tmatmttHHIttt JT GIFT Oi Fninii^tce. "Naiiij^. Xanii.\, nij little Noiiny.' NOVELS AND TALES vt MRS. GASKELL. IN SEVEN VOLUMES. Vol. VII. LIZZIE LEIGH and OTHER TALES. LONDON: SMITH, ELDER, & CO., L5 WATERLOO PLACE. 1889. LIZZIE LEIGH ^nb otber ^-dt^. BV MRS. GASKELL. A NEW EDITION, WITH FOUR ILLUSTRATIONS. LONDON: SMITH, ELDER, & CO., 15 WATERLOO PLACE. 1889. CONTENTS. PAGX Lizzie Leigh 1 A Dark Night's "WoEK 29 EouND THE Sofa 175 Mt Lady Ludlow ....•».•• 181 An Accursed Race 345 The Doom of the Griffiths ....... 360 Half a Life-time Ago 393 The Poor Clare 433 The Half-Bbothebs . . . . r • > • 482 MllO'^7'^ ILLUSTRATIONS. " Nannt, Naxnt, my little Nannt " . . . . Frontispiece A Djlric Night's Wohk to/acr page 76 The Sbchkt Witness ., 166 ''Please, my lady, I meant no harm, vy ladt" : ^ ^^^ LIZZIE LEIGH. CHAPTER I. When Death is present in a household on a Cliristmas Day, the very contrast between the time as it now is, and the day as it haa often been, gives a poignancy to sorrow — a more utter blankness to the dei^olation. James Leigh died just as the liir-away bells of Kochdale Church were ringing for morning service on Christ- mas Day, 183G. A few minutes before his deatli, he opened his already glazing eyes, and made a sign to his wife, by the faint motion of his lips, that he had yet something to say. She stooped close down, and caught the broken whisper, " I forgive her, Annie ! May God forgive me ! " " Oh, my love, my dear ! only get well, and I will never cease showing my thanks for those words. May God in heaven bless thee for saying them. Thou'rt not so restless, my lad ! may be —Oh, God ! " For even while she spoke he died. They had been two-and-twenty years man and wife ; for nineteen of those years their life had been as calm and happy as the most perfect uprightness on the one side, and the most complete confidence and loving submission on the other, could make it. Milton's famous line might have been iramed and hung up as tlie rule of their married life, for he was truly the interpreter, who stood between God and her; she would have considered herself wicked if she had ever dared even to think him austere, though as certainly as he was an upright man, so surely was he hard, stern, and inflexible. But for three years the moan and the murmur had never been out of her heart; she had rebelled against her husljand as against a tyrant, witli a hidden, B 2 LIZZIE LEIGH. sullen rebellion, wliich tore up the old landmarks of wifely duty and affi'Ction, and j)oisoned the fountains whence gentlest love and reverence had once been for ever springing. But those last blessed words replaced him on his throne in her hefirt, and culled out penitent anguish for a'l the bitter estrancement of later years. It was this which made her refuse all the entreat'es of lier sonp^tliat she would see the kind-hearted neighbviurs, wlio called <>i>. -tlicir. way from church, to sympathize and condole. No ! she would stay with the dead husband that liad spoken tenderly at last, if for three years he had kept silence; who knew but what, if she had only been more gentl** and less angrily reserved he might have relented earlier — and in time? She sat rocking herself to and fro by the side of the bed. while the footsteps below went in and out ; she had been in sorrow too long to have any violent burst of deep grief now ; the furrows were well worn in her cheeks, and the tears llowed quietly, if incessjintlv, all the day long. But when the winter's night drew on, and the neighbours had gone away to their homes, she st * Ay, lad ! " said she, almost eagerly. " That's it. Read me the Prodigal Son. Ay, ay, lad. 'J'liank thee." Tom ft)iind the chapter, and read it in the high-pifchcd voice which is customary in village schools. His mother bent forward, hor lips parted, her eyes dilated; her whole body instinct with eager attention. Will sat with his head depressed and hung down. He knew why that chapter had been chosen ; and to him it re- called the family's disgrace. When the reading was ended, ha still hung down his head in gloomy silence. But her face was brighter than it had been before for the day. Her eyes looked dreamy, as if she saw a vision ; and by-and-by she pulled the Bible towards her, and, putting her finger underneath each word,, began to read them aloud in a low voice to herself ; she read again the words of bitter sorrow and deep humiliation ; but most of all', she paused and brightened over the father's tender reception of the repentant prodigal. ISo passed the Christmas evening in the Upclose Farm. The snow had fallen heavily over the dark Avaving moorland before the day of the funeral. The black storm-laden dome of heaven lay very still and close upon the white earth, as they carried the body forth otit of the house which had known his pre- sence so long as its ruling power. Two and two the mourners followed, making a black procession, in their winding march over the unbeaten snow, to Milne Row Church ; now lost in some hollow of the bleak moors, now slowly climbing