LITTLE NAN.
"Those whom God loves die young;
They see no evil days;
No falsehood taints their tongue,
No wickedness their ways.
"Baptized--and so made sure
To win their safe abode,
What can we pray for more?
They die, and are with God."
_Robert S. Hawker._
A few days after Dr. Stewart's garden visit Emmie came running up the
gravel walk at Brier wood Cottage with a frightened face. Queenie,
who was sitting in the porch as usual, put down her work rather
hurriedly.
"Oh, Queen, I do think something is the matter. Mr. Chester is
coming up this way, and he has got Nan in his arms, and she looks so
odd; I am sure she is ill or something."
"Is he bringing her here, or to Church-Stile House?" asked her sister
anxiously; but as she spoke Mr. Chester's tall figure came into
sight. In another moment there was a click of the little gate, and
he came rapidly up to them carrying his child.
"May I come in, Miss Marriott? the sun is so hot I dare not go up the
lane;" and, as Queenie nodded and made room for him to pass into
their cool little sitting-room, he continued in an agitated voice, "I
do not know what ails Nan, she has been sleepy and quiet for a long
time, and just now she turned very sick and poorly."
He had placed himself in the low chair by the window as he spoke, and
Queenie knelt down by him and examined the child. As she untied the
large white sun-bonnet Nan shrank from her rather restlessly.
"Nan did want to go home, father; Nan very sick," she answered,
hiding her face on his shoulder.
"That is what she keeps saying over and over again," he continued,
still more anxiously. "She was quite well when we left home this
morning; she and her little maid were chasing each other along the
lanes, pelting each other with poppies. I thought she was only tired
and wanted to be carried; I can't understand this sickness and
drowsiness all at once. Do you think, Miss Marriott, that it could
possibly be a sunstroke?"
"I don't know; her eyes certainly look very odd," returned Queenie in
great perplexity.
"Oh, father! Nan is so very tired," moaned the little creature
again, creeping closer to his broad breast. "Ellen did say it was
naughty to eat the pretty currants; but Nan is good now, only so
sick."
"Have you any pain, my darling?" he asked, bending over her.
"No; no pain, only Nan so tired," she repeated, in the most pathetic
voice. Mr. Chester looked appealingly at Queenie.
"I am afraid she is very ill," she returned reluctantly, for there
was a strange look about the child that alarmed her. "Emmie dear,
tell Patience to go and fetch Dr. Stewart at once, and you run across
for Langley."
"Aye, we must have Langley," he repeated helplessly, looking down at
his pet. Nan had left off her moaning and seemed sinking into
drowsiness.
"Will she let me undress her and lay her in Emmie's bed? she will be
more comfortable than in your arms;" but, as Nan stirred uneasily and
murmured "Father; Nan cannot leave father," Mr. Chester was obliged
to carry her up himself. But even when he placed her on the cool
pillow she still held his hand tightly.
"Father will not leave his pet; don't be afraid, my darling."
When Langley arrived she found him still hanging over the child. Nan
seemed sleeping; her dark eyelashes swept her cheek; one small hand
was folded in her father's.
"This sleep will do her good. It must have been the sun that made
her feel sick," he said, looking up at Langley with a relieved
expression. Langley put back the long silky hair from the child's
forehead, but did not answer. Some chill presentiment for which she
could not account had seized her at the moment of Emmie's summons;
and then, why did not Nan move when she kissed her?
"I do not think this looks quite like sleep, like natural sleep, I
mean. I think we ought to try to rouse her, at least till Dr.
Stewart comes. Speak to her, Harry; she has never slept so soundly
before."
"Nan, Nan, my little one, father wants you," but, for the first time
in her infant life, Nan was deaf to her father's voice.
"What can we do? what are we to do? Dr. Stewart will not be home for
another hour," exclaimed Queenie, now really terrified. No suspicion
of the truth had entered into any of their minds. Only when it was
too late did the child's speech about the pretty currants recur to
her.
