The Vicar's Daughter, George MacDonald [important books to read .txt] 📗

the one blessed thing in the world, I should have said sleep—with my husband and children beside me. But I dreaded sleep now, both for its visions and for the frightful waking. Now and then I would start violently, thinking I heard my Ethel cry; but from the cab-window no child was ever to be seen, down all the lonely street. Then I would sink into a succession of efforts to picture to myself her little face,—white with terror and misery, and smeared with the dirt of the pitiful hands that rubbed the streaming eyes. They might have beaten her! she might have cried herself to sleep in some wretched hovel; or, worse, in some fever-stricken and crowded lodging-house, with horrible sights about her and horrible voices in her ears! Or she might at that moment be dragged wearily along a country-road, farther and farther from her mother! I could have shrieked, and torn my hair. What if I should never see her again? She might be murdered, and I never know it! O my darling! my darling!

At the thought a groan escaped me. A hand was laid on my arm. That I knew was my husband’s. But a voice was in my ear, and that was Mr. Blackstone’s.

“Do you think God loves the child less than you do? Or do you think he is less able to take care of her than you are? When the disciples thought themselves sinking, Jesus rebuked them for being afraid. Be still, and you will see the hand of God in this. Good you cannot foresee will come out of it.”

I could not answer him, but I felt both rebuked and grateful.

All at once I thought of Roger. What would he say when he found that his pet was gone, and we had never told him?

“Roger!” I said to my husband. “We’ve never told him!”

“Let us go now,” he returned.

We were at the moment close to North Crescent. After a few thundering raps at the door, the landlady came down. Percivale rushed up, and in a few minutes returned with Roger. They got into the cab. A great talk followed; but I heard hardly any thing, or rather I heeded nothing. I only recollect that Roger was very indignant with his brother for having been out all night without him to help.

“I never thought of you, Roger,” said Percivale.

“So much the worse!” said Roger.

“No,” said Mr. Blackstone. “A thousand things make us forget. I dare say your brother all but forgot God in the first misery of his loss. To have thought of you, and not to have told you, would have been another thing.”

A few minutes after, we stopped at our desolate house, and the cabman was dismissed with one of the sovereigns from the Blue Posts. I wondered afterwards what manner of man or woman had changed it there. A dim light was burning in the drawing-room. Percivale took his pass-key, and opened the door. I hurried in, and went straight to my own room; for I longed to be alone that I might weep—nor weep only. I fell on my knees by the bedside, buried my face, and sobbed, and tried to pray. But I could not collect my thoughts; and, overwhelmed by a fresh access of despair, I started again to my feet.

Could I believe my eyes? What was that in the bed? Trembling as with an ague,—in terror lest the vision should by vanishing prove itself a vision,—I stooped towards it. I heard a breathing! It was the fair hair and the rosy face of my darling—fast asleep—without one trace of suffering on her angelic loveliness! I remember no more for a while. They tell me I gave a great cry, and fell on the floor. When I came to myself I was lying on the bed. My husband was bending over me, and Roger and Mr. Blackstone were both in the room. I could not speak, but my husband understood my questioning gaze.

“Yes, yes, my love,” he said quietly: “she’s all right—safe and sound, thank God!”

And I did thank God.

Mr. Blackstone came to the bedside, with a look and a smile that seemed to my conscience to say, “I told you so.” I held out my hand to him, but could only weep. Then I remembered how we had vexed Roger, and called him.

“Dear Roger,” I said, “forgive me, and go and tell Miss Clare.”

I had some reason to think this the best amends I could make him.

“I will go at once,” he said. “She will be anxious.”

“And I will go to my sermon,” said Mr. Blackstone, with the same quiet smile.

They shook hands with me, and went away. And my husband and I rejoiced over our first-born.

 

CHAPTER XXV.

ITS SEQUEL.

 

My darling was recovered neither through Miss Clare’s injunctions nor Mr. Blackstone’s bell-ringing. A woman was walking steadily westward, carrying the child asleep in her arms, when a policeman stopped her at Turnham Green. She betrayed no fear, only annoyance, and offered no resistance, only begged he would not wake the child, or take her from her. He brought them in a cab to the police-station, whence the child was sent home. As soon as she arrived, Sarah gave her a warm bath, and put her to bed; but she scarcely opened her eyes.

