CHAPTER XIV.

It was to Seth Dumbrick a pleasure, as well as a matter of conscientious duty, to play the part of schoolmaster to the children with faithfulness and regularity. Scarcely an evening passed but instruction was given to Sally, who, quick in this as in other things, proved herself the aptest of scholars. Before she had been two years in her new home Sally could read tolerably well, and could write, after a fashion; and it was about this time that the education of the Duchess of Rosemary Lane was commenced. Commencing with Sally at the very beginning of things--the Creation--Seth travelled with her through Genesis, and so confounded her with the unpronounceable names of the generations of men, that she timidly entered a protest against them, saying they hurt her mouth; which, being taken in good part by her schoolmaster, induced him of an evening to open the Bible at random, and impart instruction from any chapter he chanced to light upon. But the Biblical knowledge they thus gained was not allowed to sink into their minds in its undefiled state. Seth adulterated it with his comments and opinions, as other dogmatists would have done with such an opportunity before them. Treating the stories as though they were stories in an ordinary book, he robbed the Bible of its spiritual halo. This was wise; that was pretty; nothing was inspired. Seth's nature was tender and compassionate in a human way, but his religious principles would have shocked the orthodox church-goer. Sally, aware that he derived pleasure in hearing himself speak, was the more attentive listener of the two, and frequently simulated an interest which she did not feel; often, indeed, while he dilated upon ancient prophets and Jewish kings, her thoughts were running upon patched frocks and pinafores, and holes in stockings, and the thousand-and-one other domestic worries with which her young life was constantly filled.

She would have been content to have gone on in this way all the years of her life; not so the Duchess. Her nature was one which yearned for excitement; and she was happier in the streets than in the home Seth Dumbrick had given her. As she grew, her beauty ripened, and, with every penny which Sally could beg or borrow or earn spent upon her personal adornment, she moved among the usually sad streets and their residents like a bright flower; and as she grew and bloomed, those among whom she spent her days became prouder and prouder of her. Even the grown-up people petted and flattered her, and spread her fame into other streets and other neighbourhoods which could not boast of a Duchess. She was no trouble to her guardian, except that she developed the propensity of wandering away, and absenting herself for hours, to the distress and misery of Sally, who was never happy when her idol was out of her sight. It never occurred to Seth that there was a dangerous want in the child's life, the want of womanly companionship and womanly counsel and tenderness. The child had Sally, and Sally in Seth's eyes was worth a thousand women; and besides, the lonely life he himself had led precluded the possibility of such a thought causing him disturbance.

So things went on until the Duchess of Rosemary Lane was seven years of age, when an event occurred which brought sorrow into Seth Dumbrick's household. The child suddenly sickened and fell ill.

It was Sally's custom to rise early, immediately after Seth himself had risen and had left the cellar, dressing herself quietly, so as not to disturb her darling, who was generally asleep. Sally, after gently and tenderly kissing the Duchess's pretty face, busied herself with putting the place in order, lighting the fire and preparing the breakfast. Then she would wake the Duchess, assist her to dress, and, breakfast being over, would proceed cheerfully with her household duties. Going to the child's bedside on this morning, Sally found her languid and weak, and disinclined to rise. Sally ran in alarm to her guardian.

"I think the Duchess is ill," she said, with quivering lips.

Seth immediately accompanied her to the child's bedside.

"Aren't you well, Duchess?" he inquired.

The Duchess opened her eyes, looked vacantly at him, and turned on her side.

"Best let her keep abed," said Seth, placing his hand on the Duchess's forehead, which was hot and dry; "she's caught cold maybe; she'll be all right to-morrow."

Among the Duchess's acquaintances in Rosemary Lane was a cousin of Betsy Newbiggin, the vendor of liquorice-water. He was a lad of about the same age as the Duchess, and between the two a friendship warmer than ordinary had sprung up. A week before the indisposition of the Duchess, Betsy Newbiggin, hailing her, informed her that Cousin Bob was "took bad," and could not get out of bed; and the following day Betsy Newbiggin said that Cousin Bob was "took worse, and would the Duchess go and see him?" Apart from the circumstance that the Duchess was fond of Bob, the opportunity of going to see somebody who was ill abed was too alluring to be neglected, and the Duchess and Betsy went to Bob's house, and were admitted to the sick chamber.

"Hush!" said the mother to the Duchess. "Don't make a noise. He's been a-talking of you all night."

"In his sleep?" inquired the Duchess, not displeased at this mark of attention on Bob's part.

"Half-asleep and half-awake I think he's been," replied Bob's mother. "I can't make it out. If he ain't better to-morrow I'll have to call Dr. Lyon in."