the heaving ascents. There was no long tarrying after the funeral, for many of the neighbours who accompanied the body to the grave had far to go, and the great white flakes which came slowly down were the boding forerunners of a heavy storm. One old friend alone accompanied the widow and her sons to their home. The Upclose Farm had belonged for generations to the Leighs; and yet its possession hardly raised them above the rank of labourers. There was the house and out-buildings, all of an old- fashioned kind, and about seven acres of barren unproductive land, which they had never possessed capital enough to improve; indeed, they could hardly rely upon it for subj^istence ; and it had been customary to bring tip the sous to some trade, such as a wheelwright's or blacksmith's. James Leigh had left a will in the possession of the old man who accompanied them home. He read it aloud. James had bequeathed the farm to his faithful wife, Anne Leigh, for her lifetime, and afterwards to his son William. The hundred and odd pounds in the savings bank was to accumulate for Thomas. B 2 4 LIZZIE LEIGH. After the readinc^ was ended, Anne Leigh sat silent for a time, niid then she jujked to speak to Samuel Orme alone. The sons went into the back kitchen, and thence strolled out into the fields regardlejrs of the driving snow. The brothers were dearly fond of each other, although they were very different in character. Will, the elder, was like his father, stern, reserved, and scrupulously upright. Torn (who was ten years younger) was gentle and delicate as a girl, both in appearance and character. He had always clung to his mother and dreaded his father. They did not speak as they walked, for they were only in the habit of talking about facts, and hardly knew the more sophist iciited language applied to the description of feelings. Meanwhile their mother had taken hold of Samuel Orme's arm with her trembling hand. " Samuel, I must let the farm — I must." " Let the farm ! What's come o'er the woman ?" "Oh, Samuel!" said she, her eyes swimming in tears, " Im just fain to go and live in Manchester. I mun let the farm." Samuel looked, and pondered, but did not speak for some time. At last he said — " If thou hast made up thy mind, there's no speaking again it ; and thou must een go. Thou'lt be sadly pottered wi' Manchester ways; but that's not my look out. Why, thou'lt have to buy potatoes, a thing thou hast never done afore in all thy born life. Well I it's not my look out. It's rather for me than again me. Our Jenny is going to be married to Tom Iligginbotham, and he was speaking of wanting a bit of land to begin ujwn. His father will be dying sometime, I reckon, and then he'll step into the Croft Farm. But meanwhile " " Then, tliou'lt lot the farm," said she, still as eagerly as ever. " Ay, ay, he'll take it fast enough, I've a notion. But I'll not drive a bargain with thee just now; it would not be right; we'll wait a bit." " No ; I cannot wait ; settle it out at once." " Well, well ; I'll sjicak to Will about it. I see him out yonder. I'll step to him and talk it over." Accordingly he went and joined the two lads, and, without more ado, began the subject to them. " Will, thy mother is fain to go live in Manchester, and covets to hi the farm. Now, Vu\ willing to take it for Tom Iliggin- botham; but I like to drive a keen bargain, and there would be no fun chailering with thy mutlier just now. Let theo and me buckle to, my lad ! and try and cheat each oilier; it will warm Ui» thill cold day." LIZZIE LEIGH. 5 " Let the farm ! " said both the lads at once, with infinite surprise. " Go live in ^lanchester ! " When Samuel Orme found that the plan had never before been named to either Will or Tom, he would have nothing to do with it, he said, until they liad spoken to their mother. Likely she was " dazed " by her husband's death ; he would wait a day or two, and not name it to any one; not to Tom Iliojginbothain liimself, or may be he would set liis heart upon it. The lads had better go in and talk it over with their mother. He bade them good-day, and left them. Will looked very gloomy, but he did not speak till they got near the house. Then he said — " Tom, go to th' shippon, and supper the cows. I want to speak to mother alone." When he entered the house-place, she was sitting before the fire, looking into its embers. She did not hear him come in : for some time she liad lost her quick perception of outward things. " Mother ! what's this about going to Manchester ? " asked he. " Oh, lad ! " said she, turning round, and speaking in a be- seeching tone, " I must go and seek our Lizzie. I cannot rest here for thinking on her. Many's the time I've left thy father sleeping in bed, and stole to th' window, and looked and looked my heart out towards Manchester, till I thought I must just set out and tramp over moor and moss straight away till I got there, and then lift up every downcast face till I came to our Lizzie. And often, when the south wind was blowing soft among the hoUows, I've