CHAPTER II.

A Sudden Parting.

LEAVING the old curiosity shop, the pale-faced widow and her child passed slowly up the lane. Maggie held her mother's hand, not for her own protection, but in order that she might guide the invalid's feeble steps, which faltered from time to time as her strength threatened to give way.

"Was that a good old man, mamma?" she asked, as they went along.

"I hope so, dear. I trust he has dealt fairly with me, for I can ill afford to be cheated out of a single penny," said her mother, with a weary sigh.

"What will he do with the jug, mamma?" said Maggie.

"He will sell it, I suppose," her mother replied.

"And will he give you the money, mamma?" asked the child.

The simple question brought a faint, sad smile to the widow's face, as she answered, "Oh no, dear; he has given me all the money I shall get for it."

"Has he given you a lot of money, mamma?" asked Maggie. "Will you be able to buy cakes and jam again?"

Her mother shook her head. "Ah no, my poor child," she said, sadly. "I cannot give you cakes and jam. If only we can get bread for the next week or two, till I am strong again, we may be thankful. God grant I may soon be fit for work!"

Little Maggie looked disappointed. She had hoped that the happier days she had known when she was younger were about to return, but she held up her head, and said bravely: "I don't mind much, mamma. I can do without jam; and God will take care of us, won't He, mamma?"

"Bless you, my little comfort," said her mother, wondering if any other child of eight would have borne want so well. "Yes, I must trust in God. He has never failed me yet. He is far kinder than man. But oh, my heart is very heavy to-night."

They went on slowly till they came to a baker's shop, which they entered, much to Maggie's satisfaction, for the talk about jam had made her painfully conscious of a craving for food. The widow gave her child one of the large brown rolls which lay on the counter, and then asked for some milk.

"We don't sell milk," said the woman in charge of the shop. Then, touched by her customer's look of suffering, and the sad little face of the child, she added, "But I have a little I can give you, if you like."

Maggie was eyeing the roll with hungry eagerness; but ere she began to eat it, she said, pleadingly, "You will have some, mamma, won't you?"

"Yes, dear child," said her mother, "I will try to eat for your sake." And she broke off a piece of the roll, and dipping it into the milk the woman had brought, she put it to her lips. But she could only swallow a few morsels.

"You look very bad," said the shopwoman, meaning to be sympathetic; "have you been ill long?"

"Yes, a long time," said the widow, wearily; "but I am better, I am stronger to-day."

When Maggie had eaten the last crumb of her roll, and drained the cup of milk, to her now an unwonted luxury, her mother paid for their repast out of the money she had received from the china-dealer, and rising from the chair on which she had sunk exhausted on entering the shop, prepared to go on her way. The rest and refreshment seemed to have revived her somewhat. She was able to walk more quickly and steadily as they went out of the shop.

"Are we going home now, mamma?" asked the child.

"No, not yet," said her mother; and she walked on in the same direction as before.

They approached the end of the lane, where it widened out into a more respectable street. The shops here were gaily lighted, especially those where sweets and toys were sold, at which Maggie looked with a child's interested gaze, keeping close to her mother's side the while, in spite of the jostling she got from hurrying passers-by.

Presently they turned into a narrow, quiet street, which brought them out into a wider thoroughfare, where there were tram-cars and omnibuses passing to and fro, and larger, grander shops attracted the little girl's attention. They crossed this bustling street, and left its turmoil behind as they began to ascend a wide road, almost deserted at this hour. The wind now blew full in their faces. A scent of the sea came with it.

"Are you taking me to see the waves, mamma?" asked Maggie, remembering that she had come that way once before, and had then been gladdened by a sight of the beautiful waves breaking on the rocks beneath the Hoe.

Her mother replied by a shake of the head. She had no breath to spare for speech. It was all she could do to struggle against the strong breeze as she made her way up the hill. Yet Maggie, catching sight of her mother's face as they passed beneath a lamp, wondered to see how bright her eyes were, and how flushed her cheeks. Her mother must be much better, she thought, to be able to walk so far, after having been for weeks too ill to leave the house.

They had nearly gained the top of the hill, when the widow's steps slackened, and she stood still before a large house with many windows looking down on the road. The house seemed alive at this hour. Every window was lighted; and in the lower rooms the venetian blinds were half turned, revealing many figures flitting to and fro in the large, well-decorated rooms. As the widow stood on the pavement, panting for breath, and grasping the railings for support, a strain of merry music floated out on the night air.

A low moan of anguish broke from her at the sound. She had meant to knock at that closed door, and ask to speak with the master of the house. But how could she intrude now, when he was entertaining company? Besides, there might be some there who would know her, though surely the sorrows of the last few years must have aged her beyond all recognition. Her heart sank within her. It had cost her much to come there to-night, but for her child's sake she had nerved herself to the effort. And now it was in vain. Her courage failed her. She could not seek an interview to-night; and to-morrow it might be too late!

