A LONE LAMB
It was Sunday evening when the caravan reached the town where the fair was
to be held. The travellers passed numbers of people in their Sunday
clothes, and saw many churches and chapels open for evening service as they
drove through the town. The gaily painted caravan looked strangely out of
keeping with everything around it on that holy day.
Augustus met them as they came upon the common which was apportioned to the
show-people. It was a large waste piece of ground on a cliff overlooking
the sea; for this great fair was held at a large watering-place on the
sea-coast. The piece of ground which Augustus had selected was close to the
beach, so that Rosalie could hear the rolling and dashing of the waves on
the rocks below as she sat beside her mother that night. In the morning, as
her mother was sleeping quietly, she stole out on the shore and wandered
about amongst the rocks before the rest of the show-people were awake.
A long ridge of rocks stretched out into the sea, and Rosalie walked along
this, and watched the restless waves, as they dashed against it and broke
into thick white foam. In some parts the rocky way was covered with small
limpets, whose shells crackled under Rosalie's feet; then came some deep
pools filled with green and red seaweed, in which Rosalie discovered pink
sea-anemones and restless little crabs. She examined one or two of these,
but her heart was too sad and weary to be interested by them long, so she
wandered on until she reached the extremity of the ridge of rocks. Here she
sat for some time, gazing at the breakers, and watching the sunshine
spreading over the silvery grey waters.
Several fishing-boats were already entering the port, laden with the spoils
of the previous night, and Rosalie watched them coming in one by one and
running quickly ashore. One of them passed close by the spot where the
child was sitting. An old man and two boys were in it, and they were
singing as they went by, in clear, ringing voices. Rosalie could hear the
words of the song well, as she sat on the ridge of rocks--
'Last night, my lads, we toiled away,
Oh! so drearily, drearily;
But we weighed our anchor at break of day,
Oh! so cheerily, cheerily;
So keep up heart and courage, friends!
For home is just in sight;
And who will heed, when safely there,
The perils of the night?
Just so we toil through earth's dark night,
Oh! so wearily, wearily;
Yet we trust to sail at dawn of light,
Oh! so cheerily, cheerily;
So keep up heart and courage, friends!
For home is just in sight;
And who will heed, when safely there,
The perils of the night?'
There was something in the wild tune, and something in the homely words,
which soothed Rosalie's heart. As she walked back to the caravan, she kept
saying to herself--
'So keep up heart and courage, friends!
For home is just in sight.'
'Just in sight; that must be for my mammie,' thought the child, 'and not
for me; she is getting very near home!'
Her mother was awake when Rosalie opened the caravan door, but she seemed
very weak and tired, and all that long day scarcely spoke. The child sat
beside her, and tried to tempt her to eat, but she hardly opened her eyes,
and would take nothing but a little water.
In the afternoon the noise of the fair began, the rattling of the shooting
galleries, the bells of the three large whirligigs, and two noisy bands
playing different tunes, and making a strange, discordant sound, an odd
mixture of the 'Mabel Waltz,' and 'Poor Mary Ann.' Then, as the crowds in
the fair became denser, the shouts and noise increased on all sides, and
the sick woman moaned to herself from time to time.
Augustus was far too busy preparing for the evening's entertainment to
spend much time in the caravan. He did not know or he would not see, that a
change was passing over his wife's face, that she was even then standing on
the margin of the river of death. And thus, about half an hour before the
theatre opened, he called to Rosalie to dress herself for the play, and
would listen to none of her entreaties to stay with her dying mother.
Her dying mother! Yes, Rosalie knew that it had come to that now. Child as
she was, she could tell that there was something in her mother's face which
had never been there before. Her eyes were opened to the truth at last, and
she felt that death was not very far away.
How could she leave her? Her mother's hand was holding hers so tightly, her
mother's eyes, whenever they were opened, were fixed on her so lovingly.
How could she leave her mother, even for an hour, when the hours which she
might still have with her were becoming so few?
Yet Rosalie dared not stay. Was not this the great fair her father had been
counting on all the year, and from which he hoped to reap the greatest
profit? And had he not told her that very night, that if she broke down in
her part in this town, he would never forgive her as long as he lived?
