CHAPTER TWELFTH.
THE STARVING CHILDREN.
Long weeks rolled on, and the small sum possessed by Mrs. Wentworth,had been entirely exhausted. She had, however, by sewing, contrived tosupply herself and children with food. It was the same old tale ofsleepless nights of toil. Often the grey streak which heralds themorning, would find her still pouring over her work, while her twochildren were sleeping on the bed in one corner of the room. At timesshe would cease her work, and think for long hours on the lovedhusband, now a prisoner in the hands of the Federals. In those hours,tears would course her cheeks, as the stern reality of her positionpresented itself; to know that he was absent, while she was leading alife of penury and toil. Still she struggled on. When at times despairrose up before her like a demon, and she felt herself about to succumbto it, the memory of her absent husband, and the sight of her lovedchildren, would nerve the soldier's wife to bear with fortitude themisery to which she had been reduced.
And thus she toiled on, until the last source of support had vanished.The Quartermaster from whom she received work, having completed allthe clothing he required, had no further use for her services, and shethen saw nothing but a blank and dreary prospect, looming up beforeher. She had no means of purchasing food for her children. Piece bypiece her furniture was sold to supply their wants, until nothing wasleft in the room but a solitary bedstead. Starvation in its worst formstared her in the face, until at last she sold what clothing she hadbrought out from New Orleans. This relieved her necessities but ashort time, and then her last resource was gone.
If her present was dark, the future seemed but one black cloud ofdespair. Hope, that _ignis fatuus_, which deceives so many on earth,left the soldier's wife, and she was indeed wretched. The bloomingwoman had become a haggard and care-worn mother. She had no thoughtfor herself. It was for her children alone she felt solicitous, andwhen the day arrived that saw her without the means of purchasingbread, her long filling cup of misery overflowed, and she wept.
Yes, she wept. Wept as if her whole life had been changed in a moment,from one of joy and happiness, to that of sadness and misery.
Her children in that dark hour clustered around her. _They_ could notcry. A fast of over twenty-four hours had dried all tears within them.They only wondered for awhile, until the sharp pangs of hungerreminded them of another and greater woe. They too had been changed.The bloom of youth had departed from their little cheeks, while in theeyes of the oldest an unnatural light burned. She was fast sinking tothe grave, but the mother knew it not. Knew not that her darling childhad contracted a disease, which would shortly take her to Heaven, forthe little Eva spoke no word of complaint. Young, as she was, she sawher mother's agony of soul, and though the little lips were parchedand dry, she told not her ailing.
The tears continued to flow from Mrs. Wentworth, and still thechildren gazed on in wonderment. They knew not what they meant.
"Mother," at last said her little infant, "why do you cry?"
She took her on her knees. "Nothing, my darling," she replied.
"Then stop crying," he said, pressing his little hand on Mrs.Wentworth's cheek. "It makes me feel bad."
"I will stop crying, darling," she replied, drying her tears andsmiling.
Smiles are not always the reply of the heart. We have seen men smilewhoso whole life was a scene of misfortune, and yet this emblem ofhappiness has lit their features. It is outward show--a fruit, whosesurface presents a tempting appearance to the eye, but which isblasted and withered within. Smiles are often like the fruit calledthe _Guava_. It is a beautiful looking fruit which grows in the WestIndies, and to the taste is very luscious, but when examined through amicroscope, it presents the appearance of a moving mass of worms. Itsbeauty is deceptive, nothing but a wretched view presents itself,
"Like dead sea fruit, that tempts the eye, And falls to ashes on the lips."
The child saw her mother smile, and the little heart forgot itshunger, and for a moment beat with joy. The gleam of sunshine thatspread itself over him, did not last, for soon after the face of themother assumed the same sad and cheerless expression, it had worn formany weeks. The child saw it, and again felt his hunger.
"Mother," she said, "give me a piece of bread."
"I will get some for you to-morrow," she replied. "There is no breadin the house this evening."
"I am _so_ hungry," remarked the child. "Why is there no bread?"
"Mother has got no money to buy any," she replied.
