The church clocks had struck three; the crowds of gentlemen returning
to business, after their early dinners, had disappeared within offices
and warehouses; the streets were clear and quiet, and ladies were
venturing to sally forth for their afternoon shoppings and their
afternoon calls.
Slowly, slowly, along the streets, elbowed by life at every turn, a
little funeral wound its quiet way. Four men bore along a child’s
coffin; two women with bowed heads followed meekly.
I need not tell you whose coffin it was, or who were those two
mourners. All was now over with little Frank Hall: his romps, his
games, his sickening, his suffering, his death. All was now over, but
the Resurrection and the Life.
His mother walked as in a stupor. Could it be that he was dead! If he
had been less of an object of her thoughts, less of a motive for her
labours, she could sooner have realized it. As it was, she followed
his poor, cast-off, worn-out body as if she were borne along by some
oppressive dream. If he were really dead, how could she be still alive?
Libbie’s mind was far less stunned, and consequently far more active,
than Margaret Hall’s. Visions, as in a phantasmagoria, came rapidly
passing before her—recollections of the time (which seemed now so
long ago) when the shadow of the feebly-waving arm first caught her
attention; of the bright, strangely isolated day at Dunham Park, where
the world had seemed so full of enjoyment, and beauty, and life; of
the long-continued heat, through which poor Franky had panted away his
strength in the little close room, where there was no escaping the hot
rays of the afternoon sun; of the long nights when his mother and she
had watched by his side, as he moaned continually, whether awake or
asleep; of the fevered moaning slumber of exhaustion; of the pitiful
little self-upbraidings for his own impatience of suffering, only
impatient in his own eyes—most true and holy patience in the sight
of others; and then the fading away of life, the loss of power, the
increased unconsciousness, the lovely look of angelic peace, which
followed the dark shadow on the countenance, where was he—what was he
now?
And so they laid him in his grave, and heard the solemn funeral words;
but far off in the distance, as if not addressed to them.
Margaret Hall bent over the grave to catch one last glance—she had not
spoken, nor sobbed, nor done aught but shiver now and then, since the
morning; but now her weight bore more heavily on Libbie’s arm, and
without sigh or sound she fell an unconscious heap on the piled-up
gravel. They helped Libbie to bring her round; but long after her
half-opened eyes and altered breathing showed that her senses were
restored, she lay, speechless and motionless, without attempting to
rise from her strange bed, as if the earth contained nothing worth even
that trifling exertion.
At last Libbie and she left that holy, consecrated spot, and bent their
steps back to the only place more consecrated still; where he had
rendered up his spirit; and where memories of him haunted each common,
rude piece of furniture that their eyes fell upon. As the woman of the
house opened the door, she pulled Libbie on one side, and said—
“Anne Dixon has been across to see you; she wants to have a word with
you.”
“I cannot go now,” replied Libbie, as she pushed hastily along, in
order to enter the room (_his_ room), at the same time with the
childless mother: for, as she had anticipated, the sight of that empty
spot, the glance at the uncurtained open window, letting in the fresh
air, and the broad, rejoicing light of day, where all had so long been
darkened and subdued, unlocked the waters of the fountain, and long and
shrill were the cries for her boy that the poor woman uttered.
“Oh! dear Mrs. Hall,” said Libbie, herself drenched in tears, “do not
take on so badly; I’m sure it would grieve _him_ sore if he were alive,
and you know he is—Bible tells us so; and may be he’s here watching how
we go on without him, and hoping we don’t fret over much.”
Mrs. Hall’s sobs grew worse and more hysterical.
“Oh! listen,” said Libbie, once more struggling against her own
increasing agitation. “Listen! there’s Peter chirping as he always does
when he’s put about, frightened like; and you know he that’s gone could
never abide to hear the canary chirp in that shrill way.”
Margaret Hall did check herself, and curb her expressions of agony,
in order not to frighten the little creature he had loved; and as her
outward grief subsided, Libbie took up the large old Bible, which fell
open at the never-failing comfort of the fourteenth chapter of St.
John’s Gospel.
How often these large family Bibles do open at that chapter! as if,
unused in more joyous and prosperous times, the soul went home to its
words of loving sympathy when weary and sorrowful, just as the little
child seeks the tender comfort of its mother in all its griefs and
cares.
