Watertown Republican

WINE'S WORK

"Promise me, Charlie!"

She was leaning playfully over the back of his chair, looking down into his face. By "she" I mean Mrs. Gale, and "Charlie" was her husband. He had just settled himself for a quiet after-dinner cigar. But Mrs. Gale had mischievously snatched it from his hand, threatening to withhold it until he gave her the desired promise. And now she laid one hand caressingly on his forehead, and stealing the other under his chin she looked archly yet half earnestly down into the dark deeps of his eye, with her tender blue eyes, as she repeated: "Promise me, Charlie. Now do: that's a dear!"

"Nonsense, Virginia!"—And he tried to put away her hand.

"Oh, Charlie!" reproachfully.

"Pshaw, do let me go. You'll choke me," he said, half impatiently.

"And so I will," she cried, merrily, "if you don't promise me, this very minute, not to drink anything stronger than pure, cold water at Uncle Logan's party to-night."

"Yes, yes, yes! There, now, I hope I've promised often enough to satisfy you."

"On your honor?"

"Certainly. Yes, of course!"

"Oh, sir, I thought I could bring you to terms. Recollect, you have said on your honor."

And then, while her face grew earnest in its pleasing expression, she added: "Oh, Charlie, you don't know how anxious I have felt about this party ever since we decided to go. They always have such a gay time at Uncle Logan's. And you know, dear, though you would not do a wrong thing yourself, how easy it is for your companions to make you go too far, because you are such a dear, good-natured fellow. But now that you have promised me, I feel quite easy. And, dear, don't forget when the young men begin to get too gay, come up stairs to me and baby."

And he promised.

Going out to an evening party at Uncle Logan's was no small affair, considering that it was a good five-mile ride from Glendale, out into the country, over rough roads, with Maple river swollen by recent rains to be crossed. For this was in a remote and secluded part of England, distant from any railroad, and no town near where a vehicle might be obtained. Besides, Virginia Gale was a first-rate horsewoman, and feared nothing on that account. That she was thus rather rash and foolhardy, will appear from the fact that she had resolved to encumber herself with a burden, though of a very interesting kind.

Lights were glimmering from the windows as they rode up to Uncle Logan's gate and the number of horses and vehicles already congregated around it showed that the invited guests of the Christmas eve party, were already beginning to drop in. Aunt Lizzie came out to the door to meet them, and took the sleeping babe from Virgie's poor, tired arms.

"Remember, Charlie," she said imploringly, laying her hand on his shoulder, as they were on the point of separating—she, for Aunt Lizzie's comfortable room above stairs—he, for the society of his boon companions.

"Never fear me!" and he went gaily away.

Alas! for the promise made to the fond, credulous wife, sitting up stairs in the quiet matronly circle, with her babe on her knee, so proud and happy—for it was her first child. And what young mother ever failed to appreciate the dignity of her position at such a time?

In less than half an hour Charles Gale had forgotten his promise, wife, child, everything; and again and again his glass was filled, and his voice raised in riotous chorus with the loudest.

The night waned and the guests began to disperse. Virgie in the dressing room all ready for a ride, holding in her lap what seemed to be a huge bundle of shawls, but which was in reality little Charlie, who curled up in his warm nest, fast asleep, with one little fat thumb in his mouth.

"I wonder what makes Charlie so late," she said, at last, impatiently.

"Aunt Lizzie, will you please send for him, and say I'm waiting!"

He came at length. But the first word he spoke told her all. She knew at once he was intoxicated, though to others only a very slight excitement was all that appeared unusual about him.

Oh! the shame! She hardly dared speak to him. All her thought was to get him away before he betrayed his condition to other eyes.

"Give me the child," he said.

And as she did so, she felt that his arm was unsteady.

"Oh! I dare not trust the baby with him," was her thought, but she was silent.

She could not bear that those around should know the mortifying truth.

"I do wish you would stay all night, Virgie," spoke Aunt Lizzie, renewing her entreaties. "It is so late and it is growing colder.

Virgie thought of the dreary five miles ride with a drunken husband and then the river! She had refused to stay, but now she thought better of it.

"What do you think of it, Charles? Hadn't we better stay?" she asked, persuasively.

But liquor made him sullen.

"No, we must go home," he said surlily.

She knew it would avail nothing to argue the matter with him, but only lead him to a painful exposure, so she commenced paying her adieux.

By dint of gentle coaxing she induced him to give the babe to her before they started.

As they rode away Uncle Logan shouted out to them:

"Look out for the river!"

Virgie's heart was too heavy for a reply; but Charles shouted back with maudlin cheerfulness:

"All right!"

As they rode on she saw that he was sinking into a drunken stupor. Oh, if they were only safe at home how glad she would be. And then she thought of the river yet to be forded, and every breath was a prayer. She determined not to let him have the child when they were crossing, but to trust to her own arm and courage to carry herself and the babe through. She hoped he would not think to ask her for the child, and was nerving herself for a refusal in case he should, when they came in sight of the water.

The moon shone down, making it almost as bright as day. Virgie thanked heaven for that! But she shuddered as the sweep of the water fell on her ear: and she saw it foaming white in the moonlight, as it swept on in a strong current.

Charles roused himself.

"Where's the boy?" he asked.

"Never mind, dear! He's asleep, and I don't like to disturb him. I can carry him over. I'm strong enough for it."

"What is the woman thinking of? You carry him over, indeed! Give him to me."

"But, Charles, you are not in a condition to hold him. I shall be thankful if you can guide your horse over safely, as you are."

"Ha! What do you mean by that?"

She made him no answer.

"Do you take me for a fool?" he said roughly and angrily.

"Now, Charles, don't do so! You know your arm is very unsteady, just now. It is, indeed!"

"Ah, I understand you now. So, madam, I suppose you think I'm drunk?"

Again she was silent.

"Give me the child!" he said fiercely.

"O, Charles! For God's sake—"

"Give him to me, I say! Do you think to brave me so? Give him to me this minute."

Resistance, she knew, was useless. It would only serve to infuriate him, and what will not a drunken man do?

Uncovering the little sleeping face, she kissed it once—then drawing the thick shawl which enveloped the little figure, she covered the face again, and gave him into her husband's arms.

"Charles, for the love of heaven be careful!"

"Don't be a fool!"

So they plunged in, and she did not take her eyes from the other two until they had nearly reached the opposite bank. Then her horse stepped on a stone, and, slipping, nearly precipitated her into the water. When her attention was again free they had reached the opposite bank.

"There he is!" said Charlie, triumphantly, as he placed the bundle in her arms.

"What a simpleton you are to think I couldn't bring him over safely."

How very light it was! Good heaven! She moved it about in her arms, pressed it closer, and then uttered an awful shriek.

"My child! My little child! My Charlie! O, my child!"

Both turned simultaneously back to the water. The quick eye of the mother was just in time to catch one last brief glimpse of a little, rosy, pitiful, upturned face—and then it disappeared down the current, and the rapid water flowed on!

In his drunken unconsciousness Charles had let the sleeping infant drop out of the shawls, and nothing could be heard above the noise of the waters. He did not know it till the mother screamed.

There was no help! Oh! it was pitiful, heartbreaking!

Poor, young mother!

The home of the Gales is very still now. Virgie's pale face seems paler yet, from contrast with her black dress. The cradle looks so desolate, standing always back in one corner of the nursery. She never passes it without having her heart wrung anew; and she will sit for hours folding and unfolding the little clothes, and her hands linger lovingly among them. There is a pair of tiny, worn shoes in the drawer of her work-table, and a lock of fair, soft baby hair in the great bible.

Let us hope that Charles Gale is a better man.