"Shall I go for him now?" asked Betsy Newbiggin, whose sympathies were not entirely confined to her trade in liquorice-water.

"No," said Bob's mother, "I must speak to father first. If Dr. Lyon comes he'll have to be paid."

The Duchess looked about the room. Bob was in bed, seemingly asleep. By the side of the bed was a hen canary in a cage so hung that when Bob opened his eyes (supposing he did not turn round) they would light upon the bird. The Duchess, standing by the bed, leant over Bob; and Bob, waking at that moment, said, as though he had just been indulging in a long conversation on an interesting subject and this was the outcome of it:

"Mother, if I die, give the Duchess my bird."

These words produced a shock. Betsy Newbiggin began to tremble, and the Duchess's heart beat more quickly.

"What nonsense is the boy chattering about!" exclaimed Bob's mother, patting the pillow and smoothing the bedclothes, and striving in this way to hide the agitation produced by the boy's request.

Bob appeared not to hear his mother's remark, and proceeded:

"You'll take care of the bird, Duchess, and think of Bob sometimes?"

"Oh, yes, Bob," said the Duchess.

"Then I don't mind. I'll think of you sometimes too, Duchess."

The Duchess pondered and presently asked, "How will you do that, Bob?"

"Do what, Duchess?"

"Think of me when you're dead."

"I'll be able to. Mother told me so. I shall be up there."

"Oh," said the Duchess, following the direction of Bob's eyes, unconscious of his meaning.

"There now, get along with you," said Bob's mother to the two girls, "or the boy'll never have done with his nonsense."

"You'll come and see me to-morrow, Duchess?" said Bob, as the girls were leaving the room.

"Yes," promised the Duchess, with a backward glance at the bird, which was now an object of more than ordinary interest to her.

For four days the Duchess paid a visit to Bob, upon whom Dr. Lyon was then attending. The doctor met her on the fifth day, and forbade her to come again, saying something about fever, which the Duchess did not understand. Two days after that she herself was taken ill. Sally did not leave her; the Duchess lay quiet until the afternoon, when she suddenly asked Sally how Bob was.

"Oh, my!" cried Sally, clasping her hands. "Bob's got the fever. You ain't been to see him, have you?"

But the Duchess had already forgotten her inquiry, and seemed to fall asleep before Sally's reply could reach her understanding. Seth Dumbrick came down every half-hour to look at his child, and grew so uneasy about her that he went for Dr. Lyon. This was in the evening, and Sally peered anxiously into the doctor's face as he felt the Duchess's pulse.

"I was afraid of it," said the doctor to Seth, "when I saw her at the boy's house. She's caught the fever. This is not the best place for a child to fight through an illness. We might manage to get her into the hospital."

"No, oh, no!" cried Sally; "don't let her be took there!"

"We can take care of her here," said Seth. "I shouldn't like to lose sight of the child."

"Very well. And are you going to nurse her, Sally?"

"Yes, sir; oh, yes, sir," said Sally, whose face had suddenly assumed a pinched expression. "I'll stop up with her day and night. I won't take my clothes off till she's better."

Dr. Lyon gave her a kind look and a kiss, and, promising to send in some medicine, took his departure. Then commenced an anxious time. The fever assumed a dangerous form, and for days the Duchess's life was in danger. Never till now had Seth Dumbrick realised how deeply he loved this child of his adoption. He wandered in and out of the cellar a hundred times a day, meek but fretful, with gentleness, but not with resignation. He and Sally had changed places; she was the strong, reliant soul in their humble home, and the old man looked to the child for support and consolation.

"If our angel dies, Sally," he said, "I shall never know happiness again."

Sally averted her face from him to check the weakness that threatened to overcome her. She knew full well that she needed all her strength for the work she was performing; the instinct of devoted love--which needs no teaching to bring it into flower--had instilled wisdom into the child's heart.

"Some kinds of knowledge come to a man late in life," he continued softly; "since you and our darling have been with me I've learnt something that I was ignorant of. I'd read of it, not quite in an unbelieving way, but with the sort of doubt upon me that a story writ to amuse a child might bring. Since then I've known what happiness is."

"Did you never know before?" asked Sally wistfully.

"Never before, my child," he answered, huskily.

"Daddy," said Sally solemnly, "you mustn't make me cry. I ain't got time for it. There's the beef-tea to git ready, and the arrerroot----"

"You must compel that child to take rest," said Dr. Lyon to Seth later in the day, "or she'll break down. Human nature's limited, as a certain friend of mine used to say."

"I tried to persuade her," said Seth, "last night to go to bed, but she wouldn't; she cried and said it'd be easier for her to die than to sleep."

