CHAPTER VIII.

Early the next morning, while Mrs. Chester, weary and sad-hearted, was watching by the bedside of her son, the tongues of the neighbours were wagging over extravagant accounts of the occurrences of the night. The early breakfasts were eaten with more than ordinary relish, and a pleasant animation pervaded the neighbourhood. The pictures that were drawn by the gossips of the return of the prodigal son, and of the scenes that took place in the house of the Chesters, culminating with the frightful struggle, were not drawn in black and white. Colour was freely and liberally laid on, and the most praiseworthy attention was paid to detail during the circulation of the various editions. Thus, Mrs. Smith, who had it from Mrs. Jones, who had it from Mrs. Weatherall, who had it from Mrs. Chizlet, who had it from Mrs. Johnson, who had it from Mrs. Ball, who had it from Mrs. Pascoe, who had it from Mrs. Midge, "who lives in the house, my dear!" happening to meet Mrs. Phillips, was most careful and precise in her description of Ned Chester prowling about the house for nights and nights, of his adventures during the last four years, of the interview between him and his father, of the father wishing to turn the son out of the house, of the son refusing to go, of the mother interposing, and begging on her knees that her husband would not be so cruel to their only boy, of his flinging her brutally aside, of the commencement of the struggle and its duration, of the setting fire to the house, and the mercy it was that the lodgers weren't all burnt in their beds, and of a hundred other details the truth of which it was next to impossible to doubt.

On the second day, an entrancing addition was made to these pictures. It was discovered that there was a child in the house, a mere baby--"one of the most beautiful little creatures you ever set eyes on, Mrs. Phillips!"--a child whom none of the neighbours had ever before seen. Now, whose child was it? Clearly, the child of the prodigal son. The likeness was so wonderful that there could be no doubt of it. This at once cleared up a mysterious thread in the terrible struggle between father and son. For it now came to be said that when Ned Chester's hand, with a glittering knife in it, was raised to strike the deadly blow, the child, with its lovely face and golden hair, had with bold innocence seized her father's hand, and taken the knife from him. Aroused by the child's beauty to a proper sense of the dreadful deed he was about to commit, Ned Chester burst into tears, fell upon his knees, and clasped his baby to his breast. This was a good domestic touch, and was enthusiastically received.

But where was the mother of the interesting child who had so providentially arrested the uplifted hand of her father, and saved him from the commission of a dreadful crime? An answer to this question was easily found. Ned Chester had married, and had come home with his child. He had married a lady "with money." First she was a governess; then the daughter of a sea-captain; then the daughter of a retired sugar-baker, who had amassed an independence; lastly, she was a nobleman's daughter, who had fallen in love and had eloped with handsome Ned. Where, then, was the mother? Dead? Oh, no. The noble father, after hunting for his daughter for three years, at length discovered her, and tore her from her husband's arms--this being distinctly legal according to the Rosemary Lane understanding of the law as it affected the families of the aristocracy. But Ned Chester, determined not to be parted from his little girl, had fled with her to the home of his childhood, which he reached after many perilous escapes from the pursuing father-in-law. The romance attached to this imaginative and highly-coloured version rendered it very alluring, and it was implicitly believed in. Thus the story grew, and passed from mouth to mouth.

While the gossips were busy with her and hers, Mrs. Chester had her hands and heart full. Her husband, bruised in body and spirit, lay ill in hospital, her son, beset by dangerous fancies, lay ill at home. In these larger responsibilities, the small circumstance of the non-appearance of the new tenant who had brought a strange child into her domestic circle scarcely found place in her mind.

The lovely lad, Ned Chester, was in the sorest of straights. What kind of life he had led during the years he had been absent from home might readily be guessed from his present condition. It not being safe to leave him alone, Mrs. Chester was at her wits' end how to manage, but she found an unexpected and useful ally in the strange child who had found a place in her poor household. She made the discovery on the second day of her son's illness, when, with eyes dilated with terror, he was describing, with wonderful minuteness, two horrible creatures created by his delirium, which were standing at the foot of his bed. Mrs. Chester listened to him with a sinking heart.

"There! there!" he cried, rising in his bed, and clutching his mother's hand with such violence that she moaned with pain. "Do you not see them? They are coming closer and closer! Give me a knife! Give me a knife!"

With shuddering shrieks he hid his face in the bedclothes, and during this interval Sally and her baby-treasure entered the room.

"Go out, child! go out!" exclaimed Mrs. Chester, fearful lest, should her son see the children, he should do them some violence in his paroxysm. But Sally's cravings were too strong for obedience. The breadwinner of the family being no longer able to work, the supplies ran short, and Sally's need for food for herself and her precious charge was most pressing. She had come to ask for bread.

Ned Chester raised his wild and haggard face from the pillow, and his eyes fell upon the form of the strange child. The effect produced upon him by her appearance during the fateful struggle with his father was repeated. The terrible look departed from his eyes, the delirious fancies faded from his imagination.