The next two hours that passed were never effaced from Queenie's
memory. No efforts of theirs could rouse the child from the
death-like stupor that oppressed her. Langley had tried two or three
remedies, but they were unavailing, and the father's agony was
pitiable to witness. The little town was fairly roused, and
messengers on horseback were scouring the neighbourhood after Dr.
Stewart. But he had gone to a farmhouse some five miles distant, and
delay was inevitable. Garth and Ted had each gone in different
directions, and Faith Palmer had driven over to Karldale to tell Mrs.
Chester the reason of her husband's long absence.
It was just before Dr. Stewart's arrival that Langley, examining the
child's clothes, found some dark crimson stains on the front of the
little white frock, and showed them to the doctor, as he stood with a
grave face looking down at the child. A very brief survey had
satisfied him.
"Humph! it is just as I feared when young Clayton told me the
symptoms. She has been eating deadly night-shade. Children
sometimes mistake them for currants. Why was she allowed to run
about without her nurse?"
"She had the girl with her," returned the poor father, and here he
uttered a strong expletive; but Langley laid her hand on his arm and
said Hush! "What can you do to wake her, Dr. Stewart?"
"Nothing," returned the doctor sadly. "An hour or two sooner and I
could have saved her. But, my good sir, these things are not in our
hands. It is neither your fault nor mine that I was not here."
"You can do nothing!" turning upon him almost fiercely in his
despair, as though he would wrest the child's life from him by force.
"Nothing," he repeated emphatically, for it was best that the
miserable father should realize the truth at once, and not cling to
the shadow of a hope. "The child is sleeping herself to death; in a
few hours it must all be over."
"Try to bear it, Harry," said Langley, in her low, soothing voice,
for the strong man absolutely staggered under the blow. Her face was
almost as white as his as she guided him to a chair, but he turned
from her with a groan and hid his face in the child's pillow.
"I will come again; there is nothing for me to do here," said Dr.
Stewart. His voice was rough, probably with emotion, as he turned
away abruptly.
"An hour or two earlier and I could have saved her," he said to
Queenie as she followed him down-stairs. "It goes hard with a man to
know that, and that he can do absolutely nothing; just because my
mare wanted shoeing, and I went out of the beaten track. There is
another life gone, that is what I call a mystery," and Dr. Stewart
muttered his favorite "humph!" and went away with a sorrowful face,
for he was soft-hearted, and loved all children for their own sweet
sakes.
There was literally nothing to be done after this. Garth came in
by-and-bye and paid a short visit to the room up-stairs, but he did
not stay long.
"Langley is with him, and we have sent for his wife. There is
nothing that a fellow can do, and--in short, I can't stand it," he
blurted out confidentially to Queenie, with a man's instinctive
horror of scenes. "If there were something that one could do; but in
these sort of cases women are the best. It cuts one to the heart to
see him going on like that;" and Garth turned on his heel abruptly,
and walked to the window.
But he made himself of use too in that troubled little household; for
he succeeded in coaxing Emmie, who was sobbing with nervous
excitement, to go with him to Church-Stile House, and promised
Queenie to place her under Cathy's care for the night. This was a
great relief to Queenie, who had reason to dread any of these sort of
depressing scenes for her, and left her free for any duty that might
devolve on her.
A sad sight awaited her up-stairs. The setting sun was flooding the
little chamber, and the last dazzling rays shone full on the face of
the child. Mr. Chester was kneeling by the bed, with one little hand
hidden in his; Langley, with a white, rigid face, was standing beside
him. As the hoarse uncontrollable sobs, those tearless sobs of a
strong man, smote on her ear she shivered and shrank back as though
some blow were dealt her.
"Oh, Queenie, this is dreadful! Who can comfort him? Where is his
wife and the mother of his child?" she whispered, as the girl went up
to them. "It is she who ought to be here, not I."
"We have sent for her. Hush, Langley, he will hear you."
"Ah, he bears nothing; he will have it that she will wake and speak
to him." But her words reached his ear.
"She will, Langley; how can you be so cruel? They always do just
before----" "the last," he was going to say, but the words choked
him. "You will say good-bye to father, and give him one sweet kiss,
will you not, my little Nan, my darling, my treasure?"
