"The swain in barren deserts with surprise
Sees lilies spring, and sudden verdure rise:
And starts amid the thirsty wilds to hear
New falls of water murm'ring in his ear."--POPE.
In the evening Mrs. Danvers seemed rather tired, and the two sat over
the fire a long time, without a single word being uttered; but, at last,
when tea was finished, and they had both taken their work, Catherine,
who had been in profound meditation all this time, began:
"My dear Mrs. Danvers, are you rested? I have a great deal to talk to
you about, if you will let me."
"I must be very much tired, indeed, Catherine, when I do not like to
hear _you_ talk," was the kind reply.
Mrs. Danvers reposed very comfortably in her arm-chair, with her feet
upon a footstool before the cheerful blazing fire; and now Catherine
drew her chair closer, rested her feet upon the fender, and seemed to
prepare herself for a regular confidential talk with her beloved old
friend.
"My dear Mrs. Danvers, you are such a friend both of my dear mother's
and mine, that I think I may, without scruple, open my whole heart to
you upon a matter in which more than myself are concerned. If you think
me wrong stop me," said she, laying her hand affectionately upon that
of her friend, and fixing those honest, earnest eyes of hers upon her
face.
Mrs. Danvers pressed the hand, and said:
"My love, whatever you confide to me you know is sacred; and if I can be
of any assistance to you, dear girl, I think you need not scruple
opening your mind; for you know I am a sort of general mother-confessor
to all my acquaintance, and am as secret as such a profession demands."
Catherine lifted up the hand; she held it, pressed it, and continued to
hold it; then she looked at the fire a little while, and at last spoke.
"Did you never in your walk in life observe one evil under the sun,
which appears to me to be a most crying one in many families, the undue
influence exercised by, and the power allowed to servants?"
"Yes, my dear, there are few of the minor evils--if minor it can be
called--that I have thought productive of more daily discomforts than
that. At times the evils assume a much greater magnitude, and are very
serious indeed. Alienated hearts--divided families--property to a large
amount unjustly and unrighteously diverted from its natural channel--and
misery, not to be told, about old age and a dying bed."
Catherine slightly shuddered, and said:
"I have not had an opportunity of seeing much of the world, you know;
what you say is rather what I feared it might be, than what I have
actually observed; but I have had a sort of divination of what might in
future arise. It is inexplicable to me the power a servant may gain, and
the tyrannical way in which she will dare to exercise it. The
unaccountable way in which those who have every title to command, may be
brought to obey is scarcely to be believed, and to me inexplicable."
"Fear and indolence, my dear. Weak spirits and a weak body, upon the one
side; on the other, that species of force which want of feeling, want of
delicacy, want of a nice conscience, want even of an enlarged
understanding--which rough habits and coarse perceptions bestow. Believe
me, dear girl, almost as much power is obtained in this foolish world by
the absence of certain qualities as by the possession of others. Silly
people think it so nice and easy to govern, and so hard to obey. It
requires many higher qualities, and much more rule over the spirit to
command obedience than to pay it."
"Yes, no doubt one does not think enough of that. Jeremy Taylor, in his
fine prayers, has one for a new married wife just about to enter a
family: he teaches her to pray for 'a right judgment in all things; not
to be annoyed at trifles; nor discomposed by contrariety of accidents;'
a spirit 'to overcome all my infirmities, and comply with and bear with
the infirmities of others; giving offense to none, but doing good to all
I can, but I think he should have added a petition for strength to rule
and guide that portion of the household which falls under her immediate
care with a firm and righteous hand, not yielding feebly to the undue
encroachment of others, not suffering, through indolence or a mistaken
love of peace, evil habits to creep over those who look up to us and
depend upon us, to their own infinite injury as well as to our own.' Ah!
that is the part of a woman's duty hardest to fulfill; and I almost
tremble," said the young bride elect, "when I think how heavy the
responsibility; and how hard I shall find it to acquit myself as I
desire."
"In this as in other things," answered Mrs. Danvers, affectionately
passing her hand over her young favorite's smooth and shining hair, "I
have ever observed there is but one portion of real strength; one force
alone by which we can move mountains. But, in that strength we assuredly
are able to move mountains. Was this all that you had to say, my dear?"
"Oh, no--but--it is so disagreeable--yet I think. Did you ever notice
how things went on at home, my dear friend?"
"Yes--a little I have. One can not help, you know, if one stays long in
a house, seeing the relation in which the different members of a family
stand to each other."
"I thought you must have done so; that makes it easier for me--well,
then, _that_ was one great reason which made me so unwilling to leave
mamma."
"I understand."
"There is a vast deal of that sort of tyranny exercised in our family
already. Ever since I have grown up I have done all in my power to check
it, by encouraging my poor, dear mamma, to exert a little spirit; but
she is so gentle, so soft, so indulgent, and so affectionate--for even
_that_ comes in her way.... She gets attached to every thing around her.
She can not bear new faces, she says, and this I think the servants
know, and take advantage of. They venture to do as they like, because
they think it will be too painful an exertion for her to change them."
"Yes, my dear, that is exactly as things go on; not in your family
alone, but in numbers that I could name if I chose. It is a very serious
evil. It amounts to a sin in many households. The waste, the almost
vicious luxury, the idleness that is allowed! The positive loss of what
might be so much better bestowed upon those who really want it, to the
positive injury of those who enjoy it! The demoralizing effect of
pampered habits--the sins which are committed through the temptation of
having nothing to do, will make, I fear, a dark catalogue against the
masters and mistresses of families; who, because they have money in
abundance, and hate trouble, allow all this misrule, and its attendant
ill consequences upon their dependents. Neglecting 'to rule with
diligence,' as the Apostle commands us, and satisfied, provided they
themselves escape suffering from the ill consequences, except as far as
an overflowing plentiful purse is concerned. Few people seem to reflect
upon the mischief they may be doing to these their half-educated fellow
creatures by such negligence."
Catherine looked very grave, almost sorrowful, at this speech--she said:
"Poor mamma--but she _can not_ help it--indeed she can not. She is all
love, and is gentleness itself. The blessed one 'who thinketh no evil.'
How can that Randall find the heart to tease her! as I am sure she
does--though mamma never complains. And then, I am afraid, indeed, I
feel certain, when I am gone the evil will very greatly increase. You,
perhaps, have observed," added she, lowering her voice, "that poor papa
makes it particularly difficult in our family--doubly difficult. His old
wounds, his injured arm, his age and infirmities, make all sorts of
little comforts indispensable to him. He suffers so much bodily, and he
suffers, too, so much from little inconveniences, that he can not bear
to have any thing done for him in an unaccustomed way. Randall and
Williams have lived with us ever since I was five years old--when poor
papa came back from Waterloo almost cut to pieces. And he is so fond of
them he will not hear a complaint against them--not even from mamma. Oh!
it is not her fault--poor, dear mamma!"
"No, my love, such a dreadful sufferer as the poor general too often is,
makes things very difficult at times. I understand all that quite well;
but we are still only on the preamble of your discourse, my Catherine;
something more than vain lamentation is to come of it, I feel sure."
"Yes, indeed. Dear generous mamma! She would not hear of my staying with
her and giving up Edgar; nor would she listen to what he was noble
enough to propose, that he should abandon his profession and come and
live at the Hazels, rather than that I should feel I was tampering with
my duty, for his sake, dear fellow!"
And the tears stood in Catherine's eyes.
"Nothing I could say would make her listen to it. I could hardly be
sorry for Edgar's sake. I knew what a sacrifice it would be upon his
part--more than a woman ought to accept from a _lover_, I think--a man
in his dotage, as one may say. Don't you think so, too, ma'am?"
"Yes, my dear, indeed I do. Well, go on."
"I have been so perplexed, so unhappy, so undecided what to do--so sorry
to leave this dear, generous mother to the mercy of those servants of
hers--whose influence, when she is alone, and with nobody to hearten her
up a little, will be so terribly upon the increase--that I have not
known what to do. But to-day, while I was dressing for dinner, a sudden,
blessed thought came into my mind--really, just like a flash of light
that seemed to put every thing clear at once--and it is about that I
want to consult you, if you will let me. That dear Lettice Arnold!--I
knew her from a child. You can not think what a creature she is. So
sensible, so cheerful, so sweet-tempered, so self-sacrificing, yet so
clever, and firm, and steady, when necessary. Mamma wants a daughter,
and papa wants a reader and a backgammon prayer. Lettice Arnold is the
very thing."
Mrs. Danvers made no answer.
"Don't you think so? Are you not sure? Don't you see it?" asked poor
Catherine, anxiously.
"Alas! my dear, there is one thing I can scarcely ever persuade myself
to do; and that is--advise any one to undertake the part of humble
friend."
"Oh, dear! oh, dear! I know it's a terrible part in general; and I can't
think why."
"Because neither party in general understands the nature of the
relation, nor the exchange of duties it implies. For want of proper
attention to this, the post of governess is often rendered so
unsatisfactory to one side, and so very uncomfortable to the other, but
in that case at least _something_ is defined. In the part of the humble
friend there is really nothing--every thing depends upon the equity and
good-nature of the first party, and the candor and good-will of the
second. Equity not to exact too much--good-nature to consult the comfort
and happiness of the dependent. On that dependent's side, candor in
judging of what _is_ exacted; and good-will cheerfully to do the best in
her power to be amiable and agreeable."
"I am not afraid of mamma. She will never be exacting _much_. She will
study the happiness of all who depend upon her; she only does it almost
too much, I sometimes think, to the sacrifice of her own comfort, and to
the spoiling of them--and though papa is sometimes so suffering that he
can't help being a little impatient, yet he is a perfect gentleman, you
know. As for Lettice Arnold, if ever there was a person who knew 'how to
make the best of it,' and sup cheerfully upon fried onions when she had
lost her piece of roast kid, it is she. Besides, she is so uniformly
good-natured, that it is quite a pleasure to her to oblige. The only
danger between dearest mamma and Lettice will be--of their quarreling
which shall give up most to the other. But, joking apart, she is a vast
deal more than I have said--she is a remarkably clever, spirited girl,
and shows it when she is called upon. You can not think how discreet,
how patient, yet how firm, she can be. Her parents, poor people, were
very difficult to live with, and were always running wrong. If it had
not been for Lettice, affairs would have got into dreadful confusion.
There is that in her so _right_, such an inherent downright sense of
propriety and justice--somehow or other I am confident she will not let
Randall tyrannize over mamma when I am gone."
"Really," said Mrs. Danvers, "what you say seems very reasonable. There
are exceptions to every rule. It certainly is one of mine to have as
little as possible to do in recommending young women to the situation of
humble friends. Yet in some cases I have seen all the comfort you
anticipate arise to both parties from such a connection; and I own I
never saw a fairer chance presented than the present; provided Randall
is not too strong for you all; which may be feared."