"She must be made to sleep," said the doctor. "If you come round to my place Ill give you something that will conquer her. She's a pearl, and must not be allowed to kill herself."

In accordance with the doctor's instructions Seth at midnight desired Sally to lie down on his bed; but Sally stoutly refused. Finding that his arguments were not strong enough to convince her that rest was necessary, he produced a paper written by Dr. Lyon to the effect that unless Sally Chester slept for four hours that night he would not come to see the Duchess again.

"So you see," said Seth, "you will hurt the Duchess by being obstinate."

"But you can tell Dr. Lyon that I've been asleep," persisted Sally.

"When you haven't?" interrupted Seth, with a touch of his old humour. "O, Sally, Sally! would you teach me to tell lies at my time of life? Come now, my dear, be good and reasonable. I'll watch by our treasure till you wake up; I know you wouldn't trust her with anybody else."

"No, that I wouldn't; and if she asks for me you'll call me at once?"

"Yes, you may trust me, Sally."

With that Sally yielded, and, with small persuasion, drank the draught prepared for her.

"I'll go in five minutes," she said, sitting on a stool by the bedside, and gazed lovingly on the sleeping Duchess.

"All right," said Seth, who was sitting on a chair close to her; "rest your head on my knee, dear child."

With a grateful sigh, Sally obeyed, and clasped Seth's hand, which was lying with light touch on her neck.

Thus, with tired eyes watching the Duchess's face, she remained for two or three minutes, when the narcotic she had taken overpowered her, and she sank to sleep. Seth raised her softly in his arms, and placed her in his bed, covering her up warm, and kissing her before he resumed his seat at the Duchess's bedside. The child had been peculiarly restless all the evening, but was now in a calmer state. For an hour Seth kept his watch faithfully, and without moving from his seat; but some anxiety with reference to Sally caused him to step softly to her side.

Sally was in a deep sleep; her fingers were tightly interlaced, and her face wore an anxious expression, but she was at rest. The strangeness of the situation the silence which at such a time so powerfully asserts itself, and the eloquent lesson of love and devotion he saw before him had their due effect upon Seth Dumbrick's mind, and he held his hand before his half-closed eyelids with the air of a man to whom new and strange aspects of life had unexpectedly presented themselves. He was not long thus occupied; he was startled from his musing by a word uttered with singular clearness--a sacred word never before heard in that dim dwelling-place. "Mamma! mamma!" cried the Duchess; and hurrying to her, Seth saw her sitting up in bed, with her white arms stretched forth, and the loving word hanging on her lips. It was like a cry to heaven from a heart whose tenderest pulse had only now found a voice. There was yearning, there was a plaintive reproach in the cry. The Duchess's cheeks were red and hot, her lips were made eloquent by her plaintive appeal to an invisible presence, and her eyes were wide open, seeing nothing that was actually before her. Seth, with great timidity, but with infinite tenderness, placed his arm about the neck of the Duchess, and drew her face to his breast. She submitted unresistingly, and closing her eyes, relapsed into slumber. Seth, then with wrinkled forehead, rasped his chin with his hard hand, and marvelled by what mysterious means the Duchess's thoughts had been driven back to her infant days, when a mother's love undoubtedly encompassed her. There was no difficulty in arriving at the conclusion that the mother's love was pure and good; the tone in which the child had uttered the cry proclaimed it. "What dream or fancy," mused Seth, "could have brought to the memory of the child a mother of whom she had such brief experience?" And then his mind reverted to the mystery which surrounded the Duchess's introduction to Rosemary Lane, gaining no light, however, from what had just occurred. "If," he continued, "there are such things as spirits, perhaps the Duchess saw her mother's when she called to her." For although he had settled his convictions with respect to the Bible, he had by no means made up his mind generally on spiritual matters. The night passed without further interruption, and in the early morning Seth very quietly performed Sally's duties of lighting the fire and preparing the breakfast. Sally still slept soundly, and Seth would not disturb her. It was nine o'clock before she opened her eyes, and then she jumped up briskly, bright and fresh, and ready to resume her labour of love.

"The Duchess has been very good, Sally," said Seth; "and how do you feel?"

"I can go on now," replied Sally, whose first steps were directed to the bedside of her idol. "I can go on now without sleep till she gits quite better."

Upon going up to his stall, Seth saw Betsy Newbiggin and a number of other children standing in the road.

"Please, Mr. Dumbrick," said Betsy, "I mustn't come any nearer to you 'cause mother said I'd ketch the fever and if I did she'd wollop me. We wants to know how the Duchess is."

"Very ill, Betsy," said Seth gravely.

