A Sudden Parting.
LEAVING the old curiosity shop, the pale-faced widow and her child
passed slowly up the lane. Maggie held her mother's hand, not for her
own protection, but in order that she might guide the invalid's feeble
steps, which faltered from time to time as her strength threatened to
give way.
"Was that a good old man, mamma?" she asked, as they went along.
"I hope so, dear. I trust he has dealt fairly with me, for I can ill
afford to be cheated out of a single penny," said her mother, with a
weary sigh.
"What will he do with the jug, mamma?" said Maggie.
"He will sell it, I suppose," her mother replied.
"And will he give you the money, mamma?" asked the child.
The simple question brought a faint, sad smile to the widow's face, as
she answered, "Oh no, dear; he has given me all the money I shall get
for it."
"Has he given you a lot of money, mamma?" asked Maggie. "Will you be
able to buy cakes and jam again?"
Her mother shook her head. "Ah no, my poor child," she said, sadly. "I
cannot give you cakes and jam. If only we can get bread for the next
week or two, till I am strong again, we may be thankful. God grant I
may soon be fit for work!"
Little Maggie looked disappointed. She had hoped that the happier days
she had known when she was younger were about to return, but she held
up her head, and said bravely: "I don't mind much, mamma. I can do
without jam; and God will take care of us, won't He, mamma?"
"Bless you, my little comfort," said her mother, wondering if any other
child of eight would have borne want so well. "Yes, I must trust in
God. He has never failed me yet. He is far kinder than man. But oh, my
heart is very heavy to-night."
They went on slowly till they came to a baker's shop, which they
entered, much to Maggie's satisfaction, for the talk about jam had made
her painfully conscious of a craving for food. The widow gave her child
one of the large brown rolls which lay on the counter, and then asked
for some milk.
"We don't sell milk," said the woman in charge of the shop. Then,
touched by her customer's look of suffering, and the sad little face of
the child, she added, "But I have a little I can give you, if you like."
Maggie was eyeing the roll with hungry eagerness; but ere she began to
eat it, she said, pleadingly, "You will have some, mamma, won't you?"
"Yes, dear child," said her mother, "I will try to eat for your sake."
And she broke off a piece of the roll, and dipping it into the milk the
woman had brought, she put it to her lips. But she could only swallow a
few morsels.
"You look very bad," said the shopwoman, meaning to be sympathetic;
"have you been ill long?"
"Yes, a long time," said the widow, wearily; "but I am better, I am
stronger to-day."
When Maggie had eaten the last crumb of her roll, and drained the cup
of milk, to her now an unwonted luxury, her mother paid for their
repast out of the money she had received from the china-dealer, and
rising from the chair on which she had sunk exhausted on entering
the shop, prepared to go on her way. The rest and refreshment seemed
to have revived her somewhat. She was able to walk more quickly and
steadily as they went out of the shop.
"Are we going home now, mamma?" asked the child.
"No, not yet," said her mother; and she walked on in the same direction
as before.
They approached the end of the lane, where it widened out into a more
respectable street. The shops here were gaily lighted, especially those
where sweets and toys were sold, at which Maggie looked with a child's
interested gaze, keeping close to her mother's side the while, in spite
of the jostling she got from hurrying passers-by.
Presently they turned into a narrow, quiet street, which brought them
out into a wider thoroughfare, where there were tram-cars and omnibuses
passing to and fro, and larger, grander shops attracted the little
girl's attention. They crossed this bustling street, and left its
turmoil behind as they began to ascend a wide road, almost deserted at
this hour. The wind now blew full in their faces. A scent of the sea
came with it.
"Are you taking me to see the waves, mamma?" asked Maggie, remembering
that she had come that way once before, and had then been gladdened by
a sight of the beautiful waves breaking on the rocks beneath the Hoe.
Her mother replied by a shake of the head. She had no breath to spare
for speech. It was all she could do to struggle against the strong
breeze as she made her way up the hill. Yet Maggie, catching sight of
her mother's face as they passed beneath a lamp, wondered to see how
bright her eyes were, and how flushed her cheeks. Her mother must be
much better, she thought, to be able to walk so far, after having been
for weeks too ill to leave the house.
They had nearly gained the top of the hill, when the widow's steps
slackened, and she stood still before a large house with many windows
looking down on the road. The house seemed alive at this hour. Every
window was lighted; and in the lower rooms the venetian blinds were
half turned, revealing many figures flitting to and fro in the large,
well-decorated rooms. As the widow stood on the pavement, panting for
breath, and grasping the railings for support, a strain of merry music
floated out on the night air.
A low moan of anguish broke from her at the sound. She had meant
to knock at that closed door, and ask to speak with the master of
the house. But how could she intrude now, when he was entertaining
company? Besides, there might be some there who would know her, though
surely the sorrows of the last few years must have aged her beyond all
recognition. Her heart sank within her. It had cost her much to come
there to-night, but for her child's sake she had nerved herself to the
effort. And now it was in vain. Her courage failed her. She could not
seek an interview to-night; and to-morrow it might be too late!