And Margaret put back her wet, ruffled, grey hair from her heated,
tear-stained, woeful face, and listened with such earnest eyes, trying
to form some idea of the “Father’s house,” where her boy had gone to
dwell.
They were interrupted by a low tap at the door. Libbie went. “Anne
Dixon has watched you home, and wants to have a word with you,” said
the woman of the house, in a whisper. Libbie went back and closed
the book, with a word of explanation to Margaret Hall, and then ran
downstairs, to learn the reason of Anne’s anxiety to see her.
“Oh, Libbie!” she burst out with, and then, checking herself with the
remembrance of Libbie’s last solemn duty, “how’s Margaret Hall? But,
of course, poor thing, she’ll fret a bit at first; she’ll be some time
coming round, mother says, seeing it’s as well that poor lad is taken;
for he’d always ha’ been a cripple, and a trouble to her—he was a fine
lad once, too.”
She had come full of another and a different subject; but the sight of
Libbie’s sad, weeping face, and the quiet, subdued tone of her manner,
made her feel it awkward to begin on any other theme than the one which
filled up her companion’s mind. To her last speech Libbie answered
sorrowfully—
“No doubt, Anne, it’s ordered for the best; but oh! don’t call him,
don’t think he could ever ha’ been, a trouble to his mother, though he
were a cripple. She loved him all the more for each thing she had to do
for him—I am sure I did.” Libbie cried a little behind her apron. Anne
Dixon felt still more awkward in introducing the discordant subject.
“Well! ‘flesh is grass,’ Bible says,” and having fulfilled the
etiquette of quoting a text if possible, if not of making a moral
observation on the fleeting nature of earthly things, she thought she
was at liberty to pass on to her real errand.
“You must not go on moping yourself, Libbie Marsh. What I wanted
special for to see you this afternoon, was to tell you, you must come
to my wedding to-morrow. Nanny Dawson has fallen sick, and there’s none
as I should like to have bridesmaid in her place as well as you.”
“To-morrow! Oh, I cannot!—indeed I cannot!”
“Why not?”
Libbie did not answer, and Anne Dixon grew impatient.
“Surely, in the name o’ goodness, you’re never going to baulk yourself
of a day’s pleasure for the sake of yon little cripple that’s dead and
gone!”
“No,—it’s not baulking myself of—don’t be angry, Anne Dixon, with him,
please; but I don’t think it would be a pleasure to me,—I don’t feel as
if I could enjoy it; thank you all the same. But I did love that little
lad very dearly—I did,” sobbing a little, “and I can’t forget him and
make merry so soon.”
“Well—I never!” exclaimed Anne, almost angrily.
“Indeed, Anne, I feel your kindness, and you and Bob have my best
wishes,—that’s what you have; but even if I went, I should be thinking
all day of him, and of his poor, poor mother, and they say it’s bad to
think very much on them that’s dead, at a wedding.”
“Nonsense,” said Anne, “I’ll take the risk of the ill-luck. After
all, what is marrying? Just a spree, Bob says. He often says he does
not think I shall make him a good wife, for I know nought about house
matters, wi’ working in a factory; but he says he’d rather be uneasy
wi’ me than easy wi’ anybody else. There’s love for you! And I tell him
I’d rather have him tipsy than any one else sober.”
“Oh! Anne Dixon, hush! you don’t know yet what it is to have a drunken
husband. I have seen something of it: father used to get fuddled, and,
in the long run, it killed mother, let alone—oh! Anne, God above only
knows what the wife of a drunken man has to bear. Don’t tell,” said
she, lowering her voice, “but father killed our little baby in one of
his bouts; mother never looked up again, nor father either, for that
matter, only his was in a different way. Mother will have gotten to
little Jemmie now, and they’ll be so happy together,—and perhaps Franky
too. Oh!” said she, recovering herself from her train of thought,
“never say aught lightly of the wife’s lot whose husband is given to
drink!”
“Dear, what a preachment. I tell you what, Libbie, you’re as born an
old maid as ever I saw. You’ll never be married to either drunken or
sober.”
Libbie’s face went rather red, but without losing its meek expression.