The other child had remained quiet all the while. She still nestled toher mother's side and looked long and earnestly into her face. She wasnot thinking, for one of her years knew nothing of thought, butdivined that all was not right with her mother.
"Eva, my child," the mother said, speaking to her for the first time,"go to the grocer's, and ask him if he will let me have a loaf ofbread on credit."
"I am so glad you have sent for bread," exclaimed the infant on herknees, as he clapped his hand joyfully together.
Eva left the room, and in a few minutes returned empty handed.
"Has he refused to let you have it?" asked Mrs. Wentworth.
"Yes, mother," replied the child sadly. "He says he will not givecredit to anybody."
"I thought as much," Mrs. Wentworth remarked.
"Then I won't get any bread?" asked the child on her knees.
"No, my darling," Mrs. Wentworth answered, "you must wait untilto-morrow."
"I hav'nt eaten so long, mother," he said. "Why aint you got anybread?"
"Because mother is poor and without any money," she replied.
"But I feel so hungry," again the child remarked.
"I know it, my sweet boy," replied his mother, "but wait a littlelonger and I will give you something to eat."
Her heart was wrung with agony at the complaint of the child and hiscall for bread; but she knew not how to evade his questions or toprocure food. The thought of asking charity had never once entered hermind, for those with whom she had daily intercourse, were too muchengaged in self-interest to make her hope that any appeal for helpwould touch their sordid hearts; and yet food must be had, but how sheknew not. Her promise to give her child food, on the next day, wasmade only to silence his call for bread. There was no prospect ofreceiving any money, and she could not see her children starve. Butone recourse was left. She must sell the bed--the last piece offurniture remaining in the room--no matter that in so doing herwretchedness increased instead of diminished.
The child was not satisfied with her promise. The pangs he enduredwere too much for one of his age, and again he uttered his call forbread.
"There is no bread, Willy," said Eva, speaking for the first time."Don't ask for any bread. It makes mamma sad."
The child opened his large blue eyes enquiringly upon his sister.
"My sweet, darling child," exclaimed Mrs. Wentworth, clasping thelittle Ella to her heart, and then bursting into tears at this proofof her child's fortitude, she continued: "Are you not hungry, too?"
"Yes, mother," she replied, "but"--Here the little girl ceased tospeak as if desirous of sparing her mother pain.
"But what?" asked Mrs. Wentworth.
"Mother," exclaimed the child, throwing her arms round her mother'sneck, and evading the question, "father will come back to us, and thenwe will not want bread."
The word "father," brought to Mrs. Wentworth's mind her absenthusband. She thought of the agony he would endure if he knew that hiswife and children were suffering for food. A swelling of her bosomtold of the emotion raging within her, and again the tears started toher eyes.
"Come, my sweet boy," she said, dashing away the tears, as they camelike dewdrops from her eyelids, and speaking to the infant on herknee, "it is time to go to bed."
"Aint I to get some bread before I go to bed?" he asked.
"There is none, darling," she answered hastily. "Wait until to-morrowand you will get some."
"But I am so hungry," again repeated the child, and
again a pang ofwretchedness shot through the mother's breast.
"Never mind," she observed, kissing him fondly, "if you love me, letme put you to bed like a good child."
"I love you!" he said, looking up into her eyes with all that deeplove that instinct gives to children.
She undressed and put him to bed, where the little Ella followed himsoon after. Mrs. Wentworth sat by the bedside until they had fallenasleep.
"I love you, mother, but I am so hungry," were the last words theinfant murmured as he closed his eyes in sleep, and in that slumberforgot his agonizing pangs for awhile.
As soon as they were asleep, Mrs. Wentworth removed from the bedsideand seated herself at the window, which she opened. There she sat,looking at the clouds as they floated by, dark as her own prospectswere. The morning dawned and saw her still there. It was a beautifulmorning, but the warble of the bird in a tree near by, as he pouredforth his morning song, awoke no echo in the heart of the soldier'swife. All was cheerless within her. The brightness of the morning onlyacted like a gleam of light at the mouth of a cavern. It made thedarkness of her thoughts more dismal.