CHAPTER IV.

As they entered the house in Crown Street, they perceived that the door would not open freely on its hinges, and Susan instinctively looked behind to see the cause of the obstruction.  She immediately recognised the appearance of a little parcel, wrapped in a scrap of newspaper, and evidently containing money.  She stooped and picked it up.  “Look!” said she, sorrowfully, “the mother was bringing this for her child last night.”

But Mrs. Leigh did not answer.  So near to the ascertaining if it were her lost child or no, she could not be arrested, but pressed onwards with trembling steps and a beating, fluttering heart.  She entered the bedroom, dark and still.  She took no heed of the little corpse over which Susan paused, but she went straight to the bed, and, withdrawing the curtain, saw Lizzie; but not the former Lizzie, bright, gay, buoyant, and undimmed.  This Lizzie was old before her time; her beauty was gone; deep lines of care, and, alas! of want (or thus the mother imagined) were printed on the cheek, so round, and fair, and smooth, when last she gladdened her mother’s eyes.  Even in her sleep she bore the look of woe and despair which was the prevalent expression of her face by day; even in her sleep she had forgotten how to smile.  But all these marks of the sin and sorrow she had passed through only made her mother love her the more.  She stood looking at her with greedy eyes, which seemed as though no gazing could satisfy their longing; and at last she stooped down and kissed the pale, worn hand that lay outside the bed-clothes.  No touch disturbed the sleeper; the mother need not have laid the hand so gently down upon the counterpane.  There was no sign of life, save only now and then a deep sob-like sigh.  Mrs. Leigh sat down beside the bed, and still holding back the curtain, looked on and on, as if she could never be satisfied.

Susan would fain have stayed by her darling one; but she had many calls upon her time and thoughts, and her will had now, as ever, to be given up to that of others.  All seemed to devolve the burden of their cares on her.  Her father, ill-humoured from his last night’s intemperance, did not scruple to reproach her with being the cause of little Nanny’s death; and when, after bearing his upbraiding meekly for some time, she could no longer restrain herself, but began to cry, he wounded her even more by his injudicious attempts at comfort; for he said it was as well the child was dead; it was none of theirs, and why should they be troubled with it?  Susan wrung her hands at this, and came and stood before her father, and implored him to forbear.  Then she had to take all requisite steps for the coroner’s inquest; she had to arrange for the dismissal of her school; she had to summons a little neighbour, and send his willing feet on a message to William Leigh, who, she felt, ought to be informed of his mother’s whereabouts, and of the whole state of affairs.  She asked her messenger to tell him to come and speak to her; that his mother was at her house.  She was thankful that her father sauntered out to have a gossip at the nearest coach-stand, and to relate as many of the night’s adventures as he knew; for as yet he was in ignorance of the watcher and the watched, who silently passed away the hours upstairs.