No, there was no help for it; Rosalie must go. But not until the last
moment--not until the very last moment--would she leave her dying mother.
She dressed very quickly, and sat down in her little white dress beside her
mother's bed. Once more she held her mother's cold hand, and gently stroked
her pale face.
'Little Rosalie,' said her mother, 'my darling, are you going?--must you
leave me?'
'Oh, mammie, mammie! it is so hard! so very, very hard!'
'Don't cry, my darling!--my little lamb, don't cry! It's all right. Lift me
up a little, Rosalie.'
The child altered her mother's pillows very gently, and then the sick woman
whispered--
'I'm close to the deep waters; I can hear the sound of them now. It's the
river of death, Rosalie, and I've got to cross it, but I'm not afraid: the
Good Shepherd has laid me on His shoulder, and, as I'm so very weak, I
think He'll carry me through.'
This was said with great difficulty, and, when she had done speaking, the
dying woman's head fell back on the pillow.
Rosalie could not speak; she could only kiss her mother's hand, and cry
quietly as she watched. And then came her father's call to her to make
haste and come into the theatre; and she had to disengage herself from her
mother's hand, and, giving one last long look, to shut the door and leave
her--leave her alone.
What happened in the theatre that night Rosalie never exactly knew; it all
seemed as a horrible dream to her. She said the words and acted her part,
but she saw not the stage nor the spectators; her eyes all the time were on
her mother's face, her hand all the time felt her mother's dying grasp. And
yet, as she danced and sang, there were many there who thought her happy,
many who envied her, and who would have gladly changed places with her. Oh,
if they had only known! if they had only had the faintest idea of the
anguish of that little heart, of the keen, cruel, cutting sorrow with which
it was filled!
Troubles some of these people undoubtedly had, cares and vexations and
worries not a few, yet none of them had known anything of the heart-misery
of that little actress; not one of them had ever been torn from the side of
a dying mother, and been compelled to laugh and sing when their very hearts
were bleeding. From such soul-rending agony they had been saved and
shielded; and yet they would have chosen the very lot which would have
exposed them to it.
Oh, how very little they knew of what was going on behind the scenes! how
little they guessed what a tumult of passionate sorrow was in little
Rosalie's heart! So wild was her grief, that she hardly knew what she was
doing, and, after the play was over, she could not have told how she
managed to get through it. Instead of going out on the platform, she darted
swiftly out of the theatre and into her mother's caravan, almost knocking
over several people who were passing by, and who stared at her in
astonishment.
Her mother was not dead; oh, how glad Rosalie was for that! but she did not
seem to hear her speak, and her breathing was very painful. Rosalie bent
over her and cave her one long, long kiss, and then hurried back into the
theatre just as her father had missed her.
And when she next came into the caravan, all was still; her mother seemed
to be sleeping more quietly, the painful breathing had ceased, and the
child hoped she was easier. She certainly seemed more restful, and her
hands were still warm, so she could not be dead, little Rosalie reasoned to
herself.
Poor child, she did not know that even then she had no mother.
Weary and aching in every limb, little Rosalie fell asleep on the chair by
her mother's side; and when she awoke with a shiver in the dead of night,
and once more felt her mother's hand, it was as cold as ice. And Rosalie
knew then that she was dead.
Trembling in every limb, and almost too startled to realise her sorrow, she
unfastened the caravan door, and crept out into the darkness to tell her
father. But he and the men were sleeping soundly on the floor of the little
theatre, and, though Rosalie hammered against the gilded boards in front,
she could make no one hear her. Again and again she knocked, but no answer
came from within; for the theatre people were tired with their night's
work, and could not hear the tiny little hands on the outside of the show.
So the poor child had to return to the desolate caravan.
With one bitter cry of anguish, one long, passionate wail of grief, she
threw herself on her mother's bed. Her sorrow could not disturb that mother
now; she was gone to that land which is very far off, where even the sound
of weeping is never heard. The Good Shepherd had carried her safely over
the river, and, as Rosalie wept in the dark caravan. He was even then
welcoming her mother to the home above; He was even then saying, in tones
of joy, yet more glad than before, 'Rejoice with Me, for I have found My
sheep which was lost.'