"Oh, Harry, try to bear it! Harry, Harry, won't you listen to me a
moment?" and Langley laid her cold hand on his arm; but her touch
only seemed to make him more frantic.
"No, I will not bear it; I cannot bear it. Have I not suffered
enough? Will God take from me my only comfort? Oh, my little child,
my little child!" with another burst of anguish.
"See how calm and peaceful she looks," she went on, in her quiet,
controlling voice, but her face was like marble; "just sleeping
peacefully into her rest; no pain, no suffering. It is so 'He giveth
His beloved sleep;' try and think of that, Harry."
"She was my ewe lamb," he muttered, gloomily; "she drank of my cup,
and lay in my bosom. She was my own little daughter, my only one,
She used to kneel up upon my knees and say her pretty prayers to me
every night, the darling. 'God bless Nan and Nan's father,' she
always said that."
"Yes; and He will bless you, my poor Harry."
"Is it blessing me to rob me like this of my all? Oh, Langley, pray
to Him; you are a good woman; pray both of you that she may be spared
to me."
"Ab, if it were only His will!" sighed Langley. Did the memory of
those strange pathetic words of another heart-broken father cross her
memory? "'While the child was yet alive, I fasted and wept; for I
said, Who can tell whether God will be gracious to me, that the child
may live?' Ah, if it were only His will!"
"Hush! did you see her stir? I saw her, I felt her; she is waking
now. Nan, my pet, my darling, open your sweet eyes and look at
father." But, alas, the little inanimate form still lay in its
deathly torpor.
And so the hours passed. Dr. Stewart came and went again; and Garth
stole up the uncarpeted stairs, and stood outside with bated breath,
to listen if a further change had taken place. But still Mr. Chester
knelt beside the little white bed, and Langley and Queenie kept
faithful watch beside him.
It was long past midnight when Queenie, laying her hand on the
child's brow, felt it cold beneath her touch, and knew that the last
feeble breath had been drawn, and signed to Langley that all was over.
But even then the unhappy father would not realize the truth; and
when at last it dawned upon him, he bade them with passionate
impatience to leave him there with his dead. "Leave me alone with my
child; she belongs to me; she is mine;" and as they went out sadly
they could hear him groan, "Oh, my little Nan, my little, little
child."
As they left the room, Queenie could hear Garth calling to her in a
suppressed voice, and at once went down to him. He took hold of her
hand, and led her into the cheery little parlor. There was a bright
fire in the grate; an old wooden rocking-chair stood near it; the
tea-tray was on the round black table where the sisters ate their
simple meals.
"Sit down there and warm yourself," he said, kindly, "and I will give
you a cup of tea. Where is Langley?"
"She went into my room; I think she wants to be alone; I will go up
to her presently. Oh, Mr. Clayton," bursting into tears, for this
touch of thoughtfulness moved her from her enforced calmness, "it has
been so sad, so dreadful, all these hours."
"Yes; I know it has been very hard upon you. Poor Chester, and poor
dear little Nan; who would have dreamed of such a catastrophe? Even
Dr. Stewart, who is inured to all sorts of painful scenes, seems
quite upset by it. It must be hard for a man to lose his only
child," continued Garth, gravely, as he brought the tea, and stirred
the fire into a more cheerful blaze.
"I did not know you were here," she said, after an interval of
silence. The warmth had revived her, and the flow of nervous tears
had done her good. How she wished that Langley could be induced to
come down too!
"I could not make up my mind to leave you all in such a strait.
Langley was here, and I thought after all that I might be of use. I
am glad I thought of keeping up the fire. I had a grand hunt for
Patience's tea-caddy; it took me no end of time to find."
Garth was talking in a fast, nervous way to keep up his own and
Queenie's spirits. He had never seen her cry before, and it gave him
an odd sort of pain. The thought of the room upstairs, and of the
heart-broken father kneeling there by his dead child, weighed upon
them both like lead; only Queenie stretched out her cold hands to the
blaze, and drank her tea obediently, and felt cheered by Garth's
kindness.