fancied (it could but be fancy, thou knowest) I heard her crying upon me; and I've thought the voice came closer and closer, till at last it was sobV)ing out, ' Mother ! ' close to the door ; and I've stolen down, and undone the latch before now, and looked out into the still, black night, thinking to sec her — and turned sick and sorrowful when I heard no living sound but the sough of the wind dying away. Oh, speak not to me of stopping here, when she may be perishing for hunger, like the poor lad in the parable." And now she lifted up her voice, and wept aloud. Will Avas deeply grieved. He had been old enough to be told the family shanie when, more than two years before, his father had had his letter to his daughter returned by her mistress in Manchester, telling him that Lizzie had left her service some time — and why. He had sympathized with his father's stern anger; though he had thought him something hard, it is trup, when he had forbidden liis weeping, heart-broken wife to go and try to find her poor sinning child, and dccla.od that henceforth f) LIZZIE LEIGH. they would have no daughter; that she ahouM be as one dead, and her name never more be named at market or at meal time, in blessing or in prayer. He had held his peace, with compressed lips and contracted brow, when the neighbours had noticed to him how ])oor Lizzie's death had aged both his lather and his mother; and how they thought the bereaved couple would never hold up their heads again. He himself had felt as if that one • vent had made him old before his time ; and had envied Torn the tears he had phed over poor, pretty, innocent, dead Lizzie. He thought about her sometimes, till he ground his teeth together, aiid could have struck her down iu her shame. His mother had never named lier to him until now. " Mother 1 " said he, at last. " She may be dead. Most likely she is." *' No, "Will ; she is not dead," faid Mrs. Leigh. " God will not let her die till I've seen her once again. Thou dost not know how I've prayed and prayed just once again to see her sweet face, and tell her I've forgiven her, though she's broken my heart — she has. Will." She could not go on for a minute or two for the choking sobs. *' Thou dost not know that, or thou wouldst not say she could be dead — for God is very merciful. Will; He is : He is much more pitiful than man. I could never ha' spoken to thy iather as I did to Him — and yet thy father forgave her at last. The last words he said were that he forgave her. Thou'lt not be harder than thy father. Will? Do not try and hinder me going to seek her, for it's no use." Will sat very still f6r a long time before he spoke. At last he said, " I'll not hinder you. I think she's dead, but that's no matter." " She's not dead," said her mother, with low earnestness. Will tuok no notice of the interruption. " We will all go to Manchester for a twelvemonth, and let the farm to Tom Higginbotham. I'll get blacksmith's work; and Tom can have good schooling for awhile, which he's always craving for. At the end of the year you'll come back, njother, and give over fretting lor Lizzie, and think with me tliat she is il.iid — and, to my mind, that would bo more comlort than t«) think of her living; " he droj)p(.'d his voice as he spoko these lust \vords. She shook her head but made no answer. He usked again — " Will you, mother, agree to this?" " I'll aj.'ree to it a-tliis-ns," said slic. " If I hear and see nought of her for u twelvemonth, me being in Manchester look- ing out, I'll juhl hu' broken my heart fairly' before the year's LIZZIE LEIGH. 7 ended, and then I shall know neither love nor sorrow for her any more, when I'm at rest in my grave. Ill agree to thaf, Will." " Well, I suppose it must be so. I shall not tell Tom, mother, why we're flitting to Manchester. Best spare him." " As thou wilt," said she, sadly, " so that we go, that's all." Before the wild daffodils were in flower in the sheltered copses round Upclose Farm, the Leighs were settled in their Manchester home ; if they could ever grow to consider that place as a home, where there was no garden or outbuilding, no fresh breezy outlet, no far-stretching view, over moor and hollow ; no dumb animals to be tended, and, what more than all they missed, no old haunt- ing memories, even though those remembrances told of sorrow, and the dead and gone. Mrs. Leigh heeded the loss of all these things less than her sons. She had more spirit in her countenance than she had had for months, because now she had hope ; of a sad enough kind, to be sure, but still it was hope. She performed all her household duties, strange and complicated as they were, and bewildered as she was with all the town necessities of her new manner of life ; but when her house was " sided," and the boys come home from their work in the evening, she would put on her things and steal out, unnoticed, as she thought, but not without many a heavy sigh from Will, after she had closed the house-door and departed. It was often past midnight before she came back, pale and