"Well, then, you do not _dis_advise me to talk to mamma about it, and I
will write to you as soon as I possibly can; and you will be kind enough
to negotiate with Lettice, if you approve of the terms. As for Randall,
she shall _not_ be too hard for me. Now is my hour; I am in the
ascendant, and I will win this battle or perish; that is, I will tell
mamma I _won't_ be married upon any other terms; and to have 'Miss'
married is quite as great a matter of pride to Mrs. Randall as to that
dearest of mothers."
* * * * *
The contest with Mrs. Randall was as fierce as Catherine, in her worst
anticipations, could have expected. She set herself most doggedly
against the plan. It, indeed, militated against all her schemes. She had
intended to have every thing far more than ever her own way when "Miss
Catherine was gone;" and though she had no doubt but that she should
"keep the creature in her place," and "teach her there was only one
mistress here" (which phrase usually means the maid, though it implies
the lady), yet she had a sort of a misgiving about it. There would be
one at her (Mrs. Melwyn's) ear as well as herself, and at, possibly, her
master's, too, which was of still more importance. And then "those sort
of people are so artful and cantankerous. Oh! she'd seen enough of them
in her day! Poor servants couldn't have a moment's peace with a creature
like that in the house, spying about and telling every thing in the
parlor. One can't take a walk, or see a poor friend, or have a bit of
comfort, but all goes up there. Well, those may put up with it who like.
Here's one as won't, and that's me myself; and so I shall make bold to
tell Miss Catherine. General and Mrs. Melwyn must choose between me and
the new-comer."
Poor Catherine! Mrs. Melwyn cried, and said her daughter was very right;
but she was sure Randall never _would_ bear it. And the general, with
whom Randall had daily opportunity for private converse while she bound
up his shattered arm, and dressed the old wound, which was perpetually
breaking out afresh, and discharging splinters of bone, easily talked
her master into the most decided dislike to the scheme.
But Catherine stood firm. She had the support of her own heart and
judgment; and the greater the difficulty, the more strongly she felt the
necessity of the measure. Edgar backed her, too, with all his might. He
could hardly keep down his vexation at this weakness on one side, and
indignation at the attempted tyranny on the other, and he said every
thing he could think of to encourage Catherine to persevere.
She talked the matter well over with her father. The general was the
most testy, cross, and unreasonable of old men; always out of humor,
because always suffering, and always jealous of every body's influence
and authority, because he was now too weak and helpless to rule his
family with a rod of iron, such as he, the greatest of martinets, had
wielded in better days in his regiment and in his household alike. He
suffered himself to be governed by Randall, and by nobody else; because
in yielding to Randall, there was a sort of consciousness of the
exercise of free will. He _ought_ to be influenced by his gentle wife,
and clever, sensible daughter; but there was no reason on earth, but
because he _chose_ to do it, that he should mind what Randall said.
"I hate the whole pack of them! I know well enough what sort of a
creature you'll bring among us, Catherine. A whining, methodistical old
maid, with a face like a hatchet, and a figure as if it had been pressed
between two boards, dressed in a flimsy cheap silk, of a dingy brown
color, with a cap like a grenadier's. Your mother and she will be
sitting moistening their eyes all day long over the sins of mankind;
and, I'll be bound, my own sins won't be forgotten among them. Oh! I
know the pious creatures, of old. Nothing they hate like a poor old
veteran, with a naughty word or two in his mouth now and then. Never
talk to me, Catherine, I can't abide such cattle."
"Dearest papa, what a picture you _do_ draw! just to frighten yourself.
Why, Lettice Arnold is only about nineteen, I believe; and though she's
not particularly pretty, she's the pleasantest-looking creature you ever
saw. And as for bemoaning herself over her neighbors' sins, I'll be
bound she's not half such a Methodist as Randall."
"Randall is a very pious, good woman, I'd have you to know, Miss
Catherine."
"I'm sure I hope she is, papa; but you must own she makes a great fuss
about it. And I really believe, the habit she has of whispering and
turning up the whites of her eyes, when she hears of a neighbor's
peccadillos, is one thing which sets you so against the righteous,
dearest papa; now, you know it is."
"You're a saucy baggage. How old is this thing you're trying to put upon
us, did you say?"
"Why, about nineteen, or, perhaps, twenty. And then, who's to read to
you, papa, when I am gone, and play backgammon? You know mamma must
_not_ read, on account of her chest, and she plays so badly, you say, at
backgammon; and it's so dull, husband and wife playing, you know." (Poor
Mrs. Melwyn dreaded, of all things, backgammon; she invariably got
ridiculed if she played ill, and put her husband into a passion if she
beat him. Catherine had long taken this business upon herself.)
"Does she play backgammon tolerably? and can she read without drawling
or galloping?"
"Just at your own pace, papa, whatever that may be. Besides, you can
only try her; she's easily sent away if you and mamma don't like her.
And then think, she is a poor clergyman's daughter; and it would be
quite a kind action."
"A poor parson's! It would have been more to the purpose if you had said
a poor officer's. I pay tithes enough to the black coated gentlemen,
without being bothered with their children, and who ever pays tithes to
us, I wonder? I don't see what right parsons have to marry at all; and
then, forsooth, come and ask other people to take care of their brats!"
"Ah! but she's not to be taken care of for nothing; only think what a
comfort she'll be."
"To your mamma, perhaps, but not to me. And _she's_ always the first
person to be considered in this house, I know very well; and I know very
well who it is that dresses the poor old soldier's wounds, and studies
his comforts--and he'll study hers; and I won't have her vexed to please
any of you."
"But why should she be vexed? It's nothing to _her_. _She's_ not to live
with Lettice. And I must say, if Randall sets herself against this
measure, she behaves in a very unreasonable and unworthy manner, in my
opinion."
"Hoity toity! _To_ be sure; and who's behaving in an unreasonable and
unworthy manner now, I wonder, abusing her behind her back, a worthy,
attached creature, whose sole object it is to study the welfare of us
all? She's told me so a thousand times."
"I daresay. Well, now, papa, listen to me. I'm going away from you for
good--your little Catherine. Just for once grant me this as a favor.
Only try Lettice. I'm sure you'll like her; and if, after she's been
here a quarter of a year, you don't wish to keep her, why part with her,
and I'll promise not to say a word about it. Randall has her good
qualities, I suppose, like the rest of the world; but Randall must be
taught to keep her place, and that's not in this drawing-room. And it's
_here_ you want Lettice, not in your dressing-room. Randall shall have
it all her own way _there_, and that _ought_ to content her. And
besides, papa, do you know, I can't marry Edgar till you have consented,
because I can not leave mamma and you with nobody to keep you company."
"Edgar and you be d----d! Well, do as you like. The sooner you're out of
the house the better. I shan't have my own way till you're gone. You're
a sad coaxing baggage, but you _have_ a pretty face of your own, Miss
Catherine."
* * * * *
If the debate upon the subject ran high at the Hazels, so did it in the
little humble apartment which the two sisters occupied.
"A humble friend! No," cried Myra, "that I would never, never be; rather
die of hunger first."
"Dying of hunger is a very horrible thing," said Lettice, quietly, "and
much more easily said than done. We have not, God be thanked for it,
ever been quite so badly off as that; but I have stood near enough to
the dreadful gulf to look down, and to sound its depth and its darkness.
I am very thankful, deeply thankful, for this offer, which I should
gladly accept, only what is to become of you?"
"Oh! never mind me. It's the fashion now, I see, for every body to think
of _you_, and nobody to think of me. I'm not worth caring for, now those
who cared for me are gone. Oh! pray, if you like to be a domestic slave
yourself, let _me_ be no hindrance."
"A domestic slave! why should I be a domestic slave? I see no slavery in
the case."
"_I_ call it slavery, whatever you may do, to have nothing to do all day
but play toad-eater and flatterer to a good-for-nothing old woman; to
bear all her ill-humors, and be the butt for all her caprices. That's
what humble friends are expected to do, I believe; what else are they
hired for?"
"I should neither toady nor flatter, I hope," said Lettice; "and as for
bearing people's ill-humors, and being now and then the sport of their
caprices, why that, as you say, is very disagreeable, yet, perhaps, it
is what we must rather expect. But Mrs. Melwyn, I have always heard, is
the gentlest of human beings. And if she is like Catherine, she must be
free from caprice, and nobody could help quite loving her."
"Stuff!--love! love! A humble friend love her _un_humble friend; for I
suppose one must not venture to call one's mistress a tyrant. Oh, no, a
friend! a dear friend!" in a taunting, ironical voice.
"Whomever it might be my fate to live with, I should _try_ to love; for
I believe if one tries to love people, one soon finds something lovable
about them, and Mrs. Melwyn, I feel sure, I should soon love very much."
"So like you! ready to love any thing and every thing. I verily believe
if there was nothing else to love but the little chimney-sweeper boy,
you'd fall to loving him, rather than love nobody."
"I am sure that's true enough," said Lettice, laughing; "I have more
than once felt very much inclined to love the little boy who carries the
soot-bag for the man who sweeps these chimneys--such a saucy-looking,
little sooty rogue."
"As if a person's love _could_ be worth having," continued the sister,
"who is so ready to love any body."
"No, that I deny. Some few people I _do_ find it hard to love."
"Me for one."
"Oh, Myra!"
"Well, I beg your pardon. You're very kind to me. But I'll tell you who
it will be impossible for you to love--if such a thing can be: that's
that testy, cross, old general."
"I don't suppose I shall have much to do with the old general, if I go."
"_If_ you go. Oh, you're sure to go. You're so sanguine; every new
prospect is so promising. But pardon me, you seem quite to have
forgotten that reading to the old general, and playing backgammon with
him, are among your specified employments."
"Well, I don't see much harm in it if they are. A man can't be very
cross with one when one's reading to him--and as for the backgammon, I
mean to lose every game, if that will please him."
"Oh, a man can't be cross with a reader? I wish you knew as much of the
world as I do, and had heard people read. Why, nothing on earth puts one
in such a fidget. I'm sure I've been put into such a worry by people's
way of reading, that I could have pinched them. Really, Lettice, your
simplicity would shame a child of five years old."
"Well, I shall do my best, and besides I shall take care to set my chair
so far off that I can't get pinched, at least; and as for a poor,
ailing, suffering old man being a little impatient and cross, why one
can't expect to get fifty pounds a year for just doing nothing.--I do
suppose it is expected that I should bear a few of these things in place
of Mrs. Melwyn; and I don't see why I should not."
"Oh, dear! Well, my love, you're quite made for the place, I see; you
always had something of the spaniel in you, or the walnut-tree, or any
of those things which are the better for being ill-used. It was quite a
proverb with our poor mother, 'a worm will turn, but not Lettice.'"
