MARKHAM.
The funeral of Mrs. Verstage was conducted with all the pomp and
circumstance that delight the rustic mind. Bideabout attended, and
his hat was adorned with a black silk weeper that was speedily
converted by Mehetabel, at his desire, into a Sunday waistcoat.
In this silk waistcoat he started on old Clutch one day for
Guildford, without informing his wife or sister whither he was bound.
The child was delicate and fretful, engaging most of its mother's
time and engrossing all her thought.
She had found an old cradle of oak, with a hood to it, the whole
quaintly and rudely carved, the rockers ending in snakes' heads,
in which several generations of Kinks had lain; in which, indeed,
Jonas had spent his early infancy, and had pleaded for his mother's
love and clamored for her attention. Whether with the thought of
amusing the child, or merely out of the overflow of motherly love
that seeks to adorn and glorify the babe, Mehetabel had picked the
few late flowers that lingered on in spite of frost, some pinched
chrysanthemums, a red robin that had withstood the cold, some twigs
of butcher's broom with blood-red berries that had defied it, and
these she had stuck about the cradle in little gimlet holes that
had been drilled round the edge, probably to contain pegs that might
hold down a cover, to screen out glaring sun or cutting draught.
Now, as Mehetabel rocked the cradle and knitted, singing to the
sobbing child, the flowers wavered about the infant, forming a
wreath of color, and freshening the air with their pure fragrance.
Each flower in itself was without much perceptible savor, yet the
whole combined exhaled a healthy, clean, and invigorating waft as
of summer air over a meadow.
The wreath that surrounded the child was not circular but oblong,
almost as though engirding a tiny grave, but this Mehetabel did not
see.
Playing the cradle with her foot, with the sun shining in at the
window and streaking the foot, she sang--
"My heart is like a fountain true
That flows and flows with love to you;
As chirps the lark unto the tree,
So chirps my pretty babe to me.
And it's O! sweet, sweet! and a lullaby."
But the answer was a peevish moan from the bed. The young mother
stooped over the cradle.
"Oh, little lark! little lark! this is no chirp,
Would you were as glad and as gay as the lark!"
Then, resuming her rocking, she sang,
"There's not a rose where'er I seek
As comely as my baby's cheek.
There's not a comb of honey bee,
So full of sweets as babe to me.
And it's O! sweet, sweet! and a lullaby."
Again she bowed over the crib, and all the rocking flowers quivered
and stood still.
"Baby, darling! Why are there such poor roses in your little cheek?
I would value them above all the China roses ever grown! Look at
the Red Robin, my sweet, my sweet, and become as pink as is that."
"There's not a star that shines on high
Is brighter than my baby's eye.
There's not a boat upon the sea
Can dance as baby does to me.
And it's O! sweet, sweet, and a lullaby."
"No silk was ever spun so fine
As is the hair of baby mine.
My baby smells more sweet to me
Than smells in spring the elder tree.
And it's O! sweet, sweet, and a lullaby!"
The child would not sleep.
Again the mother stayed the rocking of the cradle, and the swaying
of the flowers.
She lifted the little creature from its bed carefully lest the
sharp-leafed butcher's broom should scratch it. How surrounded was
that crib with spikes, and they poisonous! And the red berries oozed
out of the ribs of the cruel needle-armed leaves, like drops of
heart's blood.
Mehetabel took her child to her bosom, and rocked her own chair,
and as she rocked, the sunbeam flashed across her face, and then
she was in shadow, then another flash, and again shadow, and from
her face, when sunlit, a reflection of light flooded the little
white dress of the babe, and illumined the tiny arm, and restless
fingers laid against her bosom.
"A little fish swims in the well,
So in my heart does baby dwell.
A little flower blows on the tree,
My baby is the flower to me.
And It's O! sweet, sweet! and a lullaby!"
A wondrous expression of peace and contentment was on Mehetabel's
face. None of the care and pain that had lined it, none of the gloom
of hopelessness that had lain on it, had left now thereon a trace.
In her child all her hope was centred, all her love culminated.
"The King has sceptre, crown and ball.
You are my sceptre, crown and all,
For all his robes of royal silk.
More fair your skin, as white as milk.
And it's O! sweet, sweet, and a lullaby!