"They are gone--they are gone!" he sighed, and sinking back upon his bed again, he gazed with a kind of worship upon the child, and gradually passed into a more peaceful mood.

Dr. Lyon, an able, sensible, poor doctor, to whom the tide which leads to fortune had never yet come, regarded her husband's condition as the more serious of the two.

"Your son will get over it," he said to Mrs. Chester; "with him it is only a matter of time and nursing. He is playing havoc with his constitution, but he is young as yet. It is different with your husband, who is no longer a young man. He has been a heavy drinker all his life. He has received a shock," continued Dr. Lyon, "which may lead to a serious result."

These words brought to Mrs. Chester's mind forebodings of fresh trouble; visions of a coroner's inquest flitted before her, and of her son arraigned for the murder of his father. She trembled from fear, but wisely held her tongue; meanwhile it devolved upon Sally to provide for the material wants of her treasure-baby. She proved equal to the occasion, and played the part of Little Mother in a manner at once affectionate and ingenious. Children in Sally Chester's station of life learn quickly some very strange lessons being from necessity precocious. Of course she knew her way to the pawnbroker's. She had noted the superior texture of her baby-treasure's garments, and one by one they were "put in pawn," and were replaced by such of Sally's belongings as the Little Mother could conveniently spare. Thus the little stranger was gradually transformed, until she became in outward appearance as to the manner born in the locality in which her childhood was to be passed, and in this way Sally obtained food, and supported herself and her charge during the illness of her lovely lad of a brother.

Every movement made, and every word spoken, by the strange child were, of course, of the deepest interest to Sally, and were magnified by Sally's admiring sense. The child could babble but a few words, and of these "mama" was the principal. That she was conscious of a marked and inexplicable change in her condition of life was clearly evident, but, except for a certain wonderingly-mournful manner in which she gazed around her, fixing her eyes always on one object for full two or three minutes before removing them to another, and for a habit she had, for the first few weeks of her sojourn in Rosemary Lane, of sobbing quietly to herself, there was nothing especially noticeable in her but her beauty--which was so remarkable as to draw upon her the affectionate attention of every person who saw her.

By this time Ned Chester had recovered from his delirium, and once more took his place among the residents of Rosemary Lane, evincing, for the present, no inclination to play truant again.

He took a strange pleasure in the society of the child, and exhibited so marked a partiality for her that the impression among the neighbours that he was her father gained strength. But upon being questioned on the matter, he denied it distinctly. "She's no child of mine," he said roughly, and called his mother to prove it. Then the true story became known--to the displeasure of the Rosemary Lane folk, who, by a singular process of reasoning, considered themselves injured because the romance was stripped from the history. Baby's beauty alone prevented her from being looked upon with disfavour.

As the days went by, Mrs. Chester found it a harder and harder task to live, and but for the kindness of the neighbours to Sally and the baby, the children would have often gone to bed with empty stomachs. Looking about for a friend in her distress, Mrs. Chester consulted Dr. Lyon, with a vague hope that he might be able to assist her. He listened patiently and kindly to Mrs. Chester's story.

"Let us look the matter straight in the face," he said, when she had concluded; "you have no resources--no money, I mean."

"None," she sighed.

"Your husband is in the hospital, and there is no saying how long it will be before he comes out. I should say that if even he does come out, which is doubtful, he will be no longer able to work."

There was no cruel delicacy about Dr. Lyon; he knew the class he ministered for, and he invariably spoke plainly and to the point, and always with kindness.

Mrs. Chester nodded a mournful assent.

"Your furniture has been seized for rent, and you have no home--to speak of."

Mrs. Chester nodded again.

"And," he continued, "it is clearly a necessity that you must live. Listen to this letter."

He read to her a letter from a country union, forty miles from London, which wanted a matron; residence and rations free; wages 18l. per annum.

"I think I have sufficient influence to obtain the situation for you," said Dr. Lyon. "You are a kind woman, and I can recommend you."

Hope lighted up Mrs. Chester's face--for one moment only.

"It's forty miles away," she murmured, and added, "and there's Sally!"

"Upon that," said Dr. Lyon, "I cannot advise you. Go home, and sleep upon it, and give me your answer the day after to-morrow."

She thanked him' and walked slowly out of his consulting-room, which was about as large as a pill box; but returned within five minutes to ask him now much a week eighteen pounds a year would give her.

"Seven shillings," he replied.

Mrs. Chester went home filled with sorrowful contemplation of this sad crisis in her life. To part from Sally would be like tearing a string from her heart; but if it was for the child's good!--Yet even if she could calmly contemplate the separation, where could she place the child? There was the practical difficulty, in the solution of which she played no direct part.