"These sorts of things upset one's views of life," he continued,
after a pause. "I suppose we all know trouble in some shape or
other; but when it comes to a man losing his only bit of comfort, and
Heaven only knows what that child was to the poor fellow--well, I can
only say it does seem hard."
"That is what I felt when I thought I was going to lose Emmie. Mr.
Chester has his wife."
"She has never been much good to him. I am no scandal-monger, but
one can't help seeing that. I wonder what has become of her and Miss
Faith?" he went on, restlessly, walking to the window and looking out
on the dark summer night.
Queenie left him soon after that. "She must see after Langley," she
said; "and there were other things that ought to be done," she added,
with a shudder.
Garth let her go with some reluctance; the little parlor looked
desolate without her. He sat down in the old rocking-chair after she
had left, and fell into an odd, musing dream. "How strangely they
seemed to be drawn together," he thought. He was as much at home
with her as he was with Langley and Cathy; it had come quite
naturally to him now to take her under his protection, and care for
her as he did for them. It had been pleasant ministering to her
comfort just now. How pretty she had looked sitting there in her
black dress, with her head resting against the hard wood of the
chair. Most women looked ugly when they cried, but her tears had
flowed so quietly. And then he wondered how Dora looked when she
cried, and if she would ever gaze up in his face as gently and
gratefully as Queenie did just now. And then he fell to musing in a
grave, old-fashioned way on the inequalities of matrimony, and the
probable risk of disappointment. Things did not always turn out
well, as poor Chester had found to his cost. In times of trouble a
man must turn for comfort to his wife. Was Dora the one likely to
yield him this comfort? She was very strong and reliable; all manner
of good qualities were hers, besides her creamy skin and golden hair;
but would she be gentle and soft with him at times when a man needed
gentleness?
Garth was disquieting himself a little over these thoughts while
Queenie stole up the little staircase. All was quiet in Emmie's room
as she passed; her own was chill and dark as she entered it. Langley
had not lighted the candle; she was sitting by the open window
looking out at the black, starless night. The rain was falling now,
the drops were pattering on the creeper. Queenie gave a little
shiver of discomfort at the dreary scene, and thought regretfully of
the rocking-chair downstairs.
"Have you been in again, Langley?"
"Yes; but he will not let me stay or do anything for him; he wants
her all to himself for a little, he says. He just let me put things
a little comfortable, and as they should be, watching me jealously
all the time, and then I came away. Garth must go in by-and-bye, and
coax him down."
Langley spoke in a tone of forced composure, but her breath was
labored, and the hand that touched Queenie's was so damp and cold
that the girl absolutely started.
"Dear Langley, all this is making you quite ill. Do come down with
me; your brother has lighted a fire, and it is so warm and cosy, and
we can talk ever so much better there." But Langley refused.
"No, no; I must stop here as long as he is shut up in that room.
What do I want with warmth and comfort while he is
suffering--suffering? and I can do nothing for him--nothing,
nothing!" in a voice of such despair that Queenie started. A new
light seemed breaking on her.
"He asked for you directly, before his wife was sent for, I know. I
think he likes you to be with him, Langley; you are old friends, you
know."
"Yes; I know. He called me to him just now, and we stood together
for a long time looking down at the child. His eyes asked me for
comfort; but what consolation had I to give him? His wife ought to
be there, not I; we both knew that; and then he sent me away."
"But you need not have gone."
"Could I have stood there taking her place when I know too well what
we have been to each other? He was right to send me away, and I was
right to go; but oh, Queenie, this night is killing me!" and Langley
leant against her so heavily, and her voice sounded so strangely in
the darkness, that Queenie was frightened. If she guessed rightly,
what utter misery there was locked up in this woman's breast!
"You must lie down on my bed; I will not talk to you like this," she
said, firmly. And when Langley, faint and exhausted with emotion,
offered no resistance, she fetched a thick shawl and folded it round
her, and then lighted a candle and administered some sal-volatile.
The dim light showed a very ghastly face, and great bright eyes
brimful of wretchedness; the somewhat thin lips were trembling with
weakness.
"Don't look at me, Queenie; don't let me talk. I am not myself
to-night; I shall say things I ought not to say." But Queenie only
kissed her tenderly, and drew the white face down to her shoulder.