“I know that as well as you can tell me; and more reason, therefore, as
God has seen fit to keep me out of woman’s natural work, I should try
and find work for myself. I mean,” seeing Anne Dixon’s puzzled look,
“that as I know I’m never likely to have a home of my own, or a husband
that would look to me to make all straight, or children to watch over
or care for, all which I take to be woman’s natural work, I must not
lose time in fretting and fidgetting after marriage, but just look
about me for somewhat else to do. I can see many a one misses it in
this. They will hanker after what is ne’er likely to be theirs, instead
of facing it out, and settling down to be old maids; and, as old maids,
just looking round for the odd jobs God leaves in the world for such as
old maids to do. There’s plenty of such work, and there’s the blessing
of God on them as does it.” Libbie was almost out of breath at this
outpouring of what had long been her inner thoughts.
“That’s all very true, I make no doubt, for them as is to be old maids;
but as I’m not, please God to-morrow comes, you might have spared your
breath to cool your porridge. What I want to know is, whether you’ll be
bridesmaid to-morrow or not. Come, now do; it will do you good, after
all your working, and watching, and slaving yourself for that poor
Franky Hall.”
“It was one of my odd jobs,” said Libbie, smiling, though her eyes
were brimming over with tears; “but, dear Anne,” said she, recovering
itself, “I could not do it to-morrow, indeed I could not.”
“And I can’t wait,” said Anne Dixon, almost sulkily, “Bob and I put
it off from to-day, because of the funeral, and Bob had set his heart
on its being on Michaelmas-day; and mother says the goose won’t keep
beyond to-morrow. Do come: father finds eatables, and Bob finds drink,
and we shall be so jolly! and after we’ve been to church, we’re to
walk round the town in pairs, white satin ribbon in our bonnets, and
refreshments at any public-house we like, Bob says. And after dinner
there’s to be a dance. Don’t be a fool; you can do no good by staying.
Margaret Hall will have to go out washing, I’ll be bound.”
“Yes, she must go to Mrs. Wilkinson’s, and, for that matter, I must go
working too. Mrs. Williams has been after me to make her girl’s winter
things ready; only I could not leave Franky, he clung so to me.”
“Then you won’t be bridesmaid! is that your last word?”
“It is; you must not be angry with me, Anne Dixon,” said Libbie,
deprecatingly.
But Anne was gone without a reply.
With a heavy heart Libbie mounted the little staircase, for she felt
how ungracious her refusal of Anne’s kindness must appear, to one who
understood so little the feelings which rendered her acceptance of it a
moral impossibility.
On opening the door she saw Margaret Hall, with the Bible open on the
table before her. For she had puzzled out the place where Libbie was
reading, and, with her finger under the line, was spelling out the
words of consolation, piecing the syllables together aloud, with the
earnest anxiety of comprehension with which a child first learns to
read. So Libbie took the stool by her side, before she was aware that
any one had entered the room.
“What did she want you for?” asked Margaret. “But I can guess; she
wanted you to be at th’ wedding that is to come off this week, they
say. Ay, they’ll marry, and laugh, and dance, all as one as if my boy
was alive,” said she, bitterly. “Well, he was neither kith nor kin of
yours, so I maun try and be thankful for what you’ve done for him, and
not wonder at your forgetting him afore he’s well settled in his grave.”
“I never can forget him, and I’m not going to the wedding,” said
Libbie, quietly, for she understood the mother’s jealousy of her dead
child’s claims.
“I must go work at Mrs. Williams’ to-morrow,” she said, in explanation,
for she was unwilling to boast of her tender, fond regret, which had
been her principal motive for declining Anne’s invitation.
“And I mun go washing, just as if nothing had happened,” sighed forth
Mrs. Hall, “and I mun come home at night, and find his place empty,
and all still where I used to be sure of hearing his voice ere ever
I got up the stair: no one will ever call me mother again.” She fell
crying pitifully, and Libbie could not speak for her own emotion for
some time. But during this silence she put the keystone in the arch of
thoughts she had been building up for many days; and when Margaret was
again calm in her sorrow, Libbie said, “Mrs. Hall, I should like—would
you like me to come for to live here altogether?”
Margaret Hall looked up with a sudden light in her countenance, which
encouraged Libbie to go on.
“I could sleep with you, and pay half, you know; and we should be
together in the evenings; and her as was home first would watch for the
other, and” (dropping her voice) “we could talk of him at nights, you
know.”
