Eli's Children Part 12

They could not speak, but they read each other's hearts, and knew full well that nothing could be done; that the tiny life that had been given to them to have in charge was pa.s.sing fast away--so fast, and yet so gently that neither knew it had gone till, alarmed by the slow dilation of the little eyes, and their fixed and determinate look, Polly bent over the waxen form in eager fear, caught it tightly to her breast, and then sank back in her chair, crying--

"Tom, Tom, G.o.d has taken it away!" An hour later, husband and wife were sitting hand in hand by the little couch on which their darling lay, so still and cold, its tiny face seeming restful, free from pain, and almost wearing a smile, while on either hand, and covering its breast, were the best of the simple, homely flowers the garden could produce.

There was a heavy, blank look upon the parents' faces; for even then they could not realise their loss. It was so sudden, seemed so strange; and from time to time Polly got softly up, to lean down and hold her cheek close to the little parted lips, to make sure that the infant did not breathe; but there was no sign, and when she pressed her lips to the white forehead, it was to find it cold as ice.

Budge had been silent for some time, going about the house on tiptoe, and, like those above, too stunned to work; but her homely mind was busy for a way to show her sympathy, and this she did by making and taking up on the little tray two steaming cups of tea, each flanked by a goodly slice.

Poor Budge! she had not calculated her strength aright; for on softly entering the room, and setting down the tray, she turned her head, and saw the simple flower-strewn bier, gave a long, loving look, and then, sinking on her knees, with her hands to her eyes, burst forth into a wild and pa.s.sionate wail.

It was even ludicrous, but it touched the hearts of those who heard; for with it came the pa.s.sionate yearning of the desolate child for the love and sympathy it had never known, but for which its young heart had hungered so long. It told of nights of misery, and a desire for a something it felt it ought to possess but had never had, as now, raising her hands, she wailed forth her prayer--

"Oh, please, G.o.d, let me die instead, let me die instead."

As she finished, there was another wild burst of hysterical sobbing, and Polly had flung herself in the child's arms, clinging to her, kissing her pa.s.sionately, as she cried--

"Oh, Budge, my poor girl! Oh, Budge, you'll break my heart!"

Tom Morrison could bear no more, but stumbled heavily from the room, down-stairs, and out into his garden, where daybreak found him sitting, with his face buried in his hands, on the bit of rustic seat beneath the old weeping willow that grew in the corner, with its roots washed by the river that formed one of the boundaries of the little freehold.

The sun was rising gloriously, and the east was one sheet of gold and orange damask, shot with sapphire, as the st.u.r.dy workman rose.

"I must be a man over it--a man," he faltered, "for her sake." And he slowly strode into the house, and up-stairs, to find his wife kneeling where he had left her, wakeful and watching, with poor Budge fast asleep, with her head upon Polly's lap, and her two roughened hands holding one of those of her mistress beneath her cheek.

The wheelwright walked up to the sleeping babe, and kissed it; then, gently taking Budge's head, he placed it upon a pillow from the bed; while, lastly, he raised poor Polly as though she had been a child, kissed her cold lips, and laid her down, covering her with the clothes, and holding one of her hands, as he bade her sleep; and she obeyed, that is to say, she closed her heavy eyes.

In the course of the morning, stern, crotchety old Vinnicombe, the Lawford doctor, sought out the stricken father, finding that he had not been to his workshop, but was down his garden, where, after a few preliminaries, he broke his news.

"What?" he said, starting. "There, sir, I'm dazed like now; please, say it again."

"I'm very sorry, Morrison--very," said the doctor, "for I respect you greatly, and it must be a great grief to your poor little wife; but I have seen him myself, as I did about Warner's child, and he is very much cut up about it; but as to moving him, he is like iron."

"I can't quite understand it, sir," said Tom, flus.h.i.+ng. "Do you mean to say, sir, that parson won't bury the child?"

"Well, it is like this, Morrison," said the doctor, quietly, "he is a rigid disciplinarian--a man of High Church views, and he says it is impossible for him to read the Burial Service over a child that was not a Christian."

"That was not a Christian?" said Tom slowly.

"He says he condoles with you, and is very sorry; that the poor little thing can be buried in the unconsecrated part of the churchyard; but he can grant no more."

"Doctor," cried the wheelwright, fiercely, "I don't be--There, sir, I beg your pardon," he continued, holding out his rough hand; "but it seems too hard to believe that any one could speak like this. The poor little thing couldn't help it, sir; and we should have had it done next Sunday. Why, sir, the poor girl was only showing me the little--don't take notice o' me, sir, please; I'm like a great girl now."