weary, with almost a guilty look upon her face ; but that face so full of disappointment and hope deferred, that Will had never the heart to say what he thought of the folly and hopelessness of the search. Night after night it was renewed, till days grew to weeks, and weeks to months. All this time Will did his duty towards her as well as he could, without having sympathy with her. lie stayed at home in the evenings for Tom's sake, and often wished he had Tom's pleasure in reading, for the time hung heavy on his hands as he sat up for his mother. I need not tell you how the mother spent the weary hours. And yet I will tell you something. She used to wander out, at first as if without a purpose, till she rallied her thoughts, and brought all her energies to bear on the one point ; then she went with earnest patience along the least-known ways to some new part of the town, looking wistfully with dumb entreaty into people's faces; sometimes catching a glimpse of a figure which had a kind of momentary likeness to her child's, and following that figure with never-wearying perseverance, till some light from shop or lamp showed the cold strange face which was not her daughter's. Once or twice a kind-hearted passer-by, struck 8 LIZZIE LEIGE. by lier look of yearning woe, turned back and ofTered help, or asked her what she wanted. When bo spoken to, she answered only, " You don't know a poor girl they call Lizzie Leigh, do you ? " and when they denied all knowledge, she shook her head, and went on again. I think they believed her to be crazy. But she never spoke first to any one. She sometimes took a few minutes' rest on the door-stejjs, and sometimes (very seldom) covered her face and cried ; but she could not afford to lose time and clianccs in this way ; while her eyes were blinded with tears, the lost one might pass by unseen. One evening, in the rich timeof shortening autumn-days, Will saw an old man, who, without being absolutely drunk, could not guide himself rightly along the foot-path, and was mockey iho exact number, and the woman whom she addressed told her that Susui Palmer'rt school would not bo loosed till four, and asked her to step in and wait initil then at her liouso. "For," Raid she, smiling, "them that wants Suann Palmer Muiita u kind friend of our.n; so we, in a manner, call cousins. LIZZIE LEIGH. 13 iSit down, missus, sit do^vn. I'll wipe the chair, so that it shanna dirty your cloak. My mother used to wear them bright cloaks, and they're ri^ht gradely things again a green Held." " Han ye known Susan Palmer long ? " asked Mrs. Leigh, pleased with the admiration of her cloak. " Ever since they corned to live in our street. Our Sally goes 10 her school.'* " Whatten sort of a lass is she, for I ha' never seen her ? " " Well, as for looks, I cannot say. It's so long since I first knowed her, that I've clean forgotten what I thought of her then. My master says he never saw such a smile for gladdening the heart. But maybe it's not looks you're asking about. The best thing I can say of her looks is, that she's just one a stranger would stop in the street to ask help from if he needed it. All the little childer creeps as close as they can to her ; she'll have as many as three or four hanging to her apron all at once." " Is she cocket at all ? " " Cocket, bless you ! you never saw a creature less set up in all your life. Her father's cocket enough. No ! she's not cocket any way. You've not heard much of Susan Palmer, I reckon, if vou think she's cocket. She's just one to come quietly in, and do the very thing most wanted ; little things, maybe, that any one could do, but that few would think on, for another. She'll bring her thimble wi' her, and mend up after the childer o' nights ; and she writes all Betty Harker's letters to her grandchild out at service ; and she's in nobody's way, and that's a great matter, I take it. Here's the childer running past ! School is loosed. You'll find her now, missus, ready to hear and to help. But we none on us frab her by going near her in school-time." Poor IMrs. Leigh's heart began to beat, and she could almost have turned round and gone home again. Her country breedmg had made her shy of strangers, and this Susan Palmer appeared to her like a real born lady by all accounts. So she knocked with a timid feeling at the indicated door, and when it was opened, dropped a simple curtsey without speaking. Susan had her little niece in her arms, curled up with fond endearment against her breast, but she put her gently down to the ground, and instantly placed a chair in the best corner of the room for Mrs. Leigh, when she told her who she was. " It's not Wi'l as has asked me to come," said the mother, apologetically ; " I'd a wish just to speak to you myself ! " Susan coloured up to her temples, and stooped to pick up the little toddling girl. In a minute or two Mrs. Leigh began again. " Will thinks you would na respect us if you knew all ; but I 14 LIZZIE LEIGH. think you could na help feeling for us in ihc sorrow God has put