She was going on, but Mrs. Hall interrupted her.
“Oh, Libbie Marsh! and can you really think of coming to live wi’ me. I
should like it above—but no! it must not be; you’ve no notion on what
a creature I am, at times; more like a mad one when I’m in a rage,
and I cannot keep it down. I seem to get out of bed wrong side in the
morning, and I must have my passion out with the first person I meet.
Why, Libbie,” said she, with a doleful look of agony on her face, “I
even used to fly out on him, poor sick lad as he was, and you may judge
how little you can keep it down frae that. No, you must not come. I
must live alone now,” sinking her voice into the low tones of despair.
But Libbie’s resolution was brave and strong. “I’m not afraid,” said
she, smiling. “I know you better than you know yourself, Mrs. Hall.
I’ve seen you try of late to keep it down, when you’ve been boiling
over, and I think you’ll go on a-doing so. And at any rate, when you’ve
had your fit out, you’re very kind, and I can forget if you’ve been a
bit put out. But I’ll try not to put you out. Do let me come: I think
_he_ would like us to keep together. I’ll do my very best to make you
comfortable.”
“It’s me! it’s me as will be making your life miserable with my temper;
or else, God knows, how my heart clings to you. You and me is folk
alone in the world, for we both loved one who is dead, and who had
none else to love him. If you will live with me, Libbie, I’ll try as I
never did afore to be gentle and quiet-tempered. Oh! will you try me,
Libbie Marsh?” So out of the little grave there sprang a hope and a
resolution, which made life an object to each of the two.
When Elizabeth Marsh returned home the next evening from her day’s
labours, Anne (Dixon no longer) crossed over, all in her bridal finery,
to endeavour to induce her to join the dance going on in her father’s
house.
“Dear Anne, this is good of you, a-thinking of me to-night,” said
Libbie, kissing her, “and though I cannot come,—I’ve promised Mrs. Hall
to be with her,—I shall think on you, and I trust you’ll be happy. I
have got a little needle-case I have looked out for you; stay, here it
is,—I wish it were more—only——”
“Only, I know what. You’ve been a-spending all your money in nice
things for poor Franky. Thou’rt a real good un, Libbie, and I’ll keep
your needle-book to my dying day, that I will.” Seeing Anne in such a
friendly mood, emboldened Libbie to tell her of her change of place; of
her intention of lodging henceforward with Margaret Hall.
“Thou never will! Why father and mother are as fond of thee as can be;
they’ll lower thy rent if that’s what it is—and thou knowst they never
grudge thee bit or drop. And Margaret Hall, of all folk, to lodge wi’!
She’s such a Tartar! Sooner than not have a quarrel, she’d fight right
hand against left. Thou’lt have no peace of thy life. What on earth can
make you think of such a thing, Libbie Marsh?”
“She’ll be so lonely without me,” pleaded Libbie. “I’m sure I could
make her happier, even if she did scold me a bit now and then, than
she’d be a living alone, and I’m not afraid of her; and I mean to do my
best not to vex her: and it will ease her heart, maybe, to talk to me
at times about Franky. I shall often see your father and mother, and I
shall always thank them for their kindness to me. But they have you and
little Mary, and poor Mrs. Hall has no one.”
Anne could only repeat, “Well, I never!” and hurry off to tell the news
at home.
But Libbie was right. Margaret Hall is a different woman to the scold
of the neighbourhood she once was; touched and softened by the two
purifying angels, Sorrow and Love. And it is beautiful to see her
affection, her reverence, for Libbie Marsh. Her dead mother could
hardly have cared for her more tenderly than does the hard-hearted
washerwoman, not long ago so fierce and unwomanly. Libbie, herself, has
such peace shining on her countenance, as almost makes it beautiful, as
she tenders the services of a daughter to Franky’s mother, no longer
the desolate lonely orphan, a stranger on the earth.
Do you ever read the moral, concluding sentence of a story? I never do,
but I once (in the year 1811, I think) heard of a deaf old lady, living
by herself, who did; and as she may have left some descendants with
the same amiable peculiarity, I will put in, for their benefit, what I
believe to be the secret of Libbie’s peace of mind, the real reason why
she no longer feels oppressed at her own loneliness in the world,—
She has a purpose in life; and that purpose is a holy one.