She shivered and moaned again.

"Mamma! mamma! what is the matter?" cried the child by her side. "Are you ill? Why do you stand here so long?"

Her mother did not reply. She was hardly conscious that the child spoke. Her mind was in the past; she was thinking of other days when she too had danced within those walls to the very tune that was now being played. Yes, she had once danced there, as lightly and gaily as any girl there to-night; but what a change had come! The contrast was too bitter.

"Mamma," said little Maggie, "won't you go home? It's very cold standing here."

The mother, heedless of her own bodily sensations, became aware of the bitter wind that was sweeping round the childish form, so ill-clad for such weather. She took the tiny hand upheld to her, and turned to go; but a fit of coughing arrested her. Again she leaned against the palings, weak and trembling, and struggled for breath.

"My good woman, with such a cough as that you have no business to be out to-night," said a voice near her as she began to recover from the paroxysm.

The speaker was a young gentleman in greatcoat and scarf, one of the guests invited to the party, who had paused for a moment, with his hand on the gate, to give the warning which his medical instincts prompted.

"Thank you: I am going home," said the sufferer, hurriedly, and taking her child's hand she passed on.

The light of the street lamp fell on her as she went by; and as the young doctor's observant glance read her face, he murmured to himself, "Past all help now, poor thing!"

She was dimly conscious of that truth at times, though for Maggie's sake she still clung to the hope of getting better. For how could she bear to think of leaving the child? What would become of Maggie, if at her tender age she were left alone in this pitiless world? The thought had weighed on the mother's heart through nights of wakefulness and pain.

As she felt her weakness increasing, her fears for Maggie grew stronger, till at last pride yielded, and she had resolved that for her child's sake she would make one more appeal to the parent who had vowed that he would never forgive her. This was the purpose that had brought her out to-night; but she had failed to accomplish it. No matter; she would not give way to despair, faint and discouraged though she felt. She would come again to-morrow. For Maggie's sake she would make another attempt, whatever it might cost her.

It was hard work to get home. The excitement which had sustained her as she ascended the hill was gone now, and the despairing reaction made her tremblingly aware of failing strength. More than once she was obliged to stand still whilst the cough shook her feeble frame; but at length they reached the lane again. Here the widow's staggering gait attracted attention. Rough girls and lads, mistaking its cause, jeered at her as she passed.

She, poor soul, was scarce conscious of their mockery; but little Maggie, young as she was, understood the meaning of their derisive looks and coarse pleasantry. The child's cheeks burned with indignation, and hot tears came into her dark eyes. The memory of the intense pain and shame of those moments was branded on her mind. She never forgot that walk through the lane.

But at last they had passed the old curiosity shop, and gained the turning into the quieter street where they lodged. A few steps brought them to the house in which the widow had hired a room. They had reached it not a moment too soon, for as she crossed its threshold, the invalid was seized with a fit of coughing worse than any which had preceded it. She leaned against the door, coughing violently.

Suddenly the sound ceased, and Maggie uttered a cry of horror, for her mother had fallen back against the wall deadly pale, and blood was flowing in a stream from her mouth.

Maggie's shrill cry brought the landlady and many of the lodgers to the spot. There followed a scene of confusion and dismay. No one knew what should be done. Everybody seemed to ask questions, which no one answered. They dragged the now senseless woman into the nearest room; and after some delay, one of the neighbours went in search of a doctor.

"She's struck with death, I reckon," said the landlady, a slatternly-looking woman, whose unhealthy countenance revealed but too plainly her liking for the gin-bottle; "it was ill-luck my taking her for a lodger."

Maggie heard her words. Already the fear that this was death had come to her. She had seen her father die, and now she knew that her mother too was going from her. With a loud and bitter cry, she threw herself on the ground beside her dying parent.

The despairing cry of her child seemed to penetrate the stupor in which the sufferer lay. Her heavy eyelids were lifted for a moment, and her dying gaze fell on her child.

"Maggie," she gasped out in broken utterance; "the house—you'll not forget—your grandfather."

The last word died away unheard as the deadly faintness stole over her anew.

"What's she saying?" asked one of the women.

"Something about the House," said the landlady; "she knows that's where the child will have to go to, for she's got no one belonging to her, I fancy."

No other words passed the white lips. The eyes closed again, the pallor of the face increased.

Maggie held her mother's hand, but the cold, stiff fingers could not respond to the child's clinging touch—mother love could shield her no longer. When, a little later, the doctor entered, impatiently pushing aside the women, who pressing round the patient kept back the air which was so precious, he found that his services were not needed. Death had been before him, and had given everlasting release from pain and sorrow.

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