upcin us ; so I just put on my l)onnet, and came off unknownst to the lads. Every one says you're ver)' good, and that the Lord has keeped you from falling from His ways; but maybe you've never yet been tried and tempted as some is. I'm perhaps speak- ing too plain, but my heart's welly broken, and I can't be choice in my words as tlxin who are happy can. Well now ! I'll tell you the truth. Will dreads you to hear it, but I'll just tell it you. You mun know " l)Ut here the poor woman's words failed her, and she could do nothing but sit rocking lierself backwards and forwards, with sad eyes, straight-gazinp into Susan's face, as if they tried to tell the tale of agony which the quivering lips refused to utter. Those wretched, stony eyes forced the tears down Susan's cheeks, and, as if tliis sympathy gave the mother strength, she went on in a low voice — " I had a daughter once, my heart's darling. Her father thought I made too much on her, and that she'd grow marred staying at home; so he said she mun go among strangers and learn to rough it. She were young, and liked the thought of seeing a V)it of the world ; and her father heard on a ]ilace in Manchester. "Well ! I'll not weary you. That poor girl were led astray ; and first thing we heard on it, was when a letter of lier father's was sent back by her missus, saying she'd left her place, or, to speak right, the master had turned her into the street soon as he had heard of her condition — and she not seventeen ! " She now cried aloud ; and Susan wept too. The little child looked up into their faces, and, catching their sorrow, ])egan to whimper and wail. Susan took it softly up, and hiding her liice in its little neck, tried to rest-ain her tears, and think of comfort for the mother. At last she said — *' Where is she now ? " " Lass ! I dunnot know,'' said Mrs. Leigh, checking her sobs to cf>nimunicate this addition to Iter distress. " Mrs. Luniax telled me she went " " Mrs. Loinax — what Mr.s. Lomnx? " *'II<>r as lives in linibazon Street. She telled me my poor wench went to the workhouse fra there. I'll not sjieak ai!ain the diud ; l)Ut if her father would but ha' lelten me — but he were o:ie who had no notion — no, I'll not 8.iy that ; best say nought. He forgave lier on his death-bed. I daresay I did na go th' right way to work." •' Will you hold the child for me one instant ?" said Susan. •' Ay, if it will como to mo. Childer used to be ft>nd on mo till I gut the Bud look on my face tliat scares thcin, I think." LIZZIE LEIGH. 15 But the little girl clung to Susan; so she carried it upstairs with hor. Mrs. Leigh sat by herself — how long she did not know. Susan came down with a bundle of far-worn baby -clothes. " You must listen to me a bit, and not think too much aVjoiit what I'm going to tell you. Nanny is not my niece, nor any kin to me, that I know of. I used to go out working l)y the day. One night, as I came home, I thought some woman was follow- ing me; I turned to look. The woman, before I could see licr face (for she turned it to one side), offered me something. I held out my arms by instinct ; she dropped a bundle into them, with a bursting sob that went straight to my heart. It was a baby. I looked round again; but the woman was gone. She had run away as quick as lightning. There was a little packet of clothes — very few — and as if they were made out of its mother's gowns, for they were large patterns to buy for a baby. I was always fond of babies ; and I had not my wits about me, father says ; for it was very cold, and when I'd seen as well as I could (fur it was past ten) that there was no one in the street, I brought it in and warmed it. Father was very angry when he came, and said he'd take it to the workhouse the next morning, and flyted me sadly about it. But when morning came I could not bear to part with it; it had slept in my arms all night; and I've heard what workhouse bringing-up is. So I told father I'd give up going out working, and stay at home and keep school, if I might only keep tlie baby ; and, after a while, he said if I earned enough for him to have his comforts, he'd let me ; but he's never taken to her. Now, don't tremble so — I've but a little more to tell — and maybe I'm wrong in telling it ; but I used to •work next door to Mrs. Lomax's, in Brabazon Street, and the servants were all thick together; and I heard about Bessy (thiy called her) being sent away. I don't know that ever I saw her; but the time would be about fitting to this child's age, and I've sometimes fancied it was hers. And now, will you look at the little clothes that came with her — bless her ! " But Mrs. Leigh had fainted. The strange joy and shame, and gushing love for the little child, had overpowered her; it was some time Vjefore Susan could bring her round. Tliere she was all trembling, sick with impatience to look at the little frocks. Among them was a slip of paper which Susan had forgotten to naree, that had been pinned to the bundle. On it was scrawled in a round stiff hand — " Call her Anne. She