Lettice felt very much inclined to turn now. But the mention of her
mother--that mother whose mismanagement and foolish indulgence had
contributed so much to poor Myra's faults--faults for which she now paid
so heavy a penalty--silenced the generous girl, and she made no answer.
No answer, let it proceed from never so good a motive, makes cross
people often more cross; though perhaps upon the whole it is the best
plan.
So Myra in a still more querulous voice went on:
"This room will be rather dismal all by one's self, and I don't know how
I'm to go about, up and down, fetch and carry, and work as you are able
to do.... I was never used to it. It comes very hard upon me." And she
began to cry.
"Poor Myra! dear Myra! don't cry: I never intended to leave you. Though
I talked as if I did, it was only in the way of argument, because I
thought more might be said for the kind of life than you thought; and I
felt sure if people were tolerably kind and candid, I could get along
very well and make myself quite comfortable. Dear me! after such
hardships as we have gone through, a little would do that. But do you
think, poor dear girl, I could have a moment's peace, and know you were
here alone? No, no."
And so when she went in the evening to carry her answer to Mrs. Danvers,
who had conveyed to her Catherine's proposal, Lettice said, "that she
should have liked exceedingly to accept Catherine's offer, and was sure
she should have been very happy herself, and would have done every thing
in her power to make Mrs. Melwyn happy, but that it was impossible to
leave her sister."
"If that is your only difficulty, my dear, don't make yourself uneasy
about that. I have found a place for your sister which I think she will
like very well. It is with Mrs. Fisher, the great milliner in
Dover-street, where she will be taken care of, and may be very
comfortable. Mrs. Fisher is a most excellent person, and very anxious,
not only about the health and comfort of those she employs, but about
their good behavior and their security from evil temptation. Such a
beautiful girl as your sister is, lives in perpetual danger, exposed as
she is without protection in this great town."
"But Myra has such an abhorrence of servitude, as she calls it--such an
independent high spirit--I fear she will never like it."
"It will be very good for her, whether she likes it or not. Indeed, my
dear, to speak sincerely, the placing your sister out of danger in the
house of Mrs. Fisher ought to be a decisive reason with you for
accepting Catherine's proposal--even did you dislike it much more than
you seem to do."
"Oh! to tell the truth, I should like the plan very much indeed--much
more than I have wished to say, on account of Myra: but she never, never
will submit to be ruled, I fear, and make herself happy where, of
course, she must obey orders and follow regulations, whether she likes
them or not. Unfortunately, poor dear, she has been so little accustomed
to be contradicted."
"Well, then, it is high time she should begin; for contradicted, sooner
or later, we all of us are certain to be. Seriously, again, my dear,
good Lettice--I must call you Lettice--your innocence of heart prevents
you from knowing what snares surround a beautiful young woman like your
sister. I like you best, I own; but I have thought much more of her fate
than yours, upon that account. Such a situation as is offered to you she
evidently is quite unfit to fill: but I went--the very day Catherine and
I came to your lodgings and saw you both--to my good friend Mrs. Fisher,
and, with great difficulty, have persuaded her at last to take your
sister. She disliked the idea very much; but she's an excellent woman:
and when I represented to her the peculiar circumstances of the case,
she promised she would consider the matter. She took a week to consider
of it--for she is a very cautious person is Mrs. Fisher; and some people
call her very cold and severe. However, she has decided in our favor, as
I expected she would. Her compassion always gets the better of her
prudence, when the two are at issue. And so you would not dislike to go
to Mrs. Melwyn's?"
"How could I? Why, after what we have suffered, it must be like going
into Paradise."
"Nay, nay--a little too fast. No dependent situation is ever exactly a
Paradise. I should be sorry you saw things in a false light, and should
be disappointed."
"Oh, no, I do not wish to do that--I don't think--thank you for the
great kindness and interest you are so kind as to show by this last
remark--but I think I never in my life enjoyed one day of unmixed
happiness since I was quite a little child; and I have got so entirely
into the habit of thinking that every thing in the world goes so--that
when I say Paradise, or quite happy, or so on, it is always in a certain
sense--a comparative sense."
"I am glad to see you so reasonable--that is one sure way to be happy;
but you will find your crosses at the Hazels. The general is not very
sweet-tempered; and even dear mild Mrs. Melwyn is not perfect."
"Why, madam, what am I to expect? If I can not bear a few disagreeable
things, what do I go there for? Not to be fed, and housed, and paid at
other people's expense, just that I may please my own humors all the
time. That _would_ be rather an unfair bargain, I think. No: I own there
are some things I could not and would not bear for any consideration;
but there are a great many others that I can, and I shall, and I
will--and do my best, too, to make happy, and be happy; and, in short, I
don't feel the least afraid."
"No more you need--you right-spirited creature," said Mrs. Danvers,
cordially.
* * * * *
Many were the difficulties, endless the objections raised by Myra
against the proposed plan of going to Mrs. Fisher. Such people's
objections and difficulties are indeed endless. In their weakness and
their selfishness, they _like_ to be objects of pity--they take a
comfort in bothering and wearying people with their interminable
complaints. Theirs is not the sacred outbreak of the overloaded
heart--casting itself upon another heart for support and consolation
under suffering that is too strong and too bitter to be endured alone.
Sacred call for sympathy and consolation, and rarely made in vain! It is
the wearying and futile attempt to cast the burden of sorrow and
suffering upon others, instead of seeking their assistance in enduring
it one's self. Vain and useless endeavor, and which often bears hard
upon the sympathy even of the kindest and truest hearts!
Ineffectually did Lettice endeavor to represent matters under a cheerful
aspect. Nothing was of any avail. Myra would persist in lamenting, and
grieving, and tormenting herself and her sister; bewailing the cruel
fate of both--would persist in recapitulating every objection which
could be made to the plan, and every evil consequence which could
possibly ensue. Not that she had the slightest intention in the world of
refusing her share in it, if she would have suffered herself to say so.
She rather liked the idea of going to that fashionable _modiste_, Mrs.
Fisher: she had the "_ame de dentelle_" with which Napoleon reproached
poor Josephine. There was something positively delightful to her
imagination in the idea of dwelling among rich silks, Brussels laces,
ribbons, and feathers; it was to her what woods, and birds, and trees
were to her sister. She fancied herself elegantly dressed, walking about
a show-room, filled with all sorts of beautiful things; herself,
perhaps, the most beautiful thing in it, and the object of a sort of
flattering interest, through the melancholy cloud "upon her fine
features." Nay, her romantic imagination traveled still
farther--gentlemen sometimes come up with ladies to show-rooms,--who
could tell? Love at first sight was not altogether a dream. Such things
_had_ happened.... Myra had read plenty of old, rubbishy novels when she
was a girl.
Such were the comfortable thoughts she kept to herself; but it was, as I
said, one endless complaining externally.
Catherine insisted upon being allowed to advance the money for the
necessary clothes, which, to satisfy the delicacy of the one and the
pride of the other, she agreed should be repaid by installments as their
salaries became due. The sale of their few possessions put a sovereign
or so into the pocket of each, and thus the sisters parted; the lovely
Myra to Mrs. Fisher's, and Lettice, by railway, to the Hazels.
(_To be continued._)
ERUPTION OF MOUNT ETNA IN 1669.
"For many days previous the sky had been overcast, and the weather,
notwithstanding the season, oppressively hot. The thunder and lightning
were incessant, and the eruption was at length ushered in by a violent
shock of an earthquake, which leveled most of the houses at Nicolosi.
Two great chasms then opened near that village, from whence ashes were
thrown out in such quantities, that, in a few weeks, a double hill,
called Monte Rosso, 450 feet high, was formed, and the surrounding
country covered to such a depth, that, nothing but the tops of the trees
could be seen. The lava ran in a stream fifty feet deep, and four miles
wide, overwhelming in its course fourteen towns and villages; and had it
not separated before reaching Catania, that city would have been
virtually annihilated as were Herculaneum and Pompeii. The walls had
been purposely raised to a height of sixty feet, to repel the danger if
possible, but the torrent accumulated behind them, and poured down in a
cascade of fire upon the town. It still continued to advance, and, after
a course of fifteen miles, ran into the sea, where it formed a mole 600
yards long. The walls were neither thrown down nor fused by contact with
the ignited matter, and have since been discovered by Prince Biscari,
when excavating in search of a well known to have existed in a certain
spot, and from the steps of which the lava may now be seen curling over
like a monstrous billow in the very act of falling.
"The great crater fell in during this eruption, and a fissure, six feet
wide and twelve miles long, opened in the plain of S. Leo. In the space
of six weeks, the habitations of 27,000 persons were destroyed, a vast
extent of the most fertile land rendered desolate for ages, the
course of rivers changed, and the whole face of the district
transformed."--_Marquis of Ormonde's Autumn in Sicily._
VOLCANIC ERUPTION--MOUNT ETNA IN 1849.
"The mass extended for a breadth of about 1000 paces, advancing
gradually, more or less rapidly according to the nature of the ground
over which it moved, but making steady progress. It had formed two
branches, one going in a northerly, and the other in a westerly
direction. No danger beyond loss of trees or crops was apprehended from
the former, but the second was moving in a direct line for the town of
Bronte, and to it we confined our attention. The townspeople, on their
part, had not been idle. I have before mentioned the clearance which
they made of their goods, but precautions had also been taken outside
the town, with a view, if possible, to arrest the progress of the lava;
and a very massive wall of coarse loose work was in the course of
erection across a valley down which the stream must flow. We heard
afterward, that the impelling power was spent before the strength of
this work was put to the test, but had it failed, Bronte had been lost.
It is not easy to convey by words any very accurate idea. The lava
appeared to be from thirty to forty feet in depth, and some notion of
its aspect and progress may be formed by imagining a hill of loose
stones of all sizes, the summit or brow of which is continually falling
to the base, and as constantly renewed by unseen pressure from behind.
Down it came in large masses, each leaving behind it a fiery track, as
the red-hot interior was for a moment or two exposed. The impression
most strongly left on my mind was that of its irresistible force. It did
not advance rapidly; there was no difficulty in approaching it, as I
did, closely, and taking out pieces of red-hot stone; the rattling of
the blocks overhead gave ample notice of their descent down the inclined
face of the stream, and a few paces to the rear, or aside, were quite
enough to take me quite clear of them; but still onward, onward it came,
foot by foot it encroached on the ground at its base, changing the whole
face of the country, leaving hills where formerly valleys had been,
overwhelming every work of man that it encountered in its progress, and
leaving all behind one black, rough, and monotonous mass of hard and
barren lava. It had advanced considerably during the night. On the
previous evening I had measured the distance from the base of the moving
hill to the walls of a deserted house which stood, surrounded by trees,
at about fifty yards off, and, though separated from it by a road,
evidently exposed to the full power of the stream. Not a trace of it was
now left, and it was difficult to make a guess at where it had been. The
owners of the adjacent lands were busied in all directions felling the
timber that stood in the line of the advancing fire, but they could not
in many instances do it fast enough to save their property from
destruction; and it was not a little interesting to watch the effect
produced on many a goodly tree, first thoroughly dried by the heat of
the mass, and, in a few minutes after it had been reached by the lava,
bursting into flames at the base, and soon prostrate and destroyed. It
being Sunday, all the population had turned out to see what progress the
enemy was making, and prayers and invocations to a variety of saints
were every where heard around. 'Chiamate Sant' Antonio, Signor,' said
one woman eagerly to me, 'per l'amor di Dio, chiamate la Santa Maria.'