As he spoke, he sank down upon an upturned box, and, covering his face with his hands, remained silent; but with his heaving shoulders telling the story of his bitter emotion.

"Be a man, Morrison--be a man," said the doctor, kindly, as he laid his hand upon the stricken fellow's shoulder.

"Yes, doctor," he said, rising and das.h.i.+ng away the signs of his grief--"this is very childish, sir; but it's a bit upset me, and now this news you bring me seems to make it worse. I'll go up and see parson. He won't refuse when he knows all."

"Yes, go up and see him," said the doctor, kindly. "Can I do anything for you?"

"No, sir, thanky," said the wheelwright, meekly; "you couldn't do what I wanted, sir--save that poor little thing's life. There's nothing more."

"No," said the doctor; "our profession is powerless in such a case. The child was so young and tender that--"

"Don't say any more, sir, please," said Morrison, with his lip quivering. And then he turned away from the house, so as to avoid Biggins the carpenter, who had just come in at the garden gate, and walked on tiptoe along the gravel walk, up to the door, where he was met by a neighbour, who led him up-stairs.

Biggins, the Lawford carpenter, was the newly-appointed s.e.xton of the church, and between him and Tom Morrison there was supposed to exist a bitter hatred, because Biggins the carpenter had once undertaken to make a wheelbarrow for the rectory garden, and Morrison had made a coffin for one of the Searby children who died of a fit of measles.

The feud seemed to be a bitter one, for when he came out of the cottage five minutes later, he turned down the garden, seeing which, the doctor shook hands with Morrison, and at parting said--

"Let me give you something to do you good, Tom."

"What, sir, doctor's stuff?" said the wheelwright, with a look of wonder. "I want no physic."

"Yes, you do," said the doctor, smiling, as he laid the silver k.n.o.b of his stick on the stout fellow's breast--"yes, you do. I can minister to a mind diseased as well as to a body. Look here, my lad, you must bear your suffering like a man; so, now go and do this--"

Tom made an impatient movement to go, but the doctor stayed him.

"There is nothing like work at such a time as this," he said. "Go and see the parson, and then set to and work harder than ever you worked before in your life. It will give you ease."

"You're right, Mr Vinnicombe, you're right," said Tom, bluntly.

"Thanky, sir--thanky. Good-bye."

As the doctor walked out of the gate, Biggins the carpenter, a hard-faced man, who emitted a strong odour of glue from his garments, walked up, tucking a piece of sandpaper upon which he had been writing, and his square carpenter's pencil, that he had pointed with four chops of his chisel before starting, into one of his pockets.

"Thy savoy cabbages look well, neighbour," he said quietly, as being the most sympathetic thing he could think of at the moment. Then he held out his hand, shook the other's warmly, without a word, and then stood by him, breathing heavily, and looking down at the ground.

Five minutes pa.s.sed like this, without a word on either side, Morrison manifesting no impatience, and Biggins showing no disposition to go; for it was his way of showing sympathy to a friend in distress, and Morrison felt it so to be, and thanked him in his heart.

At last the carpenter, who was used to funerals, and who was now next door to being clerk, heaved a heavy sigh, stooped down, picked a strand from the gra.s.s plot, and held it at arm's length, looking at it fixedly for a minute or so, before saying, huskily--

"All flesh is gra.s.s, Tom Morrison--flowers of the field--cut down-- withered. Amen."

He said it in a slow, measured way, and with a nasal tw.a.n.g, the last word closing his disconnected speech after quite an interval; and then the two men stood together for some minutes in silence.

At last Biggins spoke again, but without raising his eyes, looking down at the garden path, as if for a place to plant the bent he had broken from its roots.

"Poor wife! She's terribly cut up, Tom."

There was another interval of silence, and then Biggins said, as if to himself, and still gazing at the path--

"White cloth, and silver breastplate and nails?"

There was another pause, and then Tom said in a weary, dull way--

"As if it was one of your own, my lad--as if it was one of your own."

"Good-bye, Tom Morrison--good-bye, lad," said Biggins, holding out his hand once more, but with his back half turned to his neighbour "Good-bye," said Tom, squeezing the honest, hard fist held out to him in a manly grip; and, with a sigh, Biggins was turning off, when a word from the wheelwright arrested him. "Come down here, lad, away from the house," said Tom, huskily.

Biggins looked up now, his heavy face lighting up. Tom Morrison wanted him to do something for him. He could do that, if he could not show sympathy.