does not cry much, and takes a deal of notice. God bless you and forgive me." I 6 LIZZIE LEIGH. The writing was no clue at all ; the name " Anne," common though it was, seemed something to build upon. But Mrs. Leigh recognised one of the froc-ks instantly, as being made out of a part of a gown that she and her daughter had bought together in Kochdale. She stood up, and stretched out her hands in the attitude of blessing over Susan's bent head. " God bless you, and show you His mercy in your need, as you have shown it to this little child." She took the little creature in her arms, and smoothed away her sad looks to a smile, and kissed it fondly, saying over and over again, " Nanny, Nanny, my little Nanny." At last the child was soothed, and looked in her face and smiled back again. *' It has her eyes," said she to Susan. " I never saw her to the best of my knowledge. I think it must V)e hers by the frock. But where can she be ? " " God knows," said Mrs. Leigh ; " I dare not think she's dead. I'm sure she isn't." " No ; she's not dead. Every now and then a little packet is thrust in under our door, with, may be, two hall-crowns in it ; once it was half-a-sovereign. Altogether I've got seven-and- thirty shillings wrapped up for Nanny. I never touch it, but I've often thought the poor mother feels near to God when she brings this money. Father wanted to set the policeman to watch, V>ut I said No ; for I was afraid if she was watched she might not come, and it seemed such a holy thing to be checking her in, I could not find in my heart to do it." " Oh, if we could but find her ! I'd take her in my arras, and we'd just lie down and die together." *' Nay, don't speak so ! " siiid Susan, gently ; " for all that's come and pone, she may turn right at last. Mary Magdalen did, you know." •' Eh ! but I were nearer right about thee than Will. He thought you Would never look on him again if you knew about Lizzie. But tliou'rt not a Pharisee." " I'm sorry he thought I could he so hard," said Susan in a low voice, and colouring up. Then Mrs. Lrigh was alarim-d, and. in lier motherl}' anxiety, she began to fear lest she had injurid Will in Susan's estimation. "You see Will thinks so much of you — gold would not ho gooy), " I tolled her all." " Mother ! you've ruined me," said he, stiuiding up, and staniU ing opposite to her with a stern white look of o Aright on his face. '* No ! my own dear lad ; dunnot look so scared ; I have not ruined you I" she exclaimed, placing her two linnds on )iia hlioulders, and looking fondly into his face. *' She's not one to harden her heart against a mother's sorrow. My own lad, she's LIZZIE LEIGH. 19 too good for that. She's not one to jiulproand scorn the sinner. She's too deep read in her New Testament for that. Take courage, Will; and thou mayst, for I ■watched lier well, though it is not for one woman to let out another's secret. Sit thee doAvn, lad, lur thou look'st very white." He Silt 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-cryiiig over my deep sorrow, and the poor wench's sin. And then a light corned into lier face, trembling and quivering with some new glad thought; and what dost thou think it was, Will, lad ? Nay, I'll not mis- d()ul)t 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 full 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 help- less 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 Avas 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 t 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, lor 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 Avho, like them, will rejoice over her as re- pents. 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 Susjin's door, and she comes back, crying and sorryfui, led by that good angel to ua once more, thou shalt never sjiy 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 BO mayst thou lead Susan home as thy wife." She stood no longer as the meek, imploring, gentle mother, but u2 20 LIZZIE LEIGH. firm and dignified, as if the interpreter of God's will. Her manner Avas so unusual and solemn, tliat it overcame all Will's ))ride and stubbornness. He rose softly while she was speaking, and bent his head, as if in reverence at her words, and the solemn injunction Avhich they conveyed. When she had spoken, he said, in so sub- dued 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 kid 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 wita gladness." That night I\Ir. Palmer stayed out late and long. Susan was afraid that he was at his old haunts and habits — getting tipsy at same 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 bud-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 dt^or 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 jiresently he called aloud for a light. She had left matches and all arranged as usual on the dresser; Init, fearful of some accident from fire, in his unusually intoxicated state, she now got up softly, and jHitting 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 va^t 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 l)elow, and there was Susy and tafety ! So she went onwards two steps towards the steep, LIZZIE LEIGir. 