Many females knelt around, absorbed in their anxiety and devotion, while
the men generally stood in silence gazing in dismay at the scene before
them. Our guide was a poor fiddler thrown out of employment by the
strict penance enjoined with a view to avert the impending calamity,
dancing and music being especially forbidden, even had any one under
such circumstances been inclined to indulge in them."
* * * * *
The Marquis of Ormonde was adventurous enough, despite the fate of
Empedocles and of Pliny, to ascend in the evening to see the Bocca di
Fuoco, which is at an elevation of about 6000 feet. The sight which met
his eyes was, he tells us, and we may well believe it, one of the
grandest and most awful it had ever been his fortune to witness:
"The evening had completely closed in, and it was perfectly dark,
so that there was nothing which could in any way injure or weaken
the effect. The only thing to which I can compare it is, as far
as can be judged from representations of such scenes, the blowing
up of some enormous vessel of war, the effect being permanent
instead of momentary only. Directly facing us was the chasm in
the mountain's side from which the lava flowed in a broad stream
of liquid fire; masses of it had been forced up on each side,
forming, as it got comparatively cool, black, uneven banks, the
whole realizing the poetic description of Phlegethon in the most
vivid manner. The flames ascended to a considerable height from
the abyss, and high above them the air was constantly filled with
large fiery masses, projected to a great height, and meeting on
their descent a fresh supply, the roar of the flames and crash of
the falling blocks being incessant. Advancing across a valley
which intervened, we ascended another hill, and here commanded a
view of the ground on which many of the ejected stones fell, and,
though well to windward, the small ashes fell thickly around us.
The light was sufficient, even at the distance we stood, to
enable us to read small print, and to write with the greatest
ease. The thermometer stood at about 40 deg., but, cold though it
was, it was some time before we could resolve to take our last
look at this extraordinary sight, and our progress, after we had
done so, was retarded by the constant stoppages made by us to
watch the beautiful effect of the light, as seen through the
_Bosco_, which we had entered on our return."--_Marquis of
Ormonde's Autumn in Sicily._
AMERICAN LITERATURE.
We believe it was M. l'Abbe Raynal who said that America had not yet
produced a single man of genius. The productions now under our notice
will do more to relieve her from this imputation than the reply of
President Jefferson:
"When we have existed," said that gentleman, "so long as the
Greeks did before they produced Homer, the Romans Virgil, the
French a Racine and a Voltaire, the English a Shakspeare and a
Milton, we shall inquire from what unfriendly causes it has
proceeded that the other countries of Europe, and quarters of the
earth, shall not have inscribed any poet of ours on the roll of
fame."
The ingenuity of this defense is more apparent than its truth; for
although the existence of America, as a separate nation, is
comparatively recent, it must not be forgotten that the origin of her
people is identical with that of our own. Their language is the same;
they have always had advantages in regard of literature precisely
similar to those which we now enjoy; they have free trade, and a little
more, in all our best standard authors. There is, therefore, no analogy
whatever between their condition and that of the other nations with whom
the attempt has been made to contrast them. With a literature
ready-made, as it were, to their hand, America had never to contend
against any difficulties such as they encountered. Beyond the ballads of
the Troubadours and Trouveres, France had no stock either of literature
or of traditions to begin upon; the language of Rome was foreign to its
people; Greece had but the sixteen letters of Cadmus; the literature of
England struggled through the rude chaos of Anglo-Saxon, Norman, French,
and monkish Latin. If these difficulties in pursuit of knowledge be
compared with the advantages of America, we think it must be admitted
that the president had the worst of the argument.
But although America enjoys all these advantages, it can not be denied
that her social condition presents impediments of a formidable character
toward the cultivation of the higher and more refined branches of
literature. Liberty, equality, and fraternity are not quite so favorable
to the cultivation of elegant tastes as might be imagined; where every
kind of social rank is obliterated, the field of observation, which is
the province of fiction, becomes proportionately narrow; and although
human nature must be the same under every form of government, the
liberty of a thorough democracy by no means compensates for its
vulgarity. It might be supposed that the very obliteration of all grades
of rank, and the consequent impossibility of acquiring social
distinction, would have a direct tendency to turn the efforts of genius
in directions where the acquisition of fame might be supposed to
compensate for more substantial rewards; and when men could no longer
win their way to a coronet, they would redouble their exertions to
obtain the wreath. The history of literature, however, teaches us the
reverse: its most brilliant lights have shone in dark and uncongenial
times. Amid the clouds of bigotry and oppression, in the darkest days of
tyranny and demoralization, their lustre has been the most brilliant.
Under the luxurious tyranny of the empire, Virgil and Horace sang their
immortal strains; the profligacy of Louis the Fourteenth produced a
Voltaire and a Rosseau; amid the oppression of his country grew and
flourished the gigantic intellect of Milton; Ireland, in the darkest
times of her gloomy history, gave birth to the imperishable genius of
Swift; it was less the liberty of Athens than the tyranny of Philip,
which made Demosthenes an orator; and of the times which produced our
great dramatists it is scarcely necessary to speak. The proofs, in
short, are numberless. Be this, however, as it may, the character of
American literature which has fallen under our notice must demonstrate
to every intelligent mind, what immense advantages she has derived from
those sources which the advocates of her claims would endeavor to
repudiate. There is scarcely a page which does not contain evidence how
largely she has availed herself of the learning and labors of others.
We do not blame her for this; far from it. We only say that, having
reaped the benefit, it is unjust to deny the obligation; and that in
discussing her literary pretensions, the plea which has been put forward
in her behalf is untenable.--_Dublin University Magazine._
MILKING IN AUSTRALIA.
This is a very serious operation. First, say at four o'clock in the
morning, you drive the cows into the stock-yard, where the calves have
been penned up all the previous night in a hutch in one corner. Then you
have to commence a chase after the first cow, who, with a perversity
common to Australian females, expects to be pursued two or three times
round the yard, ankle deep in dust or mud, according to the season, with
loud halloas and a thick stick. This done, she generally proceeds up to
the _fail_, a kind of pillory, and permits her neck to be made fast. The
cow safe in the fail, her near hind leg is stretched out to its full
length, and tied to a convenient post with the universal cordage of
Australia, a piece of green hide. At this stage, in ordinary cases, the
milking commences; but it was one of the hobbies of Mr. Jumsorew, a
practice I have never seen followed in any other part of the colony,
that the cow's tail should be held tight during the operation. This
arduous duty I conscientiously performed for some weeks, until it
happened one day that a young heifer slipped her head out of an
ill-fastened fail, upset milkman and milkpail, charged the
head-stockman, who was unloosing the calves, to the serious damage of a
new pair of fustians, and ended, in spite of all my efforts, in clearing
the top rail of the stock-yard, leaving me flat and flabbergasted at the
foot of the fence.--_From "Scenes in the Life of a Bushman"
(Unpublished.)_
[From Household Words.]
LIZZIE LEIGH.
IN FOUR CHAPTERS.--CHAPTER I
When Death is present in a household on a Christmas Day, the very
contrast between the time as it now is, and the day as it has often
been, gives a poignancy to sorrow--a more utter blankness to the
desolation. James Leigh died just as the far-away bells of Rochdale
church were ringing for morning service on Christmas Day, 1836. A few
minutes before his death, he opened his already glazing eyes, and made a
sign to his wife, by the faint motion of his lips, that he had yet
something to say. She stooped close down, and caught the broken whisper,
"I forgive her, Anne! May God forgive me."
"Oh my love, my dear! only get well, and I will never cease showing my
thanks for those words. May God in heaven bless thee for saying them.
Thou'rt not so restless, my lad! may be--Oh God!"
For even while she spoke, he died.
They had been two-and-twenty years man and wife; for nineteen of those
years their life had been as calm and happy, as the most perfect
uprightness on the one side, and the most complete confidence and loving
submission on the other, could make it. Milton's famous line might have
been framed and hung up as the rule of their married life, for he was
truly the interpreter, who stood between God and her; she would have
considered herself wicked if she had ever dared even to think him
austere, though as certainly as he was an upright man, so surely was he
hard, stern, and inflexible. But for three years the moan and the murmur
had never been out of her heart; she had rebelled against her husband as
against a tyrant with a hidden, sullen rebellion, which tore up the old
landmarks of wifely duty and affection, and poisoned the fountains
whence gentlest love and reverence had once been forever springing.
But those last blessed words replaced him on his throne in her heart,
and called out penitent anguish for all the bitter estrangement of later
years. It was this which made her refuse all the entreaties of her sons,
that she would see the kind-hearted neighbors, who called on their way
from church, to sympathize and condole. No! she would stay with the dead
husband that had spoken tenderly at last, if for three years he had kept
silence; who knew but what, if she had only been more gentle and less
angrily reserved he might have relented earlier--and in time!
She sat rocking herself to and fro by the side of the bed, while the
footsteps below went in and out; she had been in sorrow too long to have
any violent burst of deep grief now; the furrows were well worn in her
cheeks, and the tears flowed quietly, if incessantly, all the day long.
But when the winter's night drew on, and the neighbors had gone away to
their homes, she stole to the window, and gazed out, long and
wistfully, over the dark, gray moors. She did not hear her son's voice,
as he spoke to her from the door, nor his footstep, as he drew nearer.
She started when he touched her.
"Mother! come down to us. There's no one but Will and me. Dearest
mother, we do so want you." The poor lad's voice trembled, and he began
to cry. It appeared to require an effort on Mrs. Leigh's part to tear
herself away from the window, but with a sigh she complied with his
request.
The two boys (for though Will was nearly twenty-one, she still thought
of him as a lad) had done every thing in their power to make the
house-place comfortable for her. She herself, in the old days before her
sorrow, had never made a brighter fire or a cleaner hearth, ready for
her husband's return home, than now awaited her. The tea-things were all
put out, and the kettle was boiling; and the boys had calmed their grief
down into a kind of sober cheerfulness. They paid her every attention
they could think of, but received little notice on her part; she did not
resist--she rather submitted to all their arrangements; but they did not
seem to touch her heart.
