Blade-O'-Grass. Golden Grain. and Bread and Cheese and Kisses.

by B. L. Farjeon

X.

[NO, NO! BORN IN LOVE! IN LOVE!]

I was busy writing on the following morning when Mr. Merrywhistle called upon me.

'You look tired,' he said.

I told him that I had been up all night with Blade-o'-Grass, and that her child was dead. He being her nearest and most faithful friend, I related to him the circumstance of my meeting Blade-o'-Grass on the previous night, and all that followed. The good old man shed tears, and was sincerely grieved.

'Can I do anything?' he asked.

'You can do a great deal,' I answered. 'There is the burial of the child.'

'I will see to that,' he interrupted; 'and the poor child shall be buried decently.'

This was a weight off my mind, for I knew by his words and his manner that he intended to defray the charges of the funeral out of his own purse; mine unfortunately was empty. I pressed his hand.

'Heaven forgive me for saying it,' he said, wiping the tears from his eyes, 'but it is a happier fate for the poor little thing to die, than to live as her mother has lived.'

Then, I told him, there was the mother herself to look after.

'I should not have remained with her so long, for I needed rest; but it was impossible for me to leave her. If she were left to herself and her thoughts, I am afraid that something bad would happen. Jimmy Virtue is with her now, and will remain until I send some one to relieve him, or go myself.'

'Jimmy is a good fellow,' said Mr. Merrywhistle, rising, 'but he's as poor as a church mouse, and must attend to his business. I will see to the poor girl, and when I am absent I will get some woman in the house to look after her. There, there! make your mind easy till tomorrow, and go to bed early tonight.'

I felt much relieved, and I rose the next morning thoroughly refreshed in mind and body. As early in the day as I could I walked towards Stoney-alley. On my way I met Mr. Merrywhistle. I asked him after Blade-o'-Grass. He shook his head gravely, and said,

'I was anxious to see you about her. It is with her just as you described. If she were left to herself she would do something desperate.'

'Has Tom Beadle come home?'

'No, and I have heard nothing of him. His presence might arouse her from the awful melancholy which has fast hold of her. It is dreadful to see. She has not spoken a word since you left, and it is with the greatest difficult that the woman I have employed has induced her to touch food; I am sure she has not eaten sufficient to keep life in her. She sits by her dead child, looking at it with a blank look in her eyes that almost freezes my blood to see. Sometimes she turns her head, and gazes into one particular corner of the room, with a gaze so fixed and steadfast that I have half expected--I am very nervous, my dear sir--to see something start out of the wall.'

'She told me on the night I met her by the Royal Exchange, that her baby lay all the day with her eyes wide open, staring at something she couldn't see. She laid great stress on the words. Perhaps she is trying to discover what it was the poor child was gazing at.'

'I have been thinking, my dear sir----'

'Yes,' I said, gently, for he had paused.

----'That if you were to speak to her, not simply as a friend who is interested in her bodily welfare, but as a minister----'

'I understand you. Such thought was in my own mind. I have not forgotten my duty, believe me.'

Upon entering the room where the dead and the living lay, I saw at a glance that Mr. Merrywhistle had indeed well discharged his duty. It was cleaner and tidier than I had yet seen it. One or two humble and necessary pieces of furniture had been added, and on the window there was a clean white muslin blind, edged with black ribbon. The dead child was on the bed, with a white sheet over it, and Blade-o'-Grass was lying on the ground, with her hand beneath the sheet embracing the body. I motioned the woman in attendance from the room; she went softly, and I closed the door behind me. As I stood with the handle in my hand, I heard a knock. I opened the door, and saw one of the lodgers--a tail, gaunt woman, with a decided moustache--with a yellow basin in her hand. She dropped a curtsey.

'I've brought a little mutton broth for Blade-o'-Grass,' she said. 'Mind! It's 'ot!'

I thanked her, and taking the basin from her laid it aside. Then closing the door again, I approached Blade-o'-Grass, and placed my hand on her shoulder. She gazed at me with no sign of recognition, and turned her face again towards her child. I bent over the clay tenderly. The child looked well in death. Never in its life had its face worn so peaceful an expression. I sat on a chair beside the hapless mother, and spoke to her of that other and better life into which her child had entered; I spoke to her of the goodness of the all-beneficent God, of the comprehensive love which He, who watches over all His children, bears to the meanest of them. But my words touched her not; she made no movement in response to them, but sat motionless, with hopeless eyes fixed upon the child. I did not dare attempt to arouse her attention by sternness. Every word that came from my lips seemed to me to be dissolved into gentle utterance by the intense mother's love, which closed the door upon all outward sympathy. And still I continued,

'Think,' I said, in my most earnest tones, 'think but for a moment Cast your thoughts from your own misery and your own unhappiness, and let them dwell wholly and solely upon your child.'

