CHAPTER IV.

As they entered the house in Crown Street, they perceived that the door

would not open freely on its hinges, and Susan instinctively looked

behind to see the cause of the obstruction. She immediately recognised

the appearance of a little parcel, wrapped in a scrap of newspaper, and

evidently containing money. She stooped and picked it up. "Look!" said

she, sorrowfully, "the mother was bringing this for her child last

night."

But Mrs. Leigh did not answer. So near to the ascertaining if it were

her lost child or no, she could not be arrested, but pressed onwards with

trembling steps and a beating, fluttering heart. She entered the

bedroom, dark and still. She took no heed of the little corpse over

which Susan paused, but she went straight to the bed, and, withdrawing

the curtain, saw Lizzie; but not the former Lizzie, bright, gay, buoyant,

and undimmed. This Lizzie was old before her time; her beauty was gone;

deep lines of care, and, alas! of want (or thus the mother imagined) were

printed on the cheek, so round, and fair, and smooth, when last she

gladdened her mother's eyes. Even in her sleep she bore the look of woe

and despair which was the prevalent expression of her face by day; even

in her sleep she had forgotten how to smile. But all these marks of the

sin and sorrow she had passed through only made her mother love her the

more. She stood looking at her with greedy eyes, which seemed as though

no gazing could satisfy their longing; and at last she stooped down and

kissed the pale, worn hand that lay outside the bed-clothes. No touch

disturbed the sleeper; the mother need not have laid the hand so gently

down upon the counterpane. There was no sign of life, save only now and

then a deep sob-like sigh. Mrs. Leigh sat down beside the bed, and still

holding back the curtain, looked on and on, as if she could never be

satisfied.

Susan would fain have stayed by her darling one; but she had many calls

upon her time and thoughts, and her will had now, as ever, to be given up

to that of others. All seemed to devolve the burden of their cares on

her. Her father, ill-humoured from his last night's intemperance, did

not scruple to reproach her with being the cause of little Nanny's death;

and when, after bearing his upbraiding meekly for some time, she could no

longer restrain herself, but began to cry, he wounded her even more by

his injudicious attempts at comfort; for he said it was as well the child

was dead; it was none of theirs, and why should they be troubled with it?

Susan wrung her hands at this, and came and stood before her father, and

implored him to forbear. Then she had to take all requisite steps for

the coroner's inquest; she had to arrange for the dismissal of her

school; she had to summons a little neighbour, and send his willing feet

on a message to William Leigh, who, she felt, ought to be informed of his

mother's whereabouts, and of the whole state of affairs. She asked her

messenger to tell him to come and speak to her; that his mother was at

her house. She was thankful that her father sauntered out to have a

gossip at the nearest coach-stand, and to relate as many of the night's

adventures as he knew; for as yet he was in ignorance of the watcher and

the watched, who silently passed away the hours upstairs.

At dinner-time Will came. He looked red, glad, impatient, excited. Susan

stood calm and white before him, her soft, loving eyes gazing straight

into his.

"Will," said she, in a low, quiet voice, "your sister is upstairs."

"My sister!" said he, as if affrighted at the idea, and losing his glad

look in one of gloom. Susan saw it, and her heart sank a little, but she

went on as calm to all appearance as ever.

"She was little Nanny's mother, as perhaps you know. Poor little Nanny

was killed last night by a fall downstairs." All the calmness was gone;

all the suppressed feeling was displayed in spite of every effort. She

sat down, and hid her face from him, and cried bitterly. He forgot

everything but the wish, the longing to comfort her. He put his arm

round her waist, and bent over her. But all he could say, was, "Oh,

Susan, how can I comfort you? Don't take on so--pray don't!" He never

changed the words, but the tone varied every time he spoke. At last she

seemed to regain her power over herself; and she wiped her eyes, and once

more looked upon him with her own quiet, earnest, unfearing gaze.

"Your sister was near the house. She came in on hearing my words to the

doctor. She is asleep now, and your mother is watching her. I wanted to

tell you all myself. Would you like to see your mother?"

"No!" said he. "I would rather see none but thee. Mother told me thou

knew'st all." His eyes were downcast in their shame.

But the holy and pure did not lower or veil her eyes.

She said, "Yes, I know all--all but her sufferings. Think what they must

have been!"

He made answer, low and stern, "She deserved them all; every jot."

"In the eye of God, perhaps she does. He is the Judge; we are not."

"Oh!" she said, with a sudden burst, "Will Leigh! I have thought so well

of you; don't go and make me think you cruel and hard. Goodness is not

goodness unless there is mercy and tenderness with it. There is your

mother, who has been nearly heart-broken, now full of rejoicing over her

child. Think of your mother."

"I do think of her," said he. "I remember the promise I gave her last

night. Thou shouldst give me time. I would do right in time. I never

think it o'er in quiet. But I will do what is right and fitting, never

fear. Thou hast spoken out very plain to me, and misdoubted me, Susan; I

love thee so, that thy words cut me. If I did hang back a bit from

making sudden promises, it was because not even for love of thee, would I

say what I was not feeling; and at first I could not feel all at once as

thou wouldst have me. But I'm not cruel and hard; for if I had been, I

should na' have grieved as I have done."

He made as if he were going away; and indeed he did feel he would rather

think it over in quiet. But Susan, grieved at her incautious words,

which had all the appearance of harshness, went a step or two

nearer--paused--and then, all over blushes, said in a low, soft whisper--

"Oh, Will! I beg your pardon. I am very sorry. Won't you forgive me?"