When tea was ended--it was merely the form of tea that had been gone
through--Will moved the things away to the dresser. His mother leant
back languidly in her chair.
"Mother, shall Tom read you a chapter? He's a better scholar than I."
"Ay, lad!" said she, almost eagerly. "That's it. Read me the Prodigal
Son. Ay, ay, lad. Thank thee."
Tom found the chapter, and read it in the high-pitched voice which is
customary in village-schools. His mother bent forward, her lips parted,
her eyes dilated; her whole body instinct with eager attention. Will sat
with his head depressed, and hung down. He knew why that chapter had
been chosen; and to him it recalled the family's disgrace. When the
reading was ended, he still hung down his head in gloomy silence. But
her face was brighter than it had been before for the day. Her eyes
looked dreamy, as if she saw a vision; and by and by she pulled the
Bible toward her, and putting her finger underneath each word, began to
read them aloud in a low voice to herself; she read again the words of
bitter sorrow and deep humiliation; but most of all she paused and
brightened over the father's tender reception of the repentant prodigal.
So passed the Christmas evening in the Upclose Farm.
The snow had fallen heavily over the dark waving moorland, before the
day of the funeral. The black, storm-laden dome of heaven lay very still
and close upon the white earth, as they carried the body forth out of
the house which had known his presence so long as its ruling power. Two
and two the mourners followed, making a black procession in their
winding march over the unbeaten snow, to Milne-row church--now lost in
some hollow of the bleak moors, now slowly climbing the heaving
ascents. There was no long tarrying after the funeral, for many of the
neighbors who accompanied the body to the grave had far to go, and the
great white flakes which came slowly down, were the boding forerunners
of a heavy storm. One old friend alone accompanied the widow and her
sons to their home.
The Upclose Farm had belonged for generations to the Leighs; and yet its
possession hardly raised them above the rank of laborers. There was the
house and outbuildings, all of an old-fashioned kind, and about seven
acres of barren, unproductive land, which they had never possessed
capital enough to improve; indeed, they could hardly rely upon it for
subsistence; and it had been customary to bring up the sons to some
trade--such as a wheelwright's, or blacksmith's.
James Leigh had left a will, in the possession of the old man who
accompanied them home. He read it aloud. James had bequeathed the farm
to his faithful wife, Anne Leigh, for her life-time; and afterward, to
his son William. The hundred and odd pounds in the savings'-bank was to
accumulate for Thomas.
After the reading was ended, Anne Leigh sat silent for a time; and then
she asked to speak to Samuel Orme alone. The sons went into the
back-kitchen, and thence strolled out into the fields, regardless of the
driving snow. The brothers were dearly fond of each other, although they
were very different in character. Will, the elder, was like his father,
stern, reserved, and scrupulously upright. Tom (who was ten years
younger) was gentle and delicate as a girl, both in appearance and
character. He had always clung to his mother and dreaded his father.
They did not speak as they walked, for they were only in the habit of
talking about facts, and hardly knew the more sophisticated language
applied to the description of feelings.
Meanwhile their mother had taken hold of Samuel Orme's arm with her
trembling hand.
"Samuel, I must let the farm--I must."
"Let the farm! What's come o'er the woman?"
"Oh, Samuel!" said she, her eyes swimming in tears, "I'm just fain to go
and live in Manchester. I mun let the farm."
Samuel looked and pondered, but did not speak for some time. At last he
said,
"If thou hast made up thy mind, there's no speaking again it; and thou
must e'en go. Thou'lt be sadly pottered wi' Manchester ways; but that's
not my look-out. Why, thou'lt have to buy potatoes, a thing thou hast
never done afore in all thy born life. Well! it's not my look-out. It's
rather for me than again me. Our Jenny is going to be married to Tom
Higginbotham, and he was speaking of wanting a bit of land to begin
upon. His father will be dying sometime, I reckon, and then he'll step
into the Croft Farm. But meanwhile--"
"Then, thou'lt let the farm," said she, still as eagerly as ever.
"Ay, ay, he'll take it fast enough, I've a notion. But I'll not drive a
bargain with thee just now; it would not be right; we'll wait a bit."
"No; I can not wait, settle it out at once."
"Well, well; I'll speak to Will about it. I see him out yonder. I'll
step to him, and talk it over."
Accordingly he went and joined the two lads, and without more ado, began
the subject to them.
"Will, thy mother is fain to go live in Manchester, and covets to let
the farm. Now, I'm willing to take it for Tom Higginbotham; but I like
to drive a keen bargain, and there would be no fun chaffering with thy
mother just now. Let thee and me buckle to, my lad! and try and cheat
each other; it will warm us this cold day."
"Let the farm!" said both the lads at once, with infinite surprise. "Go
live in Manchester!"
When Samuel Orme found that the plan had never before been named to
either Will or Tom, he would have nothing to do with it, he said, until
they had spoken to their mother; likely she was "dazed" by her husband's
death; he would wait a day or two, and not name it to any one; not to
Tom Higginbotham himself, or may be he would set his heart upon it. The
lads had better go in and talk it over with their mother. He bade them
good day, and left them.
Will looked very gloomy, but he did not speak till they got near the
house. Then he said,
"Tom, go to th' shippon, and supper the cows. I want to speak to mother
alone."
When he entered the house-place, she was sitting before the fire,
looking into its embers. She did not hear him come in; for some time she
had lost her quick perception of outward things.
"Mother! what's this about going to Manchester?" asked he.
"Oh, lad!" said she, turning round and speaking in a beseeching tone, "I
must go and seek our Lizzie. I can not rest here for thinking on her.
Many's the time I've left thy father sleeping in bed, and stole to th'
window, and looked and looked my heart out toward Manchester, till I
thought I must just set out and tramp over moor and moss straight away
till I got there, and then lift up every downcast face till I came to
our Lizzie. And often, when the south wind was blowing soft among the
hollows, I've fancied (it could but be fancy, thou knowest) I heard her
crying upon me; and I've thought the voice came closer and closer, till
it last it was sobbing out "Mother" close to the door; and I've stolen
down, and undone the latch before now, and looked out into the still,
black night, thinking to see her, and turned sick and sorrowful when I
heard no living sound but the sough of the wind dying away. Oh! speak
not to me of stopping here, when she may be perishing for hunger, like
the poor lad in the parable." And now she lifted up her voice and wept
aloud.
Will was deeply grieved. He had been old enough to be told the family
shame when, more than two years before, his father had had his letter to
his daughter returned by her mistress in Manchester, telling him that
Lizzie had left her service some time--and why. He had sympathized with
his father's stern anger; though he had thought him something hard, it
is true, when he had forbidden his weeping, heart-broken wife to go and
try to find her poor sinning child, and declared that henceforth they
would have no daughter; that she should be as one dead; and her name
never more be named at market or at meal-time, in blessing or in prayer.
He had held his peace, with compressed lips and contracted brow, when
the neighbors had noticed to him how poor Lizzie's death had aged both
his father and his mother; and how they thought the bereaved couple
would never hold up their heads again. He himself had felt as if that
one event had made him old before his time; and had envied Tom the tears
he had shed over poor, pretty, innocent, dead Lizzie. He thought about
her sometimes, till he ground his teeth together, and could have struck
her down in her shame. His mother had never named her to him until now.
"Mother!" said he at last. "She may be dead. Most likely she is."
"No, Will; she is not dead," said Mrs. Leigh. "God will not let her die
till I've seen her once again. Thou dost not know how I've prayed and
prayed just once again to see her sweet face, and tell her I've forgiven
her, though she's broken my heart--she has, Will." She could not go on
for a minute or two for the choking sobs. "Thou dost not know that, or
thou wouldst not say she could be dead--for God is very merciful, Will;
He is--He is much more pitiful than man--I could never ha' spoken to thy
father as I did to Him--and yet thy father forgave her at last. The last
words he said were that he forgave her. Thou'lt not be harder than thy
father, Will? Do not try and hinder me going to seek her, for it's no
use."
Will sat very still for a long time before he spoke. At last he said,
"I'll not hinder you. I think she's dead, but that's no matter."
"She is not dead," said her mother, with low earnestness. Will took no
notice of the interruption.
"We will all go to Manchester for a twelvemonth, and let the farm to Tom
Higginbotham. I'll get blacksmith's work; and Tom can have good
schooling for awhile, which he's always craving for. At the end of the
year you'll come back, mother, and give over fretting for Lizzie and
think with me that she is dead--and to my mind, that would be more
comfort than to think of her living;" he dropped his voice as he spoke
these last words. She shook her head, but made no answer. He asked
again,
"Will you, mother, agree to this?"
"I'll agree to it a-this-ons," said she. "If I hear and see naught of
her for a twelvemonth me being in Manchester looking out, I'll just ha'
broken my heart fairly before the year's ended, and then I shall know
neither love nor sorrow for her any more, when I'm at rest in the
grave--I'll agree to that, Will."
"Well, I suppose it must be so. I shall not tell Tom, mother, why we're
flitting to Manchester. Best spare him."
"As thou wilt," said she, sadly, "so that we go, that's all."
Before the wild daffodils were in flower in the sheltered copses round
Upclose Farm, the Leighs were settled in their Manchester home; if they
could ever grow to consider that place as a home, where there was no
garden, or outbuilding, no fresh breezy outlet, no far-stretching view,
over moor and hollow--no dumb animals to be tended, and, what more than
all they missed, no old haunting memories, even though those
remembrances told of sorrow, and the dead and gone.
Mrs. Leigh heeded the loss of all these things less than her sons. She
had more spirit in her countenance than she had had for months, because
now she had hope; of a sad enough kind, to be sure, but still it was
hope. She performed all her household duties, strange and complicated as
they were, and bewildered as she was with all the town-necessities of
her new manner of life; but when her house was "sided," and the boys
come home from their work, in the evening, she would put on her things
and steal out, unnoticed, as she thought, but not without many a heavy
sigh from Will, after she had closed the house-door and departed. It was
often past midnight before she came back, pale and weary, with almost a
guilty look upon her face; but that face so full of disappointment and
hope deferred, that Will had never the heart to say what he thought of
the folly and hopelessness of the search. Night after night it was
renewed, till days grew to weeks, and weeks to months. All this time
Will did his duty toward her as well as he could, without having
sympathy with her. He staid at home in the evenings for Tom's sake, and
often wished he had Tom's pleasure in reading, for the time hung heavy
on his hands, as he sat up for his mother.
