs. Slade.
"We have just been taking up a collection for Mrs. Morgan. Here is the money, Mrs. Slade—thirty dollars—we place it in your hands for her benefit. Do with it, for her, as you may see best."
"Oh, gentlemen!" What a quick gleam went over the face of Mrs. Slade. "I thank you, from my heart, in the name of that unhappy one, for this act of true benevolence. To you the sacrifice has been small; to her the benefit will be great indeed. A new life will, I trust, be commenced by her husband, and this timely aid will be something to rest upon, until he can get into better employment than he now has. Oh, gentlemen! let me urge on you, one and all, to make common cause in favor of Joe Morgan. His purposes are good now; he means to keep his promise to his dying child—means to reform his life. Let the good impulses that led to this act of relief further prompt you to watch over him, and, if you see him about going astray, to lead him kindly back into the right path. Never—oh! never encourage him to drink; but rather take the glass from his hand, if his own appetite lead him aside, and by all the persuasive influence you possess, induce him to go out from the place of temptation.
"Pardon my boldness in saying so much." added Mrs. Slade, recollecting herself, and coloring deeply as she did so. "My feelings have led me away."
And she took the money from the table where it had been placed, and retired toward the door.
"You have spoken well, madam," was answered. "And we thank you for reminding us of our duty."
"One word more—and forgive the earnest heart from which it comes"—said Mrs. Slade, in a voice that trembled on the words she uttered. "I cannot help speaking, gentlemen! Think if some of you be not entering the road wherein Joe Morgan has so long been walking. Save him, in heaven's name!—but see that ye do not yourselves become cast-aways!"
As she said this, she glided through the door, and it closed after her.
"I don't know what her husband would say to that," was remarked after a few moments of surprised silence.
"I don't care what he would say; but I'll tell you what I will say," spoke out a man whom I had several times noticed as rather a free tippler. "The old lady has given us capital advice, and I mean to take it, for one. I'm going to try to save Joe Morgan, and—myself too. I've already entered the road she referred to; but I'm going to turn back. So good-night to you all; and if Simon Slade gets no more of my sixpences, he may thank his wife for it—God bless her?"
And the man drew his hat with a jerk over his forehead, and left immediately.
This seemed the signal for dispersion, and all retired—not by way of the bar-room, but out into the hall, and through the door leading upon the porch that ran along in front of the house. Soon after the bar was closed, and a dead silence reigned throughout the house. I saw no more of Slade that night. Early in the morning, I left Cedarville; the landlord looked very sober when he bade me good-by through the stage-door, and wished me a pleasant journey.