LITMIR.BIZ

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Polly, indignantly.

      “Well, I don’t know,” said Tom; “I’ve rather a liking for old Humphrey. He taught me.”

      “He’s a nasty wicked old man,” cried Polly. “He tried to kiss me one day when he was tipsy.”

      “He did?” cried Tom, breaking his pipe in the angry rush that seemed to come over him.

      “Yes, Tom, and I boxed his ears,” said the little woman, shivering again, for the fit of jealous anger did not escape her searching eyes.

      “That’s right, lass. I’m dead on for a new master now.”

      Then a discussion arose as to the baby’s name, Tom wanting it to be called after his wife, who was set upon Julia, and she carried the day.

      “There,” said Tom, “if anybody had told me a couple of years ago that any bit of a thing of a girl was going to wheedle me, and twist me round her finger, and do what she liked with me, I should have told him he didn’t know what he was talking about.”

      “And you don’t mind, Tom, dear?”

      “No,” he said, smiling, “I don’t mind, if it pleases thee, my lass.”

      “And it does, dear, very, very much,” she said, kissing him.

      But Polly Morrison did not feel happy, and several times that night there was the little shiver of dread at her heart, and she wished she could tell Tom all.

      Part 1, Chapter VIII.

      The Black Shadow

      It was, as Julia Mallow said, a very pretty baby, that of Polly Morrison and her husband, when she spoke to her invalid mother, lying so patiently passive upon the couch in her own room; but that weak little morsel of humanity had a part to play in the troubles of the Rev. Eli Mallow’s life. For hardly had the tiny babe sent to the care of Tom Morrison and his young wife begun to smile upon them, than it was taken suddenly ill.

      No childish ailment this, brought on by careless attendance; but the cold grey hand of death was laid upon the fragile form, its little eyes – erst so bright and blue – sunken, and the tiny nose pinched and blue.

      Julia and Cynthia Mallow had been in to see her, and found the little woman prostrate with grief, and then hurried to the town for medical advice, though that of fifty doctors would have been in vain.

      “Pray, pray, Tom, go and ask Budge not to cry,” sobbed Polly, as her husband knelt at her side; for ever and again, from below, came a long, dismal cry, that almost resembled the howl of a dog in a state of suffering.

      Tom Morrison rose in a heavy, dull way, and slowly descended the stairs, returning in a minute to resume his place beside his wife, turning his eyes to hers, as they looked up to him in mute agony.

      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 passing 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, God 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 passionate wail.

      It was even ludicrous, but it touched the hearts of those who heard; for with it came the passionate 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, God, 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 passionately, 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 sturdy 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, flushing. “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

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