She shivered and moaned again.
"Mamma! mamma! what is the matter?" cried the child by her side. "Are
you ill? Why do you stand here so long?"
Her mother did not reply. She was hardly conscious that the child
spoke. Her mind was in the past; she was thinking of other days when
she too had danced within those walls to the very tune that was now
being played. Yes, she had once danced there, as lightly and gaily as
any girl there to-night; but what a change had come! The contrast was
too bitter.
"Mamma," said little Maggie, "won't you go home? It's very cold
standing here."
The mother, heedless of her own bodily sensations, became aware of the
bitter wind that was sweeping round the childish form, so ill-clad
for such weather. She took the tiny hand upheld to her, and turned to
go; but a fit of coughing arrested her. Again she leaned against the
palings, weak and trembling, and struggled for breath.
"My good woman, with such a cough as that you have no business to be
out to-night," said a voice near her as she began to recover from the
paroxysm.
The speaker was a young gentleman in greatcoat and scarf, one of the
guests invited to the party, who had paused for a moment, with his hand
on the gate, to give the warning which his medical instincts prompted.
"Thank you: I am going home," said the sufferer, hurriedly, and taking
her child's hand she passed on.
The light of the street lamp fell on her as she went by; and as the
young doctor's observant glance read her face, he murmured to himself,
"Past all help now, poor thing!"
She was dimly conscious of that truth at times, though for Maggie's
sake she still clung to the hope of getting better. For how could she
bear to think of leaving the child? What would become of Maggie, if at
her tender age she were left alone in this pitiless world? The thought
had weighed on the mother's heart through nights of wakefulness and
pain.
As she felt her weakness increasing, her fears for Maggie grew
stronger, till at last pride yielded, and she had resolved that for her
child's sake she would make one more appeal to the parent who had vowed
that he would never forgive her. This was the purpose that had brought
her out to-night; but she had failed to accomplish it. No matter;
she would not give way to despair, faint and discouraged though she
felt. She would come again to-morrow. For Maggie's sake she would make
another attempt, whatever it might cost her.
It was hard work to get home. The excitement which had sustained her
as she ascended the hill was gone now, and the despairing reaction
made her tremblingly aware of failing strength. More than once she was
obliged to stand still whilst the cough shook her feeble frame; but at
length they reached the lane again. Here the widow's staggering gait
attracted attention. Rough girls and lads, mistaking its cause, jeered
at her as she passed.
She, poor soul, was scarce conscious of their mockery; but little
Maggie, young as she was, understood the meaning of their derisive
looks and coarse pleasantry. The child's cheeks burned with
indignation, and hot tears came into her dark eyes. The memory of the
intense pain and shame of those moments was branded on her mind. She
never forgot that walk through the lane.
But at last they had passed the old curiosity shop, and gained the
turning into the quieter street where they lodged. A few steps brought
them to the house in which the widow had hired a room. They had reached
it not a moment too soon, for as she crossed its threshold, the invalid
was seized with a fit of coughing worse than any which had preceded it.
She leaned against the door, coughing violently.
Suddenly the sound ceased, and Maggie uttered a cry of horror, for her
mother had fallen back against the wall deadly pale, and blood was
flowing in a stream from her mouth.
Maggie's shrill cry brought the landlady and many of the lodgers to
the spot. There followed a scene of confusion and dismay. No one knew
what should be done. Everybody seemed to ask questions, which no one
answered. They dragged the now senseless woman into the nearest room;
and after some delay, one of the neighbours went in search of a doctor.
"She's struck with death, I reckon," said the landlady, a
slatternly-looking woman, whose unhealthy countenance revealed but too
plainly her liking for the gin-bottle; "it was ill-luck my taking her
for a lodger."
Maggie heard her words. Already the fear that this was death had come
to her. She had seen her father die, and now she knew that her mother
too was going from her. With a loud and bitter cry, she threw herself
on the ground beside her dying parent.
The despairing cry of her child seemed to penetrate the stupor in which
the sufferer lay. Her heavy eyelids were lifted for a moment, and her
dying gaze fell on her child.
"Maggie," she gasped out in broken utterance; "the house—you'll not
forget—your grandfather."
The last word died away unheard as the deadly faintness stole over her
anew.
"What's she saying?" asked one of the women.
"Something about the House," said the landlady; "she knows that's where
the child will have to go to, for she's got no one belonging to her, I
fancy."
No other words passed the white lips. The eyes closed again, the pallor
of the face increased.
Maggie held her mother's hand, but the cold, stiff fingers could not
respond to the child's clinging touch—mother love could shield her no
longer. When, a little later, the doctor entered, impatiently pushing
aside the women, who pressing round the patient kept back the air which
was so precious, he found that his services were not needed. Death had
been before him, and had given everlasting release from pain and sorrow.
[Illustration]
[Illustration]