I need not tell you how the mother spent the weary hours. And yet I will
tell you something. She used to wander out, at first as if without a
purpose, till she rallied her thoughts, and brought all her energies to
bear on the one point; then she went with earnest patience along the
least known ways to some new part of the town, looking wistfully with
dumb entreaty into people's faces; sometimes catching a glimpse of a
figure which had a kind of momentary likeness to her child's, and
following that figure with never wearying perseverance, till some light
from shop or lamp showed the cold, strange face which was not her
daughter's. Once or twice a kind-hearted passer-by, struck by her look
of yearning woe, turned back and offered help, or asked her what she
wanted. When so spoken to, she answered only, "You don't know a poor
girl they call Lizzie Leigh, do you?" and when they denied all
knowledge, she shook her head and went on again. I think they believed
her to be crazy. But she never spoke first to any one. She sometimes
took a few minutes' rest on the door-steps, and sometimes (very seldom)
covered her face and cried; but she could not afford to lose time and
chances in this way; while her eyes were blinded with tears, the lost
one might pass by unseen.
One evening, in the rich time of shortening autumn-days, Will saw an old
man, who, without being absolutely drunk, could not guide himself
rightly along the foot-path, and was mocked for his unsteadiness of gait
by the idle boys of the neighborhood. For his father's sake, Will
regarded old age with tenderness, even when most degraded and removed
from the stern virtues which dignified that father; so he took the old
man home, and seemed to believe his often-repeated assertions that he
drank nothing but water. The stranger tried to stiffen himself up into
steadiness as he drew nearer home, as if there were some one there, for
whose respect he cared even in his half-intoxicated state, or whose
feelings he feared to grieve. His home was exquisitely clean and neat
even in outside appearance; threshold, window, and window-sill, were
outward signs of some spirit of purity within. Will was rewarded for his
attention by a bright glance of thanks, succeeded by a blush of shame,
from a young woman of twenty or thereabouts. She did not speak, or
second her father's hospitable invitation to him to be seated. She
seemed unwilling that a stranger should witness her father's attempts at
stately sobriety, and Will could not bear to stay and see her distress.
But when the old man, with many a flabby shake of the hand, kept asking
him to come again some other evening and see them, Will sought her
downcast eyes, and, though he could not read their vailed meaning, he
answered, timidly, "If it's agreeable to every body, I'll come--and
thank ye." But there was no answer from the girl to whom this speech was
in reality addressed; and Will left the house, liking her all the better
for never speaking.
He thought about her a great deal for the next day or two; he scolded
himself for being so foolish as to think of her, and then fell to with
fresh vigor, and thought of her more than ever. He tried to depreciate
her; he told himself she was not pretty, and then made indignant answer
that he liked her looks much better than any beauty of them all. He
wished he was not so country-looking, so red-faced, so broad-shouldered;
while she was like a lady, with her smooth, colorless complexion, her
bright dark hair, and her spotless dress. Pretty, or not pretty, she
drew his footsteps toward her; he could not resist the impulse that made
him wish to see her once more, and find out some fault which should
unloose his heart from her unconscious keeping. But there she was, pure
and maidenly as before. He sat and looked, answering her father at
cross-purposes, while she drew more and more into the shadow of the
chimney-corner out of sight. Then the spirit that possessed him (it was
not he himself, sure, that did so impudent a thing!) made him get up and
carry the candle to a different place, under the pretence of giving her
more light at her sewing, but, in reality, to be able to see her better;
she could not stand this much longer, but jumped up, and said she must
put her little niece to bed; and surely, there never was, before or
since, so troublesome a child of two years old; for, though Will staid
an hour and a half longer, she never came down again. He won the
father's heart, though, by his capacity as a listener, for some people
are not at all particular, and, so that they themselves may talk on
undisturbed, are not so unreasonable as to expect attention to what they
say.
Will did gather this much, however, from the old man's talk. He had once
been quite in a genteel line of business, but had failed for more money
than any greengrocer he had heard of: at least, any who did not mix up
fish and game with greengrocery proper. This grand failure seemed to
have been the event of his life, and one on which he dwelt with a
strange kind of pride. It appeared as if at present he rested from his
past exertions (in the bankrupt line), and depended on his daughter, who
kept a small school for very young children. But all these particulars
Will only remembered and understood, when he had left the house; at the
time he heard them, he was thinking of Susan. After he had made good his
footing at Mr. Palmer's, he was not long, you may be sure, without
finding some reason for returning again and again. He listened to her
father, he talked to the little niece, but he looked at Susan, both
while he listened and while he talked. Her father kept on insisting upon
his former gentility, the details of which would have appeared very
questionable to Will's mind, if the sweet, delicate, modest Susan had
not thrown an inexplicable air of refinement over all she came near. She
never spoke much: she was generally diligently at work; but when she
moved, it was so noiselessly, and when she did speak, it was in so low
and soft a voice, that silence, speech, motion, and stillness, alike
seemed to remove her high above Will's reach, into some saintly and
inaccessible air of glory--high above his reach, even as she knew him!
And, if she were made acquainted with the dark secret behind, of his
sister's shame, which was kept ever present to his mind by his mother's
nightly search among the outcast and forsaken, would not Susan shrink
away from him with loathing, as if he were tainted by the involuntary
relationship? This was his dread; and thereupon followed a resolution
that he would withdraw from her sweet company before it was too late. So
he resisted internal temptation, and staid at home, and suffered and
sighed. He became angry with his mother for her untiring patience in
seeking for one who, he could not help hoping, was dead rather than
alive. He spoke sharply to her, and received only such sad, deprecatory
answers as made him reproach himself, and still more lose sight of peace
of mind. This struggle could not last long without affecting his health;
and Tom, his sole companion through the long evenings, noticed his
increasing languor, his restless irritability, with perplexed anxiety,
and at last resolved to call his mother's attention to his brother's
haggard, care-worn looks. She listened with a startled recollection of
Will's claims upon her love. She noticed his decreasing appetite, and
half-checked sighs.
"Will, lad! what's come o'er thee?" said she to him, as he sat
listlessly gazing into the fire.
"There's naught the matter with me," said he, as if annoyed at her
remark.
"Nay, lad, but there is." He did not speak again to contradict her;
indeed she did not know if he had heard her, so unmoved did he look.
"Would'st like to go back to Upclose Farm?" asked she, sorrowfully.
"It's just blackberrying time," said Tom.
Will shook his head. She looked at him a while, as if trying to read
that expression of despondency and trace it back to its source.
"Will and Tom could go," said she; "I must stay here till I've found
her, thou know'st," continued she, dropping her voice.
He turned quickly round, and with the authority he at all times
exercised over Tom, bade him begone to bed.
When Tom had left the room he prepared to speak.
CHAPTER II.
"Mother," then said Will, "why will you keep on thinking she's alive? If
she were but dead, we need never name her name again. We've never heard
naught on her since father wrote her that letter; we never knew whether
she got it or not. She'd left her place before then. Many a one dies
is--"
"Oh, my lad! dunnot speak so to me, or my heart will break outright,"
said his mother, with a sort of cry. Then she calmed herself, for she
yearned to persuade him to her own belief. "Thou never asked, and
thou'rt too like thy father for me to tell without asking--but it were
all to be near Lizzie's old place that I settled down on this side o'
Manchester; and the very day after we came, I went to her old missus,
and asked to speak a word wi' her. I had a strong mind to cast it up to
her, that she should ha' sent my poor lass away without telling on it to
us first; but she were in black, and looked so sad I could na' find in
my heart to threep it up. But I did ask her a bit about our Lizzie. The
master would have her turned away at a day's warning (he's gone to
t'other place; I hope he'll meet wi' more mercy there than he showed
our Lizzie--I do); and when the missus asked her should she write to us,
she says Lizzie shook her head; and when she speered at her again, the
poor lass went down on her knees, and begged her not, for she said it
would break my heart (as it has done, Will--God knows it has)," said the
poor mother, choking with her struggle to keep down her hard,
overmastering grief, "and her father would curse her--Oh, God, teach me
to be patient." She could not speak for a few minutes. "And the lass
threatened, and said she'd go drown herself in the canal, if the missus
wrote home--and so--
"Well! I'd got a trace of my child--the missus thought she'd gone to th'
workhouse to be nursed; and there I went--and there, sure enough, she
had been--and they'd turned her out as soon as she were strong, and told
her she were young enough to work--but whatten kind o' work would be
open to her, lad, and her baby to keep?"
Will listened to his mother's tale with deep sympathy, not unmixed with
the old bitter shame. But the opening of her heart had unlocked his, and
after a while he spoke.
"Mother! I think I'd e'en better go home. Tom can stay wi' thee. I know
I should stay too, but I can not stay in peace so near--her--without
craving to see her--Susan Palmer, I mean."
"Has the old Mr. Palmer thou telled me on a daughter?" asked Mrs. Leigh.
"Ay, he has. And I love her above a bit. And it's because I love her I
want to leave Manchester. That's all."
Mrs. Leigh tried to understand this speech for some time, but found it
difficult of interpretation.
"Why should'st thou not tell her thou lov's her? Thou'rt a likely lad,
and sure o' work. Thou'lt have Upclose at my death; and as for that I
could let thee have it now, and keep mysel' by doing a bit of charring.
It seems to me a very backward sort o' way of winning her to think of
leaving Manchester."
"Oh, mother, she's so gentle and so good--she's downright holy. She's
never known a touch of sin; and can I ask her to marry me, knowing what
we do about Lizzie, and fearing worse! I doubt if one like her could
ever care for me; but if she knew about my sister, it would put a gulf
between us, and she'd shudder up at the thought of crossing it. You
don't know how good she is, mother!"
"Will, Will! if she's so good as thou say'st, she'll have pity on such
as my Lizzie. If she has no pity for such, she's a cruel Pharisee, and
thou'rt best without her."
But he only shook his head, and sighed; and for the time the
conversation dropped.
But a new idea sprang up in Mrs. Leigh's head. She thought that she
would go and see Susan Palmer, and speak up for Will, and tell her the
truth about Lizzie; and according to her pity for the poor sinner, would
she be worthy or unworthy of him. She resolved to go the very next
afternoon, but without telling any one of her plan. Accordingly she
looked out the Sunday clothes she had never before had the heart to
unpack since she came to Manchester, but which she now desired to appear
in, in order to do credit to Will. She put on her old-fashioned black
mode bonnet, trimmed with real lace; her scarlet cloth cloak, which she
had had ever since she was married; and always spotlessly clean, she set
forth on her unauthorized embassy. She knew the Palmers lived in
Crown-street, though where she had heard it she could not tell; and
modestly asking her way, she arrived in the street about a quarter to
four o'clock. She stopped to inquire the exact number, and the woman
whom she addressed told her that Susan Palmer's school would not be
loosed till four, and asked her to step in and wait until then at her
house.
"For," said she, smiling, "them that wants Susan Palmer wants a kind
friend of ours; so we, in a manner, call cousins. Sit down, missus, sit
down. I'll wipe the chair, so that it shanna dirty your cloak. My mother
used to wear them bright cloaks, and they're right gradely things again'
a green field."
