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The Two Homes
by
“There’s been a shameful waste somewhere,” said Mr. Walcott with strong emphasis, starting up, and moving about the room with a very disturbed manner.
“So you always say, when anything is out,” answered Mrs. Walcott rather tartly. “The barrel of flour is gone also; but I suppose you have done your part, with the rest, in using it up.”
Mr. Walcott returned to his chair, and again seating himself, leaned back his head and closed his eyes, as at first. How sad, and weary, and hopeless he felt! The burdens of the day had seemed almost too heavy for him; but he had borne up bravely. To gather strength for a renewed struggle with adverse circumstances, he had come home. Alas! that the process of exhaustion should still go on. That where only strength could be looked for, no strength was given.
When the tea bell rung, Mr. Walcott made no movement to obey the summons.
“Come to supper,” said his wife, coldly.
But he did not stir.
“Ain’t you coming to supper?” she called to him, as she was leaving the room.
“I don’t wish anything this evening. My head aches badly,” he answered.
“In the dumps again,” muttered Mrs. Walcott to herself. “It’s as much as one’s life is worth to ask for money, or to say that anything is wanted.” And she kept on her way to the dining-room. When she returned, her husband was still sitting where she had left him.
“Shall I bring you a cup of tea?” she asked.
“No; I don’t wish anything.”
“What’s the matter, Mr. Walcott? What do you look so troubled about, as if you hadn’t a friend in the world? What have I done to you?”
There was no answer, for there was not a shade of real sympathy in the voice that made the queries–but rather a querulous dissatisfaction. A few moments Mrs. Walcott stood near her husband; but as he did Not seem inclined to answer her questions, she turned off from him, and resumed the employment which had been interrupted by the ringing of the tea bell.
The whole evening passed without the occurrence of a single incident that gave a healthful pulsation to the sick heart of Mr. Walcott. No thoughtful kindness was manifested by any member of the family; but, on the contrary, a narrow regard for self, and a looking to him only to supply the means of self-gratification.
No wonder, from the pressure which was on him, that Mr. Walcott felt utterly discouraged. He retired early, and sought to find that relief from mental disquietude, in sleep, which he had vainly hoped for in the bosom of his family. But the whole night passed in broken slumber, and disturbing dreams. From the cheerless morning meal, at which he was reminded of the quarter bill that must be paid, of the coal and flour that were out, and of the necessity of supplying Mrs. Walcott’s empty purse, he went forth to meet the difficulties of another day, faint at heart, and almost hopeless of success. A confident spirit, sustained by home affections, would have carried him through; but, unsupported as he was, the burden was too heavy for him, and he sunk under it. The day that opened so unpropitiously, closed upon him, a ruined man!
Let us look in, for a few moments, upon Mr. Freeman, the friend and neighbour of Mr. Walcott. He, also, had come home; weary, dispirited, and almost sick. The trials of the day had been unusually severe; and when he looked anxiously forward to scan the future, not even a gleam of light was seen along the black horizon.
As he stepped across the threshold of his dwelling, a pang shot through his heart; for the thought came, “How slight the present hold upon all these comforts!” Not for himself, but for his wife and children, was the pain.
“Father’s come!” cried a glad little voice on the stairs, the moment his foot-fall, sounded in the passage; then quick, pattering feet were heard–and then a tiny form was springing into his arms. Before reaching the sitting-room above, Alice, the oldest daughter, was by his side, her arm drawn fondly within his, and her loving eyes lifted to his face.