In the meantime, Mrs. Chester proceeded with her domestic duties. She
commenced to undress the baby-child whom Sally had already adopted as
her own, and she was filled with wonder and curiosity as she noted the
superior order of the child's clothes. The shoes, though dirty and
dusty, were sound; the socks had not a hole in toe or heel--a state of
sock which Sally seldom enjoyed; the frock was of beautiful blue
cashmere, and as her mother handed it to her, Sally pressed her lips
and eyes against the comfortable material, with a sense of great
enjoyment; then came a petticoat, of black merino; then a white
petticoat, with tucks and insertions, which increased Sally's
admiration; then the little petticoat of flannel, not like the flannel
in Sally's petticoat, hard and unsympathetic; this was thick, and
soft, and cosy to the touch--there was real warmth and comfort in it;
then the pretty white stays; and the child lay in Mrs. Chester's lap,
in her chemise, with its delicate edgings of lace round the dimpled
arms and fat little bosom--lay like a rose dipped in milk, as the good
woman afterwards expressed it to neighbouring gossips. The lovely
picture was to Mrs. Chester like sparks of fire upon dry tinder. Soft
lights of memory glowed upon her, lighting up the dark sky; sweet
reminiscences sprang up in her mind and bloomed there like flowers in
an arid soil, and for a few moments she experienced a feeling of
delicious happiness. But soon, in the light of sad reality, the stars
paled in the sky, the flowers faded, and sorrowful tears were welling
from the mother's eyes. Sally did not see them, for her face was
hidden in the sleeping baby's neck, and she was kissing her lovely
treasure with profound and passionate devotion.
"Come now," abruptly said Mrs. Chester, furtively wiping away her
tears, "just you get to bed. I shall be having nice work with you
to-morrow if you've caught cold."
Sally's reply denoted that her thoughts were not on herself.
"Ain't she a beauty, mother? She's ever so much better then the
collerbine that dances in the street. Mother, _she_ didn't come from a
parsley-bed, did she?"
This was in reference to her belief in her own origin, but Mrs.
Chester declined to be led into conversation so Sally wriggled
herself between the bedclothes, and holding out her arms received the
pretty child in them. Supremely happy, she curled herself up, with her
baby-treasure pressed tightly to her bony breast, and was soon fast
asleep.
Mrs. Chester, after seeing that the children were warmly tucked up,
took Sally's clothes, and commenced the mother's never-ending task
among the poor of stitching and mending. And as she stitched and
patched, the words her husband had spoken, "I've enough to reproach
myself with one," recurred to her, and brought grief and sadness with
them. Her tears fell upon Sally's tattered garments as she dwelt upon
the bright promise of the first years of her married life and the
marring of her most cherished hopes. Absorbed in these contemplations,
she did not notice that the candle was almost at its last gasp;
presently it went out with a sob, leaving Mrs. Chester in darkness.
Wearied with a long day's toil, she closed her eyes; her tear-stained
work fell to the ground; her head sank upon the pillow, and her hand
sought Sally's. As she gained it, and clasped it within her own, she
fell asleep by the children's side. Her sleep was dreamless until
nearly midnight, when a few tremulous notes, played outside the house
on a penny tin whistle, stirred imagination into creative action, and
inspired strangely-contrasted dreams within the minds of mother and
child.
* * * * * *
She had been married for twenty-five years, and had had two
children--one, a boy, a year after her marriage; the other, a girl,
the Sally of this story, twenty years afterwards. Upon her darling
boy, Ned, she lavished all the strength of her love. He was a handsome
child, the very opposite to Sally; full of spirit and mischief; always
craving for pleasure and excitement, always being indulged in his
cravings to the full extent of his mother's means. This unvarying
kindness should have influenced him for good, but he glided into the
wrong track, and at an early age developed a remarkable talent for
appropriation. The father had no time to look after his son's morals,
being himself absorbingly engaged in the cultivation of a talent for
which he, also, had shown early aptitude--a talent for gin-drinking.
The lad was much to be pitied on two special grounds. He had a "gift"
on his thumb, and he was born with a mole on his right temple.
His mother was overjoyed when she saw this mole. It was the luckiest
of omens. For had not seers of old--never mind what seers--declared
that the child that was born with a mole on his right temple would
surely, in the course of his life, arrive at sudden wealth and honour?
Meanwhile, with a dutiful regard for parental example, Ned followed
his father's footsteps to the public-house, and, at a very early age,
was fond of draining pots and glasses.
As Ned grew older, he extended the field of his operations. Thus it
came about that one fine morning the young thief found himself in a
police-court, and was sent to prison as a rogue and a vagabond. There
was no doubt he was both.
When he was released from prison, he did not go home immediately; he
thought it best to wait until his hair grew again.
He wandered about, at fairs chiefly, picking up food anyhow, and
enjoying the life; and by the time he made his appearance again in
Rosemary Lane, his hair was as long as ever, and his mother wept over
him, and killed the fatted calf for her lovely lad. He brought home
with him a new accomplishment in the shape of a tin whistle, upon
which he discoursed the most eloquent music. With this whistle he
charmed and soothed the tender nature of his mother, and the less
impressionable nature of his father, who thoughtlessly helped him in
his downward course by taking him to the public-house, where he
delighted all around him. There he got his fill of drink, from the
customers, and in after days, when the lovely lad's character was
about as bad as his worst enemy could have desired, it caused the
father real remorse to think that he had helped his son to his
undoing. It was this which caused Mr. Chester to utter the words,
"I've enough to reproach myself with one." The reprobate would not
work; all that he would do was to drink, and thieve, and play upon a
tin whistle; and five years ago Ned Chester disappeared from the
neighbourhood of Rosemary Lane, and nothing had since been heard of
him.
But the mother's heart never went from her boy. Not a day passed but
her thoughts dwelt lovingly upon him. He had caused her the bitterest
anguish of her life, and she loved him the more for it.
* * * * * *
This brief digression ended, we return to Mrs. Chester, who lies
asleep by the side of Sally and her baby-treasure. There is no light
in the room, there is no moon in the sky. With trembling fingers, the
man in the street plays upon the keys of his instrument, and pauses in
the middle of a note, and shakes as though an ague were on him. It is
a terrible fit, and lasts for minutes; when it subsides, he looks
around him fearsomely, and sees monstrous shapes in the air coming
towards him. Descending from the dark clouds, uprising from the black
pavement, emerging from the viewless air, with eyes that glower, with
features that threaten, with limbs that appal, they glide upon and
surround him. With hoarse cries and shuddering hands he strives to
beat them off, and staggers to the door of the house in which the
mother and children are sleeping, with smiles upon their lips.