"Ten thousand parks where deer may run,
Ten thousand roses in the sun.
Ten thousand pearls beneath the sea.
My babe, more precious is to me.
And it's O! sweet, sweet, and a lullaby!"
Presently gentle sleep descended on the head of the child, the
pink eyelids closed, the restless hand ceased to grope and clutch,
and the breath came evenly. Mehetabel laid her little one again in
its cradle, and recommenced the rocking with the accompanying
swaying of the flowers.
Now that the child was asleep Mehetabel sat lightly swinging the
cradle, afraid to leave it at rest lest that of her infant should
again be broken.
She thought of the death of her almost mother Susanna Verstage,
the only woman that had shown her kindness, except the dame of the
school she had attended as a child.
Mehetabel's heart overflowed with tender love towards the deceased,
she fully, frankly forgave her the cruel blow whereby she had
wounded her, and had driven her out of her house and into that of
Jonas. And yet it was a deadly wrong: a wrong that could never be
redressed. The wound dealt her would canker her heart away; it was
of such a nature that nothing could heal it. Mehetabel was well
aware of this. She could see brightness before her in one direction
only. From her child alone could she derive hope and joy in
the future. And yet she forgave Mrs. Verstage with a generous
forgiveness which was part of her nature. She would forgive Jonas
anything, everything, if he would but acknowledge his wrong, and
turn to her in love.
And now she found that she could think of Iver without a quickening
of her pulses.
In her love for her babe all other loves had been swallowed up,
refined, reduced in force. She loved Iver still, but only as a
friend, a brother. Her breast had room for one prevailing love
only--that of her child.
As she sat, slightly rocking the cradle, and with a smile dimpling
her cheek, a knock sounded at the door, and at her call there
entered a young man whom she had seen during the winter with Jonas.
He was a gentleman, and she had been told that he had lodged at the
Huts, and she knew that he had engaged the Broom-Squire to attend
him, when duck-shooting, at the Fransham ponds.
Mehetabel apologized for not rising as he entered, and pointed to
the cradle.
"My name is Markham," said the young man, "I have come to see Mr.
Kink. This is his house, I believe?"
"Yes, sir; but he is not at home."
"Will he be long absent?"
"I do not know. Will you please to take a chair?"
"Thank you." The young gentleman seated himself, wiped his brow,
and threw his cap on the floor.
"I want some fishing. I made Mr. Kink's acquaintance, shooting,
during the winter. Excuse me, are you his sister or his wife?"
"His wife, sir."
"You are very young."
To this Mehetabel made no reply.
"And uncommonly pretty," pursued Mr. Markham, looking at her with
admiration. "Where the deuce did the Broom-Squire pick you up?"
The young mother was annoyed--a little color formed in her cheek.
"Can I give a message to Jonas?" she asked.
"A message? Tell him he's a lucky dog. By heaven! I had no idea
that a pearl lay at the bottom of the Punch-Bowl. And that is your
baby?"
"Yes, sir."
Mehetabel lightly raised the sheet that covered the child's head.
The stranger stooped and looked at the sleeping child, that seemed
to be made uneasy by his glance, and turned moaning away.
"It looks as if it were for another world--not this," said the
gentleman.
The flush spread over Mehetabel's brow. "Sir," she said in a
fluttering voice, "You are not a doctor, are you?"
"Oh, dear, no!--a barrister."
"Then," said she, in a tone of relief, "you do not know. The child
is very well, but young."
"That may be."
The young man returned to his seat.
"I have left a fishing-rod outside," he said. "I wanted Kink to
accompany me on one of the ponds where there is a punt. There must
be plenty of fish in these sheets of water?"
"I believe there are, sir. As Jonas is away, perhaps Samuel Rocliffe
can help you. He is my husband's nephew, and lives in the cottage,
a little further down."
"Thank you, I'll look him up. But, hang me, if I like to leave--with
such attractions here I do not care to leave."
After standing, considering a moment, hardly taking his eyes off
Mehetabel, he said--"My pretty little hostess, if ever I begrudged
a man in my life, I begrudge Jonas Kink--his wife. Come and tell me
when you find him intolerable, and see if I cannot professionally
help you to be rid of such a curmudgeon. Who knows?--the time may
come! My name is Markham."
Then he departed.