"She ain't a-goin' to die, Mr. Dumbrick?" asked Betsy apprehensively.

"I hope not," said Seth softly, with a slight shiver. "You don't want her to die do you?"

"How can you go and arks us such a thing?" exclaimed Betsy indignantly. "We want her to git up and come and play. We're too fond on her to wish anything like that. Ain't we?"

All the little heads--most of them uncombed, and nearly all with dirty faces--were nodded solemnly and emphatically in response.

"And please," said Betsy, "here's a orange as Jimmy Platt arksed me to give the Duchess. Jimmy's gone out with his father and a barrer; and here's a gingerbread-man as this little gal bought with a ha'-penny as she sold a bit of lead for, and here's a bottle of liquorish-water as'll cure the Duchess if you'll give her two teaspoonfuls every quarter of an hour. It's sure to. I made it myself; and it's as strong as strong can be."

Betsy laid these love-offerings in a row on the kerbstone, and Seth contemplated them and her with grim tenderness.

"And here," continued Betsy, producing from under her frock a birdcage with a canary in it, "here's poor Bob's bird, and it's got to be give to the Duchess, and she's got to take great care on it. Them's Bob's words. She's got to take great care on it."

Betsy would have proceeded, for she was glib of tongue, but Seth incautiously moved a step towards her, and she and her companions scampered off in great haste, with the fear of fever in their hearts.

"Well, well," muttered Seth, who at any other time would have derived much amusement from the interview and its termination, "human nature's not such a bad thing after all."

Bob's bird was hung by the Duchess's bed, but when during the day the child, in a lucid interval, said tearfully as she looked at it, "Bob's dead, then; I must think of him," Seth, who did not know of the lad's death, regarded the bird as a bird of ill omen. But it puzzled him to discover how, by merely gazing at the bird, the Duchess knew of Bob's death. "She saw her mother last night," he muttered; "are there really spirits? and can she see things?"

With unwearying patience and devotion Sally performed her task of nursing the child whose life was dearer to her than her own, and the most ineffable delight she had ever experienced was on the day that Dr. Lyon told her that the Duchess was out of danger. All her sadness vanished on the instant, and she stepped about humming softly to herself, to many different airs, "She'll soon git well; she'll soon git well!" That was also the happiest day in Seth's life; and out of pure gratefulness of heart, he took a walk in the fields, and gazed on the evidences of Nature with feelings of reverence and thankfulness.

When he returned home, a surprise awaited him. There was Sally's mother, who, having learnt by letter of the Duchess's illness, had obtained a short holiday for the sole purpose of coming to Rosemary Lane to kiss Sally, and help her nurse the child for a few hours. Sally's face was wreathed with smiles, and her step was lighter and her manner more cheerful than they had ever been before. Harmony and affection sweetened the air, and made the common room as bright as a palace.

"I have been growing very old lately," said Seth to Mrs. Chester, as he stopped and kissed the Duchess, who languidly returned the caress, "but from this day I intend to grow young again. We've had a hard time, but the lesson, when it ends as this one's happily doing, is a good un, I think, and makes people better instead of worse."

He spoke with tender gaiety, and was for the moment an entirely different Seth Dumbrick from the Seth Dumbrick whom Mrs. Chester knew in former years. But he relapsed into his older self very shortly afterwards, and now that the danger was over, the old manner reasserted itself.

Mrs. Chester was compelled to return to her duties early in the morning, and Seth accompanied her to the coach. She had not forgotten her old neighbours, and had found time on the previous evening to run round and shake hands and exchange friendly greetings with this one and that one, especially with Dr. Lyon, who had proved himself her true friend when most she needed one. On their way to the yard from which the coach was to start, Seth related to her the incident of the Duchess calling out to her mother in the dead of night, and the impression it made upon him.

"One would have thought," said Seth, "coming to you as young as she did, that she could have no remembrance of such things."

"What!" exclaimed Mrs. Chester; "no remembrance of the mother who nursed and suckled her! When children forget that, it's time that the world should come to an end."

"I judge from myself," said Seth. "If I'd have lost my mother, and been taken from her when I was two years old, I should have had no knowledge or remembrance of her."

"Knowledge and remembrance aren't close relations," observed Mrs. Chester with a wise shake of her head. "I can remember some things of which I've no knowledge. I can remember an orange I had given me when I was a little one and was dying as they supposed. I can see myself eating that orange, but I don't know how it came into my hands, or who give it to me, and nothing else about it except that I was eating it." Mrs. Chester looked with an air of triumph at Seth, as though she had, unexpectedly to herself--as was the case--established a difficult proposition somewhat neatly. "But that's not the way with everybody, perhaps. You and the Duchess---- I do believe she grows prettier than ever! I thought she was the most lovely babe I'd ever set eyes on, and I don't mind telling you now that I felt bad when I saw how beautiful she was, and how different my dear Sally looked. But Sally's improving, Mr. Dumbrick."