21 nV>nipt stairs; and then, dazzled bv sleepiness, slio stood, she ■wavered, she fell ! Down on her Jiead on the stone tloor she fell ! Susan flew to her, and spoke all soft, entreatinpr, 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 dowa did not awaken her ; she lay ttifF, 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 Avindow. " A little child has fallen downstairs, at Xo. 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 — toll 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 outi. 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 folIoAved. She stood with wild, glaring eyes by the bedside, never looking at Susan, but hungrily gazing at the little, Avhite, 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 I " " She looked so fierce, so mad, so haggard, tliat, for an instant, Susan was terrified; the next, the holy God had jnit courage into her heart, and her pure arms were round that guilty, wretched creature, and her toars were falling fast and warm upon her breast. But she v/ds thrown off with violence. 22 LIZZIE LEIGH. " You killed her — you slighted lior — you let her fall down those stairs ! you killed her ! " Susan cleared off the tliick mist before her, and, gazing at the mother with lier clear, sweet angel eyes, said, mournfully — " I would have laid down my own life for lier." " Oh, the murder is on my soul ! " exclaimed the wild, bereaved mother, with tlie 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 motfier turned sharp round. Tlie 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 ill a fit. Susan, with her deep grief, had to forget herself, and f iiget her darling (her charge for years), and question the doctor vliat 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. Hut Susan only said, "The little child slept with me; and it was I that left her." " 1 will go back and make up a composing draught; and while 1 am away you must get her to bed." Susan took out some of her own clothes, and softly imdresseu the stiff, powerless form. Tliere was no otiicr bed in the liouse liut 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, slie huid — *' I am not worthy to touch her, I am so wicked. I have Fjwken to you as I never should have spoken; but I think you are very good. May I have my own cliild to lie in my arms for a little "while?" Her voice was so strange a contrast to Avhat it had been before she had gone into the lit, that Susan hardly recognised it: it was i:(j\v H(i uiiHj)oakubly soft, so irresistibly ])leading; the features t(x> had lost tiu ir fierce exj)rrssion, and were ahmtst as ]>lacid as death. Sus;in could not sj)eak, but bIic carried the little cliild, and laid it ill its motlu'r's arms; then, as she looked at them, sumetliing overpowered her, and she knelt down, cryini; aloud — "()li, niy (iod, my tiod, have mercy on her, and forgive and comfurl her." LIZZIE LEIGH. 23 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 ; hut she prayed on, and on, and ever irtill 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 beckiining Susan to the door, he spoke to her there. " You must take tlie 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 tlie thousand thoughts that r!so, Not all the sights tliat dim her eyes, Shall e'er usurp the place Of that little angel-face. And then she remembered what remained to be done. Slie 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 Avas 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 niglit 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 ihou 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 mv sorrow ! But I've more to tell. Iler mother is come — is in our house ! Come and see if it's your Lizzie." Mrs. Leigh could not speak, but, treml)ling, put on her thinga and went with Susan in dizzy haste back to Crown Street. 24 LIZZIE LEIGH. CHAPTER IV. As tbey entered the house in Crown Street, they perceived that the door Avould not open freely on its hinges, and Susan instinc- tively looked behind to see the cause of the obstruction. She immediately recognised the appearance of a little parcel, ■\\Tapped in a scrap of newspaper, and evidently contiiining money. She stooped and picked it up. " Look ! " said she, sorrowfully, " the mother was bringing this for her child last night." But Jlrs. 