She who had always drawn back, and been so reserved, said this in the

very softest manner; with eyes now uplifted beseechingly, now dropped to

the ground. Her sweet confusion told more than words could do; and Will

turned back, all joyous in his certainty of being beloved, and took her

in his arms, and kissed her.

"My own Susan!" he said.

Meanwhile the mother watched her child in the room above.

It was late in the afternoon before she awoke, for the sleeping draught

had been very powerful. The instant she awoke, her eyes were fixed on

her mother's face with a gaze as unflinching as if she were fascinated.

Mrs. Leigh did not turn away, nor move; for it seemed as if motion would

unlock the stony command over herself which, while so perfectly still,

she was enabled to preserve. But by-and-by Lizzie cried out, in a

piercing voice of agony--

"Mother, don't look at me! I have been so wicked!" and instantly she hid

her face, and grovelled among the bed-clothes, and lay like one dead, so

motionless was she.

Mrs. Leigh knelt down by the bed, and spoke in the most soothing tones.

"Lizzie, dear, don't speak so. I'm thy mother, darling; don't be afeard

of me. I never left off loving thee, Lizzie. I was always a-thinking of

thee. Thy father forgave thee afore he died." (There was a little start

here, but no sound was heard.) "Lizzie, lass, I'll do aught for thee;

I'll live for thee; only don't be afeard of me. Whate'er thou art or

hast been, we'll ne'er speak on't. We'll leave th' oud times behind us,

and go back to the Upclose Farm. I but left it to find thee, my lass;

and God has led me to thee. Blessed be His name. And God is good, too,

Lizzie. Thou hast not forgot thy Bible, I'll be bound, for thou wert

always a scholar. I'm no reader, but I learnt off them texts to comfort

me a bit, and I've said them many a time a day to myself. Lizzie, lass,

don't hide thy head so; it's thy mother as is speaking to thee. Thy

little child clung to me only yesterday; and if it's gone to be an angel,

it will speak to God for thee. Nay, don't sob a that 'as; thou shalt

have it again in heaven; I know thou'lt strive to get there, for thy

little Nancy's sake--and listen! I'll tell thee God's promises to them

that are penitent--only doan't be afeard."

Mrs. Leigh folded her hands, and strove to speak very clearly, while she

repeated every tender and merciful text she could remember. She could

tell from the breathing that her daughter was listening; but she was so

dizzy and sick herself when she had ended, that she could not go on

speaking. It was all she could do to keep from crying aloud.

At last she heard her daughter's voice.

"Where have they taken her to?" she asked.

"She is downstairs. So quiet, and peaceful, and happy she looks."

"Could she speak! Oh, if God--if I might but have heard her little

voice! Mother, I used to dream of it. May I see her once again? Oh,

mother, if I strive very hard and God is very merciful, and I go to

heaven, I shall not know her--I shall not know my own again: she will

shun me as a stranger, and chug to Susan Palmer and to you. Oh, woe! Oh,

woe!" She shook with exceeding sorrow.

In her earnestness of speech she had uncovered her face, and tried to

read Mrs. Leigh's thoughts through her looks. And when she saw those

aged eyes brimming full of tears, and marked the quivering lips, she

threw her arms round the faithful mother's neck, and wept there, as she

had done in many a childish sorrow, but with a deeper, a more wretched

grief.

Her mother hushed her on her breast; and lulled her as if she were a

baby; and she grew still and quiet.

They sat thus for a long, long time. At last, Susan Palmer came up with

some tea and bread and butter for Mrs. Leigh. She watched the mother

feed her sick, unwilling child, with every fond inducement to eat which

she could devise; they neither of them took notice of Susan's presence.

That night they lay in each other's arms; but Susan slept on the ground

beside them.

They took the little corpse (the little unconscious sacrifice, whose

early calling-home had reclaimed her poor wandering mother) to the hills,

which in her lifetime she had never seen. They dared not lay her by the

stern grandfather in Milne Row churchyard, but they bore her to a lone

moorland graveyard, where, long ago, the Quakers used to bury their dead.

They laid her there on the sunny slope, where the earliest spring flowers

blow.

Will and Susan live at the Upclose Farm. Mrs. Leigh and Lizzie dwell in

a cottage so secluded that, until you drop into the very hollow where it

is placed, you do not see it. Tom is a schoolmaster in Rochdale, and he

and Will help to support their mother. I only know that, if the cottage

be hidden in a green hollow of the hills, every sound of sorrow in the

whole upland is heard there--every call of suffering or of sickness for

help is listened to by a sad, gentle-looking woman, who rarely smiles

(and when she does her smile is more sad than other people's tears), but

who comes out of her seclusion whenever there is a shadow in any

household. Many hearts bless Lizzie Leigh, but she--she prays always and

ever for forgiveness--such forgiveness as may enable her to see her child

once more. Mrs. Leigh is quiet and happy. Lizzie is, to her eyes,

something precious--as the lost piece of silver--found once more. Susan

is the bright one who brings sunshine to all. Children grow around her

and call her blessed. One is called Nanny; her Lizzie often takes to the

sunny graveyard in the uplands, and while the little creature gathers the

daisies, and makes chains, Lizzie sits by a little grave and weeps

bitterly.