"Han ye known Susan Palmer long?" asked Mrs. Leigh, pleased with the
admiration of her cloak.
"Ever since they comed to live in our street. Our Sally goes to her
school."
"Whatten sort of a lass is she, for I ha' never seen her?"
"Well, as for looks, I can not say. It's so long since I first knowed
her, that I've clean forgotten what I thought of her then. My master
says he never saw such a smile for gladdening the heart. But may be it's
not looks you're asking about. The best thing I can say of her looks is,
that she's just one a stranger would stop in the street to ask help from
if he needed it. All the little childer creeps as close as they can to
her; she'll have as many as three or four hanging to her apron all at
once."
"Is she cocket at all?"
"Cocket, bless you! you never saw a creature less set up in all your
life. Her father's cocket enough. No! she's not cocket any way. You've
not heard much of Susan Palmer, I reckon, if you think she's cocket.
She's just one to come quietly in, and do the very thing most wanted;
little things, maybe, that any one could do, but that few would think
on, for another. She'll bring her thimble wi' her, and mend up after the
childer o' nights--and she writes all Betty Harker's letters to her
grandchild out at service--and she's in nobody's way, and that's a great
matter, I take it. Here's the childer running past! School is loosed.
You'll find her now, missus, ready to hear and to help. But we none on
us frab her by going near her in schooltime."
Poor Mrs. Leigh's heart began to beat, and she could almost have turned
round and gone home again. Her country breeding had made her shy of
strangers, and this Susan Palmer appeared to her like a real born lady
by all accounts. So she knocked with a timid feeling at the indicated
door, and when it was opened, dropped a simple curtsey without speaking.
Susan had her little niece in her arms, curled up with fond endearment
against her breast, but she put her gently down to the ground, and
instantly placed a chair in the best corner of the room for Mrs. Leigh,
when she told her who she was.
"It's not Will as has asked me to come," said the mother,
apologetically, "I'd a wish just to speak to you myself!"
Susan colored up to her temples, and stooped to pick up the little
toddling girl. In a minute or two Mrs. Leigh began again.
"Will thinks you would na respect us if you knew all; but I think you
could na help feeling for us in the sorrow God has put upon us; so I
just put on my bonnet, and came off unknownst to the lads. Every one
says you're very good, and that the Lord has keeped you from falling
from His ways; but maybe you've never yet been tried and tempted as some
is. I'm perhaps speaking too plain, but my heart's welly broken, and I
can't be choice in my words as them who are happy can. Well, now! I'll
tell you the truth. Will dreads you to hear it, but I'll just tell it
you. You mun know"--but here the poor woman's words failed her, and she
could do nothing but sit rocking herself backward and forward, with sad
eyes, straight-gazing into Susan's face, as if they tried to tell the
tale of agony which the quivering lips refused to utter. Those wretched
stony eyes forced the tears down Susan's cheeks, and, as if this
sympathy gave the mother strength, she went on in a low voice, "I had a
daughter once, my heart's darling. Her father thought I made too much on
her, and that she'd grow marred staying at home; so he said she mun go
among strangers, and learn to rough it. She were young, and liked the
thought of seeing a bit of the world; and her father heard on a place in
Manchester. Well! I'll not weary you. That poor girl were led astray;
and first thing we heard on it, was when a letter of her father's was
sent back by her missus, saying she'd left her place, or, to speak
right, the master had turned her into the street soon as he had heard of
her condition--and she not seventeen!"
She now cried aloud; and Susan wept too. The little child looked up into
their faces, and, catching their sorrow, began to whimper and wail.
Susan took it softly up, and hiding her face in its little neck, tried
to restrain her tears, and think of comfort for the mother. At last she
said:
"Where is she now?"
"Lass! I dunnot know," said Mrs. Leigh, checking her sobs to communicate
this addition to her distress. "Mrs. Lomax telled me she went--"
"Mrs. Lomax--what Mrs. Lomax?"
"Her as lives in Brabazon-street. She telled me my poor wench went to
the workhouse fra there. I'll not speak again' the dead; but if her
father would but ha' letten me--but he were one who had no notion--no,
I'll not say that; best say naught. He forgave her on his death-bed. I
dare say I did na go th' right way to work."
"Will you hold the child for me one instant?" said Susan.
"Ay, if it will come to me. Childer used to be fond on me till I got the
sad look on my face that scares them, I think."
But the little girl clung to Susan; so she carried it up-stairs with
her. Mrs. Leigh sat by herself--how long she did not know.
Susan came down with a bundle of far-worn baby-clothes.
"You must listen to me a bit, and not think too much about what I'm
going to tell you. Nanny is not my niece, nor any kin to me that I know
of. I used to go out working by the day. One night, as I came home, I
thought some woman was following me; I turned to look. The woman, before
I could see her face (for she turned it to one side), offered me
something. I held out my arms by instinct: she dropped a bundle into
them with a bursting sob that went straight to my heart. It was a baby.
I looked round again; but the woman was gone. She had run away as quick
as lightning. There was a little packet of clothes--very few--and as if
they were made out of its mother's gowns, for they were large patterns
to buy for a baby. I was always fond of babies; and I had not my wits
about me, father says; for it was very cold, and when I'd seen as well
as I could (for it was past ten) that there was no one in the street, I
brought it in and warmed it. Father was very angry when he came, and
said he'd take it to the workhouse the next morning, and flyted me sadly
about it. But when morning came I could not bear to part with it; it had
slept in my arms all night; and I've heard what workhouse bringing is.
So I told father I'd give up going out working, and stay at home and
keep school, if I might only keep the baby; and after a while, he said
if I earned enough for him to have his comforts, he'd let me; but he's
never taken to her. Now, don't tremble so--I've but a little more to
tell--and may be I'm wrong in telling it; but I used to work next door
to Mrs. Lomax's, in Brabazon-street, and the servants were all thick
together; and I heard about Bessy (they called her) being sent away. I
don't know that ever I saw her; but the time would be about fitting to
this child's age, and I've sometimes fancied it was hers. And now, will
you look at the little clothes that came with her--bless her!"
But Mrs. Leigh had fainted. The strange joy and shame, and gushing love
for the little child had overpowered her; it was some time before Susan
could bring her round. There she was all trembling, sick impatience to
look at the little frocks. Among them was a slip of paper which Susan
had forgotten to name, that had been pinned to the bundle. On it was
scrawled in a round stiff hand:
"Call her Anne. She does not cry much, and takes a deal of notice. God
bless you and forgive me."
The writing was no clew at all; the name "Anne," common though it was,
seemed something to build upon. But Mrs. Leigh recognized one of the
frocks instantly, as being made out of part of a gown that she and her
daughter had bought together in Rochdale.
She stood up, and stretched out her hands in the attitude of blessing
over Susan's bent head.
"God bless you, and show you his mercy in your need, as you have shown
it to this little child."
She took the little creature in her arms, and smoothed away her sad
looks to a smile, and kissed it fondly, saying over and over again,
"Nanny, Nanny, my little Nanny." At last the child was soothed, and
looked in her face and smiled back again.
"It has her eyes," said she to Susan.
"I never saw her to the best of my knowledge I think it must be hers by
the frock. But where can she be?"
"God knows," said Mrs. Leigh; "I dare not think she's dead. I'm sure she
isn't."
"No! she's not dead. Every now and then a little packet is thrust in
under our door, with may be two half-crowns in it; once it was
half-a-sovereign. Altogether I've got seven-and-thirty shillings wrapped
up for Nanny. I never touch it, but I've often thought the poor mother
feels near to God when she brings this money. Father wanted to set the
policeman to watch, but I said, No, for I was afraid if she was watched
she might not come, and it seemed such a holy thing to be checking her
in, I could not find in my heart to do it."
"Oh, if we could but find her! I'd take her in my arms, and we'd just
lie down and die together."
"Nay, don't speak so!" said Susan gently, "for all that's come and gone,
she may turn right at last. Mary Magdalen did, you know."
"Eh! but I were nearer right about thee than Will. He thought you would
never look on him again, if you knew about Lizzie. But thou'rt not a
Pharisee."
"I'm sorry he thought I could be so hard," said Susan in a low voice,
and coloring up. Then Mrs. Leigh was alarmed, and in her motherly
anxiety, she began to fear lest she had injured Will in Susan's
estimation.
"You see Will thinks so much of you--gold would not be good enough for
you to walk on, in his eye. He said you'd never look at him as he was,
let alone his being brother to my poor wench. He loves you so, it makes
him think meanly on every thing belonging to himself, as not fit to come
near ye--but he's a good lad, and a good son--thou'lt be a happy woman
if thou'lt have him--so don't let my words go against him; don't!"
But Susan hung her head and made no answer. She had not known until now,
that Will thought so earnestly and seriously about her; and even now she
felt afraid that Mrs. Leigh's words promised her too much happiness, and
that they could not be true. At any rate the instinct of modesty made
her shrink from saying any thing which might seem like a confession of
her own feelings to a third person. Accordingly she turned the
conversation on the child.
"I'm sure he could not help loving Nanny," said she. "There never was
such a good little darling; don't you think she'd win his heart if he
knew she was his niece, and perhaps bring him to think kindly on his
sister?"
"I dunnot know," said Mrs. Leigh, shaking her head. "He has a turn in
his eye like his father, that makes me--. He's right down good though.
But you see I've never been a good one at managing folk; one severe look
turns me sick, and then I say just the wrong thing, I'm so fluttered.
Now I should like nothing better than to take Nancy home with me, but
Tom knows nothing but that his sister is dead, and I've not the knack of
speaking rightly to Will. I dare not do it, and that's the truth. But
you mun not think badly of Will. He's so good hissel, that he can't
understand how any one can do wrong; and, above all, I'm sure he loves
you dearly."
"I don't think I could part with Nancy," said Susan, anxious to stop
this revelation of Will's attachment to herself. "He'll come round to
her soon; he can't fail; and I'll keep a sharp look-out after the poor
mother, and try and catch her the next time she comes with her little
parcels of money."
"Ay, lass! we mun get hold of her; my Lizzie. I love thee dearly for thy
kindness to her child; but, if thou can'st catch her for me, I'll pray
for thee when I'm too near my death to speak words; and while I live,
I'll serve thee next to her--she mun come first, thou know'st. God bless
thee, lass. My heart is lighter by a deal than it was when I comed in.
Them lads will be looking for me home, and I mun go, and leave this
little sweet one," kissing it. "If I can take courage, I'll tell Will
all that has come and gone between us two. He may come and see thee,
mayn't he?"
"Father will be very glad to see him, I'm sure," replied Susan. The way
in which this was spoken satisfied Mrs. Leigh's anxious heart that she
had done Will no harm by what she had said; and with many a kiss to the
little one, and one more fervent tearful blessing on Susan, she went
homeward.