But Rosalie--poor little desolate, motherless Rosalie!--had the Good
Shepherd quite forgotten her? Was she left in her sorrow alone and
forsaken? Was there no comfort for the orphaned lamb in her bitter
distress? Did He pass her by untended and unblessed? Or did He not rather
draw doubly near in that night of darkness? Did He not care for the lonely
lamb? Did He not whisper words of sweetest comfort and love to the weary,
sorrowful Rosalie?
If not, what was it that made her feel, as she lay on her mother's bed,
that she was not altogether deserted, that there was One who loved her
still? What was it that gave her that strange, happy feeling that she was
lying in the Good Shepherd's arms, and that He was folding her to His bosom
even more tenderly than her mother had done? What was it, but the Good
Shepherd fulfilling those gracious loving words of His--
'He shall gather the lambs with His arm, and carry them in His bosom'?
It was the next morning. The sun had risen some time, and the show-people
were beginning to stir; the fishing-boats were once more coming home, and
the breakers were rolling on the shore. Augustus Joyce awoke with a strange
feeling of uneasiness, for which he could not account. Nothing had gone
wrong the night before; Rosalie had made no mistake in her part, and his
profits had been larger than usual. And yet Augustus Joyce was not happy.
He had had a dream the night before; perhaps that was the reason. He had
dreamt of his wife; and it was not often that he dreamt of her now. He had
dreamt of her, not as she was then, thin and worn and wasted, but as she
had been on his wedding-day, when she had been his bride, and he had
promised to take her 'for better, for worse, for richer, for poorer, in
sickness and in health, to love and to cherish her, till death should them
part.'
Somehow or other, when Augustus woke, those words were ringing in his ears.
What had he been to her in poverty? How had he treated her in sickness? Had
he soothed her and cared for her, and done all he could to make their
burden press lightly on her? Had he loved her and cherished her? Loved
her?--What did those cruel words, those bitter taunts, those unsympathising
speeches, tell of the love of Augustus Joyce for his wife? Cherished her?
What kind of cherishing had he bestowed upon her during her illness? What
kind of cherishing had he shown her when he had compelled her, almost
fainting, to take her part in the play?
'Till death us do part.' That time was very near now,--Augustus Joyce knew
that. For once the voice of conscience was heard by him. He could not
forget the lovely face he had seen in his dream, nor the sad, reproachful
gaze of those beautiful dark eyes. He jumped from his bed and dressed
hastily. He would give his wife some kind words, at least that morning.
Conscience should not taunt him with his bitter neglect again.
He hurried to the other caravan, opened the door, and entered. What was the
scene which met his gaze?
The sunbeams were streaming in through the small window, and falling on the
bed. And there lay his wife, so pale, so ghastly, so still, that Augustus
Joyce drew back in horror. And there, with her arms round her mother's
neck, and the wreath of roses fallen from her hair on her mother's pillow,
lay little Rosalie, fast asleep, with the traces of tears still on her
cheeks. Intense sleep and weariness had taken possession of her, and she
had fallen asleep on her mother's bed, in her white dress, just as she had
been acting at the play.
Augustus drew nearer to his wife, and sat down beside her. Yes, she was
dead; there was no doubt of that. The kind words could never be spoken, she
would never hear him again, he could never show his love to her now,--never
cherish her more. 'Till death us do part.' It _had_ parted them now,
parted them for ever. It was too late for Augustus Joyce to make any
amends; too late for him to do anything to appease his conscience.
When Rosalie awoke, she found herself being lifted from the bed by her
father, and carried into the other caravan. There he laid her on his own
bed and went out, shutting the door behind him.
And the next few days seemed like one long dreary night to Rosalie. Of the
inquest and the preparations for the funeral she knew nothing. She seemed
like one in a dream. The fair went on all around her, and the noise and
racket made her more and more miserable. What she liked best was to hear
the dull roaring of the sea, after the naphtha lights were out and all in
the fair was still.
For, somehow, with the roaring of the waves the fishermen's song came back
to her--
'So keep up heart and courage, friends!
For home is just in sight;
And who will heed, when safely there,
The perils of the night?'
And, somehow--Rosalie hardly knew why--that song comforted and soothed her.