"That she is, Mrs. Chester. I shouldn't wonder if she grows up quite pretty. She only wants filling out, but she's that active she doesn't give time for the flesh to settle on her bones. I'll tell you when she looked so beautiful in my eyes that I felt she couldn't be improved upon. It was when I used to come down into the cellar softly without her knowing, and saw her with her arms round the Duchess's neck, feeding her, maybe, or singing to her--she's got a nice voice, has Sally. I don't want ever to see a face prettier-or better than Sally's face looked then."

This was very sweet in Mrs. Chester's ears, and she said as she pressed his hand:

"I'm a fortunate woman, with all my troubles."

"We are all of us fortunate," said Seth philosophically, "in spite of worry and vexation, if we'd only look on it in the right light. But for all that, the world's wrong."

"In what way, Mr. Dumbrick?"

"We haven't time to talk of it," replied Seth, skilfully evading the knotty points involved in his assertion; "it'd take me a week. You were saying a little while ago about me and the Duchess, when you broke off, or rather you were going to say something about the Duchess remembering and me not remembering."

"Only that we're not all alike. You're a man as has seen trouble----"

"Not a great deal," interrupted Seth. "I've a notion that those that have ties of affection enjoy more and suffer more than those that haven't. Now, I've been a selfish creature all my life, and it's only lately that I may say I've had ties that have made me care for much outside myself. Put it another way. Say that I'm a hedgehog, and the Duchess is an angel. Here's the coach. Goodbye, and good luck to you."

"You've heard nothing of my poor boy Ned, I suppose?"

"Nothing."

"No more have I," said Mrs. Chester' with a sigh. "My poor boy! My poor boy!" And the mother's heart went out across the seas to the reprobate. As she was stepping into the coach she said, "When the Duchess gets better it'd be a fine thing if you could take her into the country for a day, and perhaps Sally could go along with her. You've no idea what good a mouthful of free air can do, especially to children who get but little of it."

"Seth Dumbrick," said Seth to himself, as he walked home, "you're coming to something. You go on like this, and in time you won't know yourself. To think that you, who never had a sweetheart, should be taken in as you're being taken in by a parcel of women and children who are no more bone of your bone or flesh of your flesh than that donkey is. Stop a bit though. Some wiseacres have set it down in black and white that men and donkeys are shoots off one tree. Perhaps that accounts for it."

Now that the Duchess was in a fair way of recovery, and could do nothing to amuse herself, she drew upon Seth's resources for the agreeable passing away of the idle hours, and he, with his Bible on his knee, would relate to her in a familiar way such stories as he thought would best please her. Deeming Solomon a tempting theme, he related the history of that wise king with a curious mingling of fact and fancy and shrewd observation. The story of Solomon's life and deeds seemed to possess a peculiar fascination for the Duchess, and she bound Seth to it for three consecutive nights.

"That was a grand place King Solomon built," said the Duchess. "Where is it?"

"Nowhere; it was destroyed, and I'm told the Jews go into mourning every year because of its destruction."

"Does that do any good?" said the Duchess.

"Not a bit."

"What came of all the gold?"

"Don't know; dare say the Jews got a lot of it on the sly."

"It was all gold, wasn't it? It says so there."

"Yes," said Seth, reading from parts, "'So Solomon overlaid the house within with pure gold;' then again--'The whole house he overlaid with gold until he had finished all the house; and the whole altar that was by the oracle he overlaid with gold.' Why, the candlesticks, and the spoons, and the snuffers to snuff the candles, and the very hinges of the doors--everything was gold. And besides, there was such heaps of precious stones that they hardly knew where to stick 'em."

"There couldn't have been any poor people there," said Sally.

"I'm not so sure, Sal. In the middle of it all there's talk of famine, and pestilence, and blasting. It's pretty much of a muddle, it seems to me."

"I want to know," said the Duchess later in the night. "In that temple, wasn't there a garden?"

"I don't find mention of any. I should say not, or if there was, it wasn't worth mentioning."

"No flowers?"

"Not that I know of."

"Wasn't there no birds?" asked Sally.

"Yes, gold ones, and there's flowers of gold and cherubims of gold. All gold and silver and precious stones."

"Was Solomon a good man?" asked Sally.

"He's said to be the wisest king that ever was known. He had a thousand wives."

"Oh, my!" cried Sally, and would have continued the theme, but that Seth deemed it prudent to change the subject.