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, iluttering heart. She entered the bedroom, dark and still. She took no heed of the Jittle 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 undinimed. This Lizzie was old before her time; her beauty was gone; deep lines of care, and, alas ! of want (or thus the motlier 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 iorgotten how to smile. But all these marks of the sin and sorrow she had passed through only made her mother love licr the more. She stcod looking at her with greedy eyes, which seemed as though no gazing could satisfy their longing ; and at last she stooped dowu and kissed the ]iale, worn hand that lay outside the bedclothes. No touch disturbed the sleeper; the mother need not have laid the hand so gently down upon the counterjmne. There was no fiign 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 sjitisfied. Susan would liiin have stayed by her darling one; but she liad many calls upon her time and thoughts, and lit'r will had now, as ever, to be given up to that of others. All Wfmed to devolve the burden of their carts on lior. Her fatlu-r, ill- huinotu'cd from his last night's intempenince, did not scrujile to reproach her with being the cause of little Nanny's death; and when, after bearing liib ui»braiding meekly for some time, she could no longer restrain herself, but bepui to cry, ho wotuidcd her even more by his injudicious aUeuijJls at comfort ; for he LIZZIE LEIGH. 25 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 iipplored him to forbear. Then she had to take all reqtiisite 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 8tate 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 adven- tures 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 rip- stairs." '• 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 doAVTistairs." 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. lie forgot everytliing 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 c[uiet, 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 v.-atching 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 ehame. But the holy and pure did not lower or veil her eyes. She said, " Yes, I know all — all but her sufferings. Think whut they must have been I " 26 LIZZIE LEIGir. He made answer, low and stem, *' She deserved them all ; every jot." " In tlie eye of God, perhaps she docs. He is the Judge; we are not." " Oil ! " she s:aid, with a sudden hurst, " "Will Loiph ! I have thouaht so well of ycni ; don't go and make me think you cruel and hard. Goodness is not goodness unless there is mercy and tenderne&s 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 (juiet. But Susan, grieved at her incautious words, which had all the a]ip('nrance 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 alwavs drawn back, and been so reserved, said this in the very softest manner; with eyes now uplifted beseech- ingly, now dropped to the ground. Her sweet confusion told mf)re than words could do ; and Will turned back, all jovinis in his certainty of being beloved, and took her in his arms, ard kissed her. " My own Susan ! " he said. Meanwhile the mother watched her child in the room above. It was late in the afternoon l)efore she awoke, for the sleeping draiight had been very ])owerful. The inst.iuit she awoke, hor eyes were fixed on her mother's face with a gaze as untlinehing as if she wore fascinated. Mrs. Leigh did not turn away, nor move; for it wenu-d as if motion would imlock the Bt«>iiy com- mand over herself wliicli. while so pirfectly still, she was enabled t" pr<*»crve. But by-aiul-by Lizzie cried out, in a j)iercing vt>ico of agony — "Muiher, dua't look at me! I have been bo wicked!" and LIZZIE LEI on. 27 instantlv 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 lorgave 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 tlie 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 Avert 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 mvself. Lizzie, lass, don't hide thy head so ; it's thy mother as is speaking to thee. Thy little child chmg to me only yester- day ; 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 Xancy'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 !:oks." * 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 cling :o Susan Palmer and to you. Oh, woe ! Oh, woe ! " She shook with exceeding soitow. In her earnestness of speech she had uncovered her face, and tried to read Mrs. Leigh's thoughts through her looks. And Avhen she saw those aged eyes biimming full of tears, ajid marked the quivering lips, she threw her arms round the faithtiil 28 LIZZIE LEIGH. mother's neck, and wept there, as she had done in many a childisli sorrow, ]>\\t with a deeper, a more wretched pirief. Her motlier hushed her on lier breast; and lulled her as if she v/ere a Vjuby ; 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, imwilling 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 aims ; 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 wandeiing mother) to the hills, which in her life-time she had never seen. They dared not lay her by the stern grandfather in Milne Kow 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 tluwers 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. Ti>ni is a school- master in Rochdale, and he and Will help to support their mother. J only know that, if the cottage be hidden in a green hollow of the hills, every sound of sorrow in the whole uphmd is heard there — every call of sufTering or of sickness for help is listened to by a sad, gentle-looking woman, who rarely smiks (and when she does her smile is more sad than