"Do talk, Langley; it will do you good. You have kept it all in too
long, and it has done you harm. No one wants me, and I can sit
beside you a little. When I hear the least movement in Emmie's room
I will go in."
"We ought not to leave him long alone," she answered, faintly.
"Garth must go in to him presently. He would mind me, I know; but I
dare not let him see me like this. Oh, Queenie, whatever sorrow you
may have to bear, may you never know mine--to bring trouble on the
man you love, and then not to be able to comfort him!"
Queenie stroked her hair softly; there was sympathy conveyed in every
touch. "Tell me all about it, Langley," she whispered; "I always
knew you had a grief. If you loved Mr. Chester, and he cared for
you, why did you not marry him?"
"Why, indeed! I have had five years in which to ask myself that
question. I loved him, of course. We had grown up together; as long
as I could remember, Harry and I had been together caring for each
other. Garth, every one, expected how it would be."
"Perhaps they all took it too much as a matter of course."
"How did you know that?" lifting her head from Queenie's shoulder.
"No one can have told you. I never had any confidant."
"One guesses things by instinct sometimes."
"You are young to know human nature so well," sinking back with a
sigh. "Ah, six years ago I was like Cathy--proud, impulsive, and
loving my own will. I had a great notion of independence. I thought
women were not allowed enough liberty, that they held themselves too
cheaply; and though I loved Harry, I was not quite willing to marry
him."
"That sounds strange. I can hardly imagine you like Cathy."
"No; my self-will is broken now; I have expiated my girlish failings
too bitterly. One's spirit dies under such an ordeal. But though I
blame myself, not him, I think a stronger nature would have
controlled me."
"Did you refuse him then?"
"I suppose I did. He came to me one day; things had been going on
for a long time, but there had been no actual wooing. Harry was a
matter-of-fact man, and I was just the reverse. I had got my head
full of novels, and had framed my own ideas of love-making. I wanted
an ardent lover, one who would carry me away with the force of his
own feelings. The quiet, business-like manner in which Harry spoke
fired my pride and resolved me; besides, as I said before, that
though I loved him, I was not quite willing to be married."
"Do you remember what he said to you?"
"Yes; his very words. I was in the drawing-room at Church-Stile
House, and he came to me looking very quiet and pale. 'Langley,' he
said, 'this has been going on a long time, too long, Garth and I
think, and I don't seem to be any nearer to what I wish. We care for
each other, I know. Can you not make up your mind to be my wife?
Karldale Grange is waiting for its mistress.' Just that; not a word
of his love for me, not a single protestation."
"I think it was very honest and straight-forward."
"Can you guess how I answered him? I thanked him coldly, and said
that I was in no mood for marrying, that I was not sure that I should
ever marry; I cared too much for my freedom.
"'Have you been playing with me all these years, Langley?' he said,
sadly, and his face grew so white. 'I can hardly believe that. I
will not press or annoy you, dear; I will speak to Garth;' and then
he went away.
"Oh, if he had only stayed, Queenie, and reasoned with me a little,
my better nature must have prevailed, for I loved him so; but his
apparent coolness angered me, and then Garth came and scolded me,
which made matters worse. He was for carrying things with a high
hand; but I only grew obstinate. And so one wretched day Harry and I
had bitter words together, and he faced round upon me when I sat
pretending to work, and swore that if I would not marry him, Gertrude
Leslie should; and with that he turned on his heel and left me.
"I felt I had gone too far then, and that he meant what he said.
Sooner than lose him altogether, I would have humiliated myself in
the dust. I threw down my work, and called out Harry, but he did not
hear, and in another moment his horse's hoofs sounded in the lane.
"I did all then that I could do. I wrote a penitent little note
begging him to forgive me, and come back to me, and all should be as
he wished; and I sent a messenger on to Karldale with it, charging
him to deliver it into Harry's own hands; but, alas, it was brought
back to me unopened. Harry had never been home at all, he had ridden
straight off to Blanddale; and the next morning I heard Gertrude
Leslie had promised to be his wife.
