A BABY'S GRAVE
Sophy Chantrey had strayed absently down to the churchyard in one of
those fits of restlessness and nervous despondency which made it
impossible to her to remain in the overcrowded rooms of Bolton Villa or
in the trim flower-garden surrounding it. There was a continual vague
sense of misery in her lot, which she had not strength enough to cast
off; but at this moment she was not consciously mourning either for her
lost little one or for the absence of her husband and boy. The sharpness
and bitterness of her trouble were dulled, and her brain was confused.
Even this was a relief from the heavy-heartedness that oppressed her at
other times, and she felt a comparative comfort in sitting half-asleep
by her child's grave, dreaming confusedly of happier days. She started
almost fretfully when Ann Holland's voice broke in upon her drowsy
languor.
"Begging your pardon, Mrs. Chantrey," she said, "but I thought I might
make bold to ask what news you've had from Mr. Chantrey in Madeira?"
"David!" she answered absently; "David! Oh yes, I see. You are Miss
Holland, and he was always fond of you. Do you remember him bringing me
to see you just after our marriage? He is getting quite well very fast,
thank you. It is only eight months now till he comes home; but that is a
long time."
The tears had gathered in her blue eyes, and fell one after another down
her cheeks as she looked up pitifully into Ann Holland's kindly face.
"Ah! it is a long time, my dear," she replied, sitting down beside her,
though she had some dread of the damp grass; "but we must all of us have
patience, you know, and hope on, hope ever. Dear, dear! to think how
overjoyed he'll be, and how happy all the folks in Upton will be, when
he comes back! It was hard to part with him; but when we see him again,
strong and hearty, all that'll be forgot."
"Oh, I've missed him so!" cried Sophy, with a burst of tears; "I've been
so solitary without him or Charlie. You cannot think what it is.
Sometimes I feel as if they were both dead, and I was doomed to live
here without them for ever and ever. Everything seems ended. It is a
dreadful feeling."
"And then, dear love," said Ann Holland, in her quietest tones, "I know
you just fall down on your knees, and tell God all about it. That's how
I do when my poor brother behaves so bad, taking every penny, and
pawning or selling all he can lay hands on, to spend in drink. But you
know better than me, with all your learning, and music, and painting,
and pretty manners, let alone being a clergyman's wife; and when you are
that lonesome and sorrowful, you kneel down and tell God all about it."
"No, no," sobbed Sophy, hiding her face again in her hands; "I am so
miserable--too miserable to be good, as I used to be when David was at
home."
The almost pleasant drowsiness was over now, and a swift tide of thought
and memory swept through her brain. The gulf on whose verge she stood
seemed to open before her, and she looked down into it shudderingly. She
could recollect the temptation assailing her once before, when her baby
died; but then her husband was beside her, and his presence had saved
her, though not even he had guessed at her danger. What could save her
now, alone, with a perpetual weariness of spirit, and a feeling of
physical weakness amounting to positive pain? Yet if she went but a few
steps forward, she would sink into the gloomy depths, which for the
moment her quickened conscience could so clearly perceive. If David
could but be at home now! If she could but have her little son to occupy
her time and thoughts!
"Dear, dear!" said Ann Holland's low and tender voice; "nobody's too
miserable for God not to love them. Why, a poor thing like me can love
my brother when he's as bad as bad can be with drink. I could do
anything for him out of pity; and it's hard to think less of Him that
made us. Sure He knows how difficult it is to be good when we are
miserable; and we can't tire Him out. He'll help us out of our misery if
we keep stretching out our hands to Him. Nobody knows but Him what we've
all got to go through. It's because you're lonesome, and fretting after
old days. But they'll come back again, dear love and we'll all be as
happy as happy can be. I know how you miss Mr. Chantrey, for I miss him
badly, and what must it be for you?"
Sophy lifted up her face, wet with tears, yet with a smile breaking
through them. Ann Holland's simple words of comfort and hope had gone
direct to her heart, and it seemed possible for her to wait patiently
now until David came home.
"You've done me good," she said, "and I shall tell David next time I
write to him."
"Dear, dear!" said Ann Holland, with a tone of surprise and pleasure in
her voice, "couldn't I do something better for you? Couldn't I just go
over to Master Charlie's school, and take him a cake and a little whip
out of the shop? It would do me good, worlds of good; and he'd be glad,
poor little fellow! Mr. Chantrey's so good to my poor brother; he'd save
him from drink if he'd be saved, I know. I'd do anything for your sake
or Mr. Chantrey's. But there's Mrs. Bolton coming out of the church, and
I've a little business with her; so I'll say good-day to you now, Mrs.
Chantrey."
If at this point of her life Sophy Chantrey could have been removed from
the daily temptations which beset her, most probably she would not have
fallen lower into the degrading sin, which was quickly becoming a habit.
Until her husband's enforced absence, she had been so carefully hedged
in by the numberless small barriers of a girl's sphere, so guided and
managed for by those about her, that it had been hardly possible for any
sore temptation to come near her. But now suddenly cut adrift from her
quiet moorings, she found herself powerless to keep out of the rapid
current which must plunge her into deep misery and vice. There had not
been a doubt in her mind that she was not a real Christian, for she had
freely given a sentimental faith to the Christian dogmas propounded to
her by persons whom she held to be wiser and better than herself. In the
same manner she had taken the customs and usages of modern life, always
feeling satisfied to do what others of her own class and rank did. Even
now, though she was conscious that there was some danger for herself,
she could not realize the half of the peril in which she stood. After
Ann Holland left her she lingered still beside the little grave in a
tranquil but somewhat purposeless reverie. There could be no harm, she
thought, in taking just enough to deliver her from her very worst
moments of depression, or when she had to write cheerfully to her
husband. That was a duty, and she must keep a stricter guard over
herself than she had done lately. She would take exactly what her aunt
Bolton drank, and then she could not go wrong. With this resolution she
gathered a flower from the little grave beside her, and, turning away,
hastened out of the churchyard.
Mr. Warden had scarcely glanced through the vestry window since Mrs.
Bolton had gone away in anger, but he was well aware of Sophy's
lingering beside the grave. He felt crushed and unhappy. His friend
Chantrey had solemnly committed the parish to his care, and he to the
utmost of his power had strenuously fulfilled his duties. But what was
he to do with this new case? Except under strong excitement his
constitutional shyness kept him dumb, and how was he to venture to
expostulate with his friend's wife upon such a subject? It seemed to be
his duty to do something to prevent this lonely and sorrowful girl from
drifting into a commonplace and degrading phase of sin. But how was he
to begin? How could he even hint at such a suspicion? Besides, he could
do nothing to remove her out of temptation. So long as Mrs. Bolton
persisted in her angry refusal to follow his advice, she must be exposed
daily to indulge an appetite which she had not the firmness to resist.