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, careworn 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?"

"Well, thou seest I never set eyes on her before; but she's a good,

gentle-looking creature; and I love her dearly, as I've 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 naturally 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 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 towards 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 afeard 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 sorryful, 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 towards 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 stayed 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 nightgown, towards the door. There was a light below, and

there was Susy and safety! So she went onwards two steps towards the

steep, abrupt stairs; and then, dazzled by 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 upstairs, and laid her tenderly

in bed; she dressed herself most hastily, with her trembling fingers. Her

father was asleep on the settle downstairs; and useless, and worse than

useless, if awake. But Susan flew out of the door, and down the quiet

resounding street, towards the nearest doctor's house. Quickly she went,

but as quickly a shadow followed, as if impelled by some sudden terror.

Susan rang wildly at the night-bell--the shadow crouched near. The

doctor looked out from an upstairs window.

"A little child has fallen downstairs, 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 forwards, 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

upstairs. The other followed.

She stood with wild, glaring eyes by the bedside, 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 own 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 she not 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 downstairs, 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 recognised 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.

"You must take the corpse out of her arms. She will not awake. That

draught will make her sleep for many hours. I will call before noon

again. It is now daylight. Good-by."

Susan shut him out; and then, gently extricating the dead child from its

mother's arms, she could not resist making her own quiet moan over her

darling. She tried to learn off its little placid face, dumb and pale

before her.

Not all the scalding tears of care

Shall wash away that vision fair;

Not all the thousand thoughts that rise,

Not all the sights that dim her eyes,

Shall e'er usurp the place

Of that little angel-face.

And then she remembered what remained to be done. She saw that all was

right in the house; her father was still dead asleep on the settle, in

spite of all the noise of the night. She went out through the quiet

streets, deserted still, although it was broad daylight, and to where the

Leighs lived. Mrs. Leigh, who kept her country hours, was opening her

window-shutters. Susan took her by the arm, and, without speaking, went

into the house-place. There she knelt down before the astonished Mrs.

Leigh, and cried as she had never done before; but the miserable night

had overpowered her, and she who had gone through so much calmly, now

that the pressure seemed removed could not find the power to speak.

"My poor dear! What has made thy heart so sore as to come and cry a-this-

ons? Speak and tell me. Nay, cry on, poor wench, if thou canst not

speak yet. It will ease the heart, and then thou canst tell me."

"Nanny is dead!" said Susan. "I left her to go to father, and she fell

downstairs, and never breathed again. Oh, that's my sorrow! But I've

more to tell. Her mother is come--is in our house! Come and see if it's

your Lizzie."

Mrs. Leigh could not speak, but, trembling, put on her things and went

with Susan in dizzy haste back to Crown Street.