Jemima had run about the streets till midnight, and then fallen asleep on the doorstep, where the policeman found her when he brought the child. For a week she went about like one dazed; and the blunders she made were marvellous. She ordered a brace of cod from the poulterer, and a pound of anchovies at the crockery shop. One day at dinner, we could not think how the chops were so pulpy, and we got so many bits of bone in our mouth: she had powerfully beaten them, as if they had been steaks. She sent up melted butter for bread-sauce, and stuffed a hare with sausages.

After breakfast, Percivale walked to the police-station, to thank the inspector, pay what expenses had been incurred, and see the woman. I was not well enough to go with him. My Marion is a white-faced thing, and her eyes look much too big for her small face. I suggested that he should take Miss Clare. As it was early, he was fortunate enough to find her at home, and she accompanied him willingly, and at once recognized the woman as the one she had befriended.

He told the magistrate he did not wish to punish her, but that there were certain circumstances which made him desirous of detaining her until a gentleman, who, he believed, could identify her, should arrive. The magistrate therefore remanded her.

The next day but one my father came. When he saw her, he had little doubt she was the same that had carried off Theo; but he could not be absolutely certain, because he had seen her only by moonlight. He told the magistrate the whole story, saying, that, if she should prove the mother of the child, he was most anxious to try what he could do for her. The magistrate expressed grave doubts whether he would find it possible to befriend her to any effectual degree. My father said he would try, if he could but be certain she was the mother.

“If she stole the child merely to compel the restitution of her own,” he said. “I cannot regard her conduct with any abhorrence. But, if she is not the mother of the child, I must leave her to the severity of the law.”

“I once discharged a woman,” said the magistrate, “who had committed the same offence, for I was satisfied she had done so purely from the desire to possess the child.”

“But might not a thief say he was influenced merely by the desire to add another sovereign to his hoard?”

“The greed of the one is a natural affection; that of the other a vice.”

“But the injury to the loser is far greater in the one case than in the other.”

“To set that off, however, the child is more easily discovered. Besides, the false appetite grows with indulgence; whereas one child would still the natural one.”

“Then you would allow her to go on stealing child after child, until she succeeded in keeping one,” said my father, laughing.

“I dismissed her with the warning, that, if ever she did so again, this would be brought up against her, and she would have the severest punishment the law could inflict. It may be right to pass a first offence, and wrong to pass a second. I tried to make her measure the injury done to the mother, by her own sorrow at losing the child; and I think not without effect. At all events, it was some years ago, and I have not heard of her again.”

Now came in the benefit of the kindness Miss Clare had shown the woman. I doubt if any one else could have got the truth from her. Even she found it difficult; for to tell her that if she was Theo’s mother she should not be punished, might be only to tempt her to lie. All Miss Clare could do was to assure her of the kindness of every one concerned, and to urge her to disclose her reasons for doing such a grievous wrong as steal another woman’s child.

“They stole my child,” she blurted out at last, when the cruelty of the action was pressed upon her.

“Oh, no!” said Miss Clare: “you left her to die in the cold.”

“No, no!” she cried. “I wanted somebody to hear her, and take her in. I wasn’t far off, and was just going to take her again, when I saw a light, and heard them searching for her. Oh, dear! Oh, dear!”

“Then how can you say they stole her? You would have had no child at all, but for them. She was nearly dead when they found her. And in return you go and steal their grandchild!”

“They took her from me afterwards. They wouldn’t let me have my own flesh and blood. I wanted to let them know what it was to have their child taken from them.”

“How could they tell she was your child, when you stole her away like a thief? It might, for any thing they knew, be some other woman stealing her, as you stole theirs the other day? What would have become of you if it had been so?”

To this reasoning she made no answer.

“I want my child; I want my child,” she moaned. Then breaking out—“I shall kill myself if I don’t get my child!” she cried. “Oh, lady, you don’t know what it is to have a child and not have her! I shall kill myself if they don’t give me her back. They can’t say I did their child any harm. I was as good to her as if she had been my own.”

“They know that quite well, and don’t want to punish you. Would you like to see your child?”

She clasped her hands above her head, fell on her knees at Miss Clare’s feet, and looked up in her face without uttering a word.

“I will speak to Mr. Walton,” said Miss Clare; and left her.

The next morning she was discharged, at the request of my husband, who brought her home with him.

Sympathy with the mother-passion in her bosom had melted away all my resentment. She was a fine young woman, of about five and twenty, though her weather-browned complexion made her look at first much older. With the help of the servants, I persuaded her to have a bath, during which they removed her clothes, and substituted others. She