CHAPTER VI.
Meantime the morning of Christmas Day grew. The light came and filledthe house. The sleepers slept late, but at length they stirred. Aliceawoke last--from a troubled sleep, in which the events of the nightmingled with her own lost condition and destiny. After all Polly hadbeen kind, she thought, and got Sophy up without disturbing her.
She had been but a few minutes down, when a strange and appallingrumour made itself--I cannot say audible, but--somehow known throughthe house, and every one hurried up in horrible dismay.
The nurse had gone into the spare room, and missed the little deadthing she had laid there. The bed was between her and Phosy, and shenever saw her. The doctor had been sharp with her about something thenight before: she now took her revenge in suspicion of him, and aftera hasty and fruitless visit of inquiry to the kitchen, hurried to Mr.Greatorex.
The servants crowded to the spare room, and when their master,incredulous indeed, yet shocked at the tidings brought him, hastenedto the spot, he found them all in the room, gathered at the foot ofthe bed. A little sunlight filtered through the red window-curtains,and gave a strange pallid expression to the flame of the candle, whichhad now burned very low. At first he saw nothing but the group ofservants, silent, motionless, with heads leaning forward, intentlygazing: he had come just in time: another moment and they would haveruined the lovely sight. He stepped forward, and saw Phosy, halfshrouded in blue, the candle behind illuminating the hair she hadfound too rebellious to the brush, and making of it a faint aureoleabout her head and white face, whence cold and sorrow had driven allthe flush, rendering it colourless as that upon her arm which hadnever seen the light. She had pored on the little face until she knewdeath, and now she sat a speechless mother of sorrow, bending in thedim light of the tomb over the body of her holy infant.
How it was I cannot tell, but the moment her father saw her she lookedup, and the spell of her dumbness broke.
"Jesus is dead," she said, slowly and sadly, but with perfectcalmness. "He is dead," she repeated. "He came too early, and therewas no one up to take care of him, and he's dead--dead--dead!"
But as she spoke the last words, the frozen lump of agony gave way;the well of her heart suddenly filled, swelled, overflowed; the lastword was half sob, half shriek of utter despair and loss.
Alice darted forward and took the dead baby tenderly from her. Thesame moment her father raised the little mother and clasped her to hisbosom. Her arms went round his neck, her head sank on his shoulder,and sobbing in grievous misery, yet already a little comforted, hebore her from the room.
"No, no, Phosy!" they heard him say, "Jesus is not dead, thank God. Itis only your little brother that hadn't life enough, and is gone backto God for more."
Weeping the women went down the stairs. Alice's tears were stillflowing, when John Jephson entered. Her own troubles forgotten in theemotion of the scene she had just witnessed, she ran to his arms andwept on his bosom.
John stood as one astonished.
"O Lord! this _is_ a Christmas!" he sighed at last.
"Oh John!" cried Alice, and tore herself from his embrace, "I forgot!You'll never speak to me again, John! Don't do it, John."
And with the words she gave a stifled cry, and fell a weeping again,behind her two shielding hands.
"Why, Alice!--you ain't married, are you?" gasped John, to whom thatwas the only possible evil.
"No, John, and never shall be: a respectable man like you would neverthink of looking twice at a poor girl like me!"
"Let's have one more look anyhow," said John, drawing her hands fromher face. "Tell me what's the matter, and if there's anything can bedone to right you, I'll work day and night to do it, Alice."
"There's nothing _can_ be done, John," replied Alice, and would againhave floated out on the ocean of her misery, but in spite of wind andtide, that is sobs and tears, she held on by the shore at hisentreaty, and told her tale, not even omitting the fact that when shewent to the eldest of the cousins, inheriting through the misfortuneof her and her brother so much more than their expected share, and"demeaned herself" to beg a little help for her brother, who was dyingof consumption, he had all but ordered her out of the house, swearinghe had nothing to do with her or her brother, and saying she ought tobe ashamed to show her face.
"And that when we used to make mud pies together!" concluded Alicewith indignation. "There, John! you have it all," she added. "--Andnow?"
With the word she gave a deep, humbly questioning look into his honesteyes.
"Is that all, Alice?" he asked.
"Yes, John; ain't it enough?" she returned.
"More'n enough," answered John. "I swear to you, Alice, you're worthto me ten times what you would ha' been, even if you'd ha' had me,with ten thousand pounds in your ridicule. Why, my woman, I never sawyou look one 'alf so 'an'some as you do now!"
"But the disgrace of it, John!" said Alice, hanging her head, and sohiding the pleasure that would dawn through all the mist of hermisery.
"Let your father and mother settle that betwixt 'em, Alice. 'Tain'tnone o' my business. Please God, we'll do different.--When shall itbe, my girl?"
"When you like, John," answered Alice, without raising her head,thoughtfully.
When she had withdrawn herself from the too rigorous embrace withwhich he received her consent, she remarked--
"I do believe, John, money ain't a good thing! Sure as I live, withthe very wind o' that money, the devil entered into me. Didn't youhate me, John? Speak the truth now."
"No, Alice. I did cry a bit over you, though. You _was_ possessedlike."
"I _was_ possessed. I do believe if that money hadn't been took fromme, I'd never ha' had you, John. Ain't it awful to think on?"
"Well, no. O' coorse! How could ye?" said Jephson--with reluctance.
"Now, John, don't ye talk like that, for I won't stand it. Don't yougo for to set me up again with excusin' of me. I'm a nasty conceitedcat, I am--and all for nothing but mean pride."
"Mind ye, ye're mine now, Alice; an' what's mine's mine, an' I won'thave it abused. I knows you twice the woman you was afore, and all theworld couldn't gi' me such another Christmas-box--no, not if it wasall gold watches and roast beef."
When Mr. Greatorex returned to his wife's room, and thought to findher asleep as he had left her, he was dismayed to hear sounds of softweeping from the bed. Some tone or stray word, never intended to reachher ear, had been enough to reveal the truth concerning her baby.
"Hush! hush!" he said, with more love in his heart than had movedthere for many months, and therefore more in his tone than she hadheard for as many;--"if you cry you will be ill. Hush, my dear!"
In a moment, ere he could prevent her, she had flung her arms aroundhis neck as he stooped over her.
"Husband! husband!" she cried, "is it my fault?"
"You behaved perfectly," he returned. "No woman could have beenbraver."
"Ah, but I wouldn't stay at home when you wanted me."
"Never mind that now, my child," he said.
At the word she pulled his face down to hers.
"I have _you_, and I don't care," he added.
"_Do_ you care to have me?" she said, with a sob that ended in a loudcry. "Oh! I don't deserve it. But I _will_ be good after this. Ipromise you I will."
"Then you must begin now, my darling. You must lie perfectly still,and not cry a bit, or you will go after the baby, and I shall be leftalone."
She looked up at him with such a light in her face as he had neverdreamed of there before. He had never seen her so lovely. Then shewithdrew her arms, repressed her tears, smiled, and turned her faceaway. He put her hands under the clothes, and in a minute or two shewas again fast asleep.