CHAPTER III.
That night Mrs. Leigh stopped at home; that only night for many months.
Even Tom, the scholar, looked up from his books in amazement; but then
he remembered that Will had not been well, and that his mother's
attention having been called to the circumstance, it was only natural
she should stay to watch him. And no watching could be more tender, or
more complete. Her loving eyes seemed never averted from his face; his
grave, sad, care-worn face. When Tom went to bed the mother left her
seat, and going up to Will where he sat looking at the fire, but not
seeing it, she kissed his forehead, and said,
"Will! lad, I've been to see Susan Palmer!"
She felt the start under her hand which was placed on his shoulder, but
he was silent for a minute or two. Then he said,
"What took you there, mother?"
"Why, my lad, it was likely I should wish to see one you cared for; I
did not put myself forward. I put on my Sunday clothes, and tried to
behave as yo'd ha liked me. At least I remember trying at first; but
after, I forgot all."
She rather wished that he would question her as to what made her forget
all. But he only said,
"How was she looking, mother?"
"Will, thou seest I never set eyes on her before; but she's a good,
gentle-looking creature; and I love her dearly as I have reason to."
Will looked up with momentary surprise; for his mother was too shy to be
usually taken with strangers. But after all it was natural in this case,
for who could look at Susan without loving her? So still he did not ask
any questions, and his poor mother had to take courage, and try again to
introduce the subject near to her heart. But how?
"Will!" said she (jerking it out, in sudden despair of her own powers to
lead to what she wanted to say), "I've telled her all."
"Mother! you've ruined me," said he, standing up, and standing opposite
to her with a stern, white look of affright on his face.
"No! my own dear lad; dunnot look so scared, I have not ruined you!" she
exclaimed, placing her two hands on his shoulders and looking fondly
into his face. "She's not one to harden her heart against a mother's
sorrow. My own lad, she's too good for that. She's not one to judge and
scorn the sinner. She's too deep read in her New Testament for that.
Take courage, Will; and thou mayst, for I watched her well, though it is
not for one woman to let out another's secret. Sit thee down, lad, for
thou look'st very white."
He sat down. His mother drew a stool toward him, and sat at his feet.
"Did you tell her about Lizzie, then?" asked he, hoarse and low.
"I did, I telled her all; and she fell a crying over my deep sorrow, and
the poor wench's sin. And then a light comed into her face, trembling
and quivering with some new, glad thought; and what dost thou think it
was, Will, lad? Nay, I'll not misdoubt but that thy heart will give
thanks as mine did, afore God and His angels, for her great goodness.
That little Nanny is not her niece, she's our Lizzie's own child, my
little grandchild." She could no longer restrain her tears, and they
fell hot and fast, but still she looked into his face.
"Did she know it was Lizzie's child? I do not comprehend," said he,
flushing red.
"She knows now: she did not at first, but took the little helpless
creature in, out of her own pitiful, loving heart, guessing only that
it was the child of shame, and she's worked for it, and kept it, and
tended it ever sin' it were a mere baby, and loves it fondly. Will!
won't you love it?" asked she, beseechingly.
He was silent for an instant; then he said, "Mother, I'll try. Give me
time, for all these things startle me. To think of Susan having to do
with such a child!"
"Ay, Will! and to think (as may be yet) of Susan having to do with the
child's mother! For she is tender and pitiful, and speaks hopefully of
my lost one, and will try and find her for me, when she comes, as she
does sometimes, to thrust money under the door for her baby. Think of
that Will. Here's Susan, good and pure as the angels in heaven, yet,
like them, full of hope and mercy, and one who, like them, will rejoice
over her as repents. Will, my lad, I'm not afeared of you now, and I
must speak, and you must listen. I am your mother, and I dare to command
you, because I know I am in the right and that God is on my side. If He
should lead the poor wandering lassie to Susan's door, and she comes
back crying and sorrowful, led by that good angel to us once more, thou
shalt never say a casting-up word to her about her sin, but be tender
and helpful toward one 'who was lost and is found,' so may God's
blessing rest on thee, and so mayst thou lead Susan home as thy wife."
She stood, no longer as the meek, imploring, gentle mother, but firm and
dignified, as if the interpreter of God's will. Her manner was so
unusual and solemn, that it overcame all Will's pride and stubbornness.
He rose softly while she was speaking, and bent his head as if in
reverence at her words, and the solemn injunction which they conveyed.
When she had spoken, he said in so subdued a voice that she was almost
surprised at the sound, "Mother, I will."
"I may be dead and gone--but all the same--thou wilt take home the
wandering sinner, and heal up her sorrows, and lead her to her Father's
house. My lad! I can speak no more; I'm turned very faint."
He placed her in a chair; he ran for water. She opened her eyes and
smiled.
"God bless you, Will. Oh! I am so happy. It seems as if she were found;
my heart is so filled with gladness."
That night, Mr. Palmer staid out late and long. Susan was afraid that he
was at his old haunts and habits--getting tipsy at some public-house;
and this thought oppressed her, even though she had so much to make her
happy, in the consciousness that Will loved her. She sat up long, and
then she went to bed, leaving all arranged as well as she could for her
father's return. She looked at the little, rosy sleeping girl who was
her bed-fellow, with redoubled tenderness, and with many a prayerful
thought. The little arms entwined her neck as she lay down, for Nanny
was a light sleeper, and was conscious that she, who was loved with all
the power of that sweet childish heart, was near her, and by her,
although she was too sleepy to utter any of her half-formed words.
And by-and-by she heard her father come home, stumbling uncertain,
trying first the windows, and next the door-fastenings, with many a
loud, incoherent murmur. The little innocent twined around her seemed
all the sweeter and more lovely, when she thought sadly of her erring
father; And presently he called aloud for a light; she had left matches
and all arranged as usual on the dresser, but, fearful of some accident
from fire, in his unusually intoxicated state, she now got up softly,
and putting on a cloak, went down to his assistance.
Alas! the little arms that were unclosed from her soft neck belonged to
a light, easily awakened sleeper. Nanny missed her darling Susy, and
terrified at being left alone in the vast, mysterious darkness, which
had no bounds, and seemed infinite, she slipped out of bed, and tottered
in her little night-gown toward the door. There was a light below, and
there was Susy and safety! So she went onward two steps toward the
steep, abrupt stairs; and then dazzled with sleepiness, she stood, she
wavered, she fell! Down on her head, on the stone floor she fell! Susan
flew to her, and spoke all soft, entreating, loving words; but her white
lids covered, up the blue violets of eyes, and there was no murmur came
out of the pale lips. The warm tears that rained down, did not awaken
her; she lay stiff, and weary with her short life, on Susan's knee.
Susan went sick with terror. She carried her up-stairs, and laid her
tenderly in bed; she dressed herself most hastily, with her trembling
fingers. Her father was asleep on the settle down stairs; and useless,
and worse than useless if awake. But Susan flew out of the door, and
down the quiet, resounding street, toward the nearest doctor's house.
Quickly she went; but as quickly a shadow followed, as if impelled by
some sudden terror. Susan rung wildly at the night-bell--the shadow
crouched near. The doctor looked out from an up-stairs window.
"A little child has fallen down stairs at No. 9, Crown-street, and is
very ill--dying I'm afraid. Please, for God's sake, sir, come directly.
No. 9, Crown-street."
"I'll be there directly," said he, and shut the window.
"For that God you have just spoken about--for His sake--tell me are you
Susan Palmer? Is it my child that lies a-dying?" said the shadow,
springing forward, and clutching poor Susan's arm.
"It is a little child of two years old--I do not know whose it is; I
love it as my own. Come with me, whoever you are; come with me."
The two sped along the silent streets--as silent as the night were they.
They entered the house; Susan snatched up the light, and carried it
up-stairs. The other followed.
She stood with wild glaring eyes by the bed side, never looking at
Susan, but hungrily gazing at the little, white, still child. She
stooped down, and put her hand tight on her own heart, as if to still
its beating, and bent her ear to the pale lips. Whatever the result was,
she did not speak; but threw off the bed-clothes wherewith Susan had
tenderly covered up the little creature, and felt its left side.
Then she threw up her arms with a cry of wild despair.
"She is dead! she is dead!"
She looked so fierce, so mad, so haggard, that for an instant Susan was
terrified--the next, the holy God had put courage into her heart, and
her pure arms were round that guilty, wretched creature, and her tears
were falling fast and warm upon her breast. But she was thrown off with
violence.
"You killed her--you slighted her--you let her fall down those stairs!
you killed her!"
Susan cleared off the thick mist before her, and gazing at the mother
with her clear, sweet, angel-eyes, said, mournfully,
"I would have laid down my life for her."
"Oh, the murder is on my soul!" exclaimed the wild, bereaved mother,
with the fierce impetuosity of one who has none to love her and to be
beloved, regard to whom might teach self-restraint.
"Hush!" said Susan, her finger on her lips. "Here is the doctor. God may
suffer her to live."
The poor mother turned sharp round. The doctor mounted the stair. Ah!
that mother was right; the little child was really dead and gone.
And when he confirmed her judgment, the mother fell down in a fit.
Susan, with her deep grief had to forget herself, and forget her darling
(her charge for years), and question the doctor what she must do with
the poor wretch, who lay on the floor in such extreme of misery.
"She is the mother!" said she.
"Why did not she take better care of her child?" asked he, almost
angrily.
But Susan only said, "The little child slept with me; and it was I that
left her."
"I will go back and make up a composing draught; and while I am away you
must get her to bed."
Susan took out some of her own clothes, and softly undressed the stiff,
powerless, form. There was no other bed in the house but the one in
which her father slept. So she tenderly lifted the body of her darling;
and was going to take it down stairs, but the mother opened her eyes,
and seeing what she was about, she said,
"I am not worthy to touch her, I am so wicked; I have spoken to you as I
never should have spoken; but I think you are very good; may I have my
own child to lie in my arms for a little while?"
Her voice was so strange a contrast to what it had been before she had
gone into the fit that Susan hardly recognized it; it was now so
unspeakably soft, so irresistibly pleading, the features too had lost
their fierce expression, and were almost as placid as death. Susan
could not speak, but she carried the little child; and laid it in its
mother's arms; then as she looked at them, something overpowered her,
and she knelt down, crying aloud:
"Oh, my God, my God, have mercy on her, and forgive and comfort her."
But the mother kept smiling, and stroking the little face, murmuring
soft, tender words, as if it were alive; she was going mad, Susan
thought; but she prayed on, and on, and ever still she prayed with
streaming eyes.
The doctor came with the draught. The mother took it, with docile
unconsciousness of its nature as medicine. The doctor sat by her; and
soon she fell asleep. Then he rose softly, and beckoning Susan to the
door, he spoke to her there.