So entirely occupied had Sally been with her duties as Little Mother, that since her first introduction to the reader she had not fainted dead away, as her wont and seemingly her pleasure were. But while the conversation between the mother and Dr. Lyon was proceeding, Sally once more indulged, and swooned off suddenly and unexpectedly. There were only herself and her baby-charge present, and they were sitting on the floor in the one room to which Mrs. Chester was now reduced. It was evening, and dusk, and the baby-child, naturally supposing that Sally had gone to sleep, crawled close to the insensible form of her friend and protector, and placing her face upon Sally's breast, fell asleep also. In this position Mrs. Chester found them when she arrived home.

Sally did not stir when her mother raised and shook her. Then the mother, rushing to a despairing conclusion, wrung her hands, and moaned that her child had died of starvation. What extravagance of emotion she might have exhibited in her grief it is hard to say; but a slight movement from the child assured her that she was mistaken in her impression. She ran hurriedly back to Dr. Lyon, and begged him to come and see Sally immediately.

"It is only one of the old attacks," he said to the grief-stricken mother, as they stood together by the poor bed on which the children were lying, "but brought about now by a different cause. See, she is sensible now. Sally, what is the matter with you?"

"I am hungry," moaned Sally, "and so is baby. We've only had a slice of bread between us to-day."

Dr. Lyon looked at the mother's white face, and bit his lips hard.

"Do not leave the children," he said. "I will send in some medicine in five minutes."

The medicine duly arrived in the shape of a four-pound loaf of bread, a small pat of butter, a two-ounce packet of tea, and a little sugar. On the loaf of bread was stuck an apothecary's label, with the written inscription, "To be taken at once with a cup of hot tea." The mother burst into tears, and set about preparing the medicine for the children. But Dr. Lyon had forgotten that to make hot tea a fire was necessary. Mrs. Chester had no coals. There was nothing of value in the room, and there was no time to lose. She stood by the cold empty grate, considering for a moment. Her eyes fell upon her wedding ring. It was all of the world's goods she had remaining. A melancholy freak it was that induced her to creep to Sally's side and say:

"Sally, I'm going to make you some nice tea, and good Dr. Lyon has sent you some nice bread-and-butter."

"Oh," replied Sally, in a whisper, "I'm so glad--so glad! Make haste, mother, make haste! You don't know how hungry we are."

"I must run out and get some coals, dear child," said the mother. "You'll lay still, wont you?"

"Yes, mother."

"Kiss this, my dear," said the mother, with a sob, placing the wedding-ring to Sally's lips.

Sally, without any understanding of her mother's meaning, kissed the ring, and then kissed her mother, whose tears bathed her neck.

"Don't cry, mother," said Sally; "it ain't your fault."

"Heaven knows it ain't, my sweet," replied the mother; and with a heart made lighter by Sally's embrace, ran out, and soon returned with wood and coals.

That night Sally, lying awake, but supposed to be asleep, overheard a full account of her mother's troubles, as they were related to the brother who had brought this trouble upon them. Mrs. Chester did not reproach her boy, being indeed utterly blind to his faults; and she confided to him only because she yearned for sympathy and counsel. He was ready enough with both--with heartless sympathy and empty counsel--devouring a great part of the loaf of bread as he bestowed them after the fashion of his nature, and greedily drinking the tea which his mother poured out for him with ready hand and loving heart.

"And you think I had better accept the situation, Ned, if I can get it?"

"I don't see what else is to be done. I've got nothing."

"I know that, I know that," interrupted the mother tenderly. "Or you would never see us want."

"Of course I wouldn't," replied the lovely lad, in a whining tone; "but luck's against me--it's been against me all my life!"

"It'll turn one day, Ned, you see if it won't," said the mother, gazing, from force of habit, with infatuation, at the mole on his temple; "and then when you're a rich man you'll take care of your poor mother, whose heart is almost broken at the thought of parting from her children, won't you, Ned?"

The piteous words and the more piteous tone in which they were uttered elicited from the vagabond son nothing but a sulky promise--as intangible as the air into which it was breathed--that when he was a rich man, he wouldn't forget the mother that bore him.

"It must be done, then," sighed Mrs. Chester; "there's no help for it. But where am I to put Sally? Who's to look after her? Eighteen pounds a year is seven shillings a week. I could give half of that, three-and-sixpence a week, for her keep. It might be managed that way."

"Half of eighteen pound," grumbled Ned, "is nine pound. If I had nine pound, I could make my fortune."

"Whatever I can spare, you shall have, Ned. But Sally comes first. She's not old enough to look after herself, and she's a girl, remember."

Which had no other effect upon Ned than to make him wish he was a girl, for girls always had the best of everything, and he couldn't be worse off than he was--an unconsciously-uttered truism, of which he did not see the point. They stopped up talking for an hour longer, and by midnight the room was quiet and dark. Mrs. Chester did not sleep; she lay awake all the night, thinking of the sad change in her fortunes which was about to take place.