"Oh, Queenie," as the girl leant over her and kissed the white lips
that quivered still with the remembrance of that long-past agony,
"that moment was a sufficient punishment for all my mad folly; even
Garth thought so, for he had no word of reproach for me.
"But I opened my lips to no one. None knew what I suffered daring
those nights and days. An old aunt of ours had fallen ill in
Carlisle, and I went to her, and stayed with her till she died.
"When I came back they were married, and by-and-bye Harry and I met.
I could see he was greatly changed, and his manner was constrained
and nervous; but it was not in his nature to bear malice, and I know
he soon forgave me, all the more that he must have seen that he was
not the only one to suffer."
"Dear Langley," stroking the worn face still more tenderly, "I can
hardly bear to hear it; it seems all so dreadful. I cannot
understand how women can live through such things."
"One gets used to torture," with a strange smile. "Have you not read
that martyrs have been known to sleep on the rack? The worst part of
life always seems to me that pain so seldom kills. We go on
mutilated, shorn of our best blessings, wounded and bleeding, but we
never die."
Queenie stooped down and quoted softly in her ear, "Wherefore is
light given to him in misery, and life unto the bitter in soul; which
long for death, but it cometh not; and dig for it more than for hid
treasures?"
"Ah, I have often repeated those words. I thought when I first saw
Harry after he was married that it would kill me; to think that he
belonged to another woman, that she, not I, had a right to his every
thought and care. It seemed as though my heart could not hold all
its pain."
"Ah, but he had not ceased to love you. There must have been some
consolation in that thought."
"Yes; but it was not a right consolation; and then I knew that I was
the cause of his unhappiness--that was the hardest part of all. He
was so good; he tried so hard to do his duty by her, and make her a
fond and faithful husband; but she never loved him."
"But she married him."
"Alas, she married him out of pique. Her lover had jilted her, and
in her despair she took the first offer that came to her. Poor
Gertrude! she has told me all her troubles. I am her friend as well
as Harry's, and all that can be done for them I have tried to do to
my utmost."
"That I am sure you have."
"It used to be dreadful to go there, and see how she treated him; but
it was my penance, and I bore it for his sake. When the child came
things were better between them, and latterly I hoped that he had
ceased to regret the past; but now," she wrung her hands, and the
despairing look came back into her eyes, "God has taken from him his
only comfort, and I must see his misery and do nothing."
There was a moment's silence, only the ceaseless patter of the rain
sounded on the leaves, and then Langley raised herself with effort.
"He has been too long alone; some one must go to him," she said,
anxiously. "Either you or Garth must rouse him."
"Hush!" interrupted Queenie; "I think I hear something. There is
surely the sound of wheels in the distance. It is coming nearer;
yes, it is stopping at the gate."
"Then it must be Gertrude," exclaimed Langley, putting back the damp
hair from her face, and trying to rise from the bed. "Look out, dear
Queenie. Oh, if it should be Gertrude!"
"I am straining my eyes in the darkness, but it is so hard to
distinguish anything. Yes, there are two figures, one very tall. I
think that must be Mrs. Chester. Garth is opening the door; now he
will bring her up. Lie down again, Langley; you look dreadful." But
Langley only shook her head, and renewed her efforts to rise.
They could hear footsteps ascending the narrow stairs. The gleam of
a candle preceded them. Langley tottered feebly to the head of the
staircase; but Mrs. Chester did not see her.
"Where is she? where is my child?" she said, putting out her hands
and feeling before her, with the gesture of a sleep-walker, or one
stricken suddenly blind; and Queenie, moved with sudden compassion,
sprang forward and guided her to the door.
"Little Nan is there," she said. "He is sitting by her; we cannot
get him to leave her."
Yes; he was sitting there in the same attitude in which they had left
him, with the child's dead hand still clasped in his. At the sight
of that bowed figure, that mute despair, the wife's heart woke into
sudden life, and she walked feebly towards him.
"Harry," she said, bursting into tears, and throwing her arms round
his neck, "my poor Harry, it is our little child; mine as well as
yours. We must comfort each other."