A gleam that faintly expressed scornful wonder passed into her eyes. I hailed even that faint sign with gladness.

'The mother's love that dwells so strongly in your breast, is it as sweet as it should be, is it as perfect as it should be, if it blind you to the happier lot that lies before your child, and make you regardless of it? Love in its perfect form is shown in unselfishness. Are you unselfish in your grief? While your child lived you found your happiness and your consolation in her. But was she happy? Carry your thoughts to the many times that you saw her in pain, that she suffered hunger, that she cried because of the tiger that tormented her----'

A shiver passed over the form of Blade-o'-Grass; her stony gaze relaxed, and I saw that I had aroused her attention.

'----And think if a happier lot lies before her, as it does, if even now the power is given to her, by the wisdom and the goodness of God, to comprehend and be grateful for the love which has filled your heart from her birth--think but for a moment, if this be so, As It Is! whether you should not rather rejoice than mourn? By doing this you would show love in its most perfect form of unselfishness. All her pain is gone, all her sufferings have passed away, and the tiger is stilled for ever. Yes, this child, born in sin,'----

'No, no!' cried Blade-o'-Grass, in a piercing tone of anguish, springing to her feet, and pleading for her lost child in the strong agony of her soul. 'Born in love! In love--in love!'

'Born in love,' I said sadly, 'and yet in sin'----

'I didn't know,' she sobbed, sinking again to the foot of the bed. ''Ow could I know; and 'ow could baby know? O, don't be 'ard on baby! O, my 'eart, my life! O, baby, baby!'

The mere utterance of the word so overwhelmed her, that for a time she was blind and deaf to all around her. Dark clouds encompassed her; she was conscious of nothing but the overpowering grief which was born of love; all else was blotted out from her comprehension. She and her dead baby were alone, distinct from every thing in nature. Divine sympathy for her touched her not; human love for her touched her not She did not ask for them; she did not know the good that lay in them. All that she desired, all that she yearned for, was her baby, and with that dear soul of her soul and heart of her heart in her arms, she would be content to wander into the Oblivion where peace was, where no gnawing hunger was, where no unkind looks were, where no pain was. In that Oblivion only one thing could live--her love for her baby.

I waited until she was calmer, and could heed my words.

'Your child is purified by its death. In the better life that lies beyond this, all her troubles, all her unconscious shame, all her sufferings are washed away and forgotten. Ah, my dear! think of it and be grateful for the Divine compassion that has brought peace to her suffering soul. She waits for you in the better land to reward you for your love; and until the Divine Hand is laid upon you, and calls upon you to join her there, let it be your consolation to know that she has been spared the misery that has fallen to your lot.'

She echoed wonderingly, with overflowing eyes,

'The better land that lays beyond this! She waits for me in the better land! Tell me.'

Then, in words as plain as I could find, I spoke to her of those Divine truths, of that Divine hope, without a belief in which our lives would be dark indeed.

'And the tiger!' she cried. 'Is the tiger with her? For the Lord's sake don't tell me that the tiger is with her there!'

These and other questions I had to answer to her satisfaction, and gradually, gradually the expression of stony despair left her features, and into her eyes there stole a softened look of hope and belief.

'She will see me there!' she sobbed. 'My dear will see me there, and will smile upon me! I shall 'old 'er in my arms! O, my dear, my dear!'

She knelt with me by the side of the lifeless clay, and repeated after me her first prayer, dwelling upon the words slowly and wistfully. Another voice joined ours in the prayer: Mr. Merrywhistle's; and she, recognising it, stretched out her hand to that faithfullest of friends. Side by side we knelt in silence when the prayer was done, and no sound was heard in the room but the quiet sobs of the bereaved mother. After a time she turned to me, and, in broken, grateful words, said that I had done her good. Yes, we had comforted her; thank God we had comforted her! With what fervent gratitude did I bless the gracious God for giving us the power of comforting that poor bruised heart!

Other comfort was given to her also. The Silvers had been told of the death, and Mrs. Silver and Rachel came and sat with Blade-o'-Grass. At first she shrank from Mrs. Silver, but no person could long resist the gentle tenderness of that good woman.

'She is truly your friend,' I said.

'I know it, I know it,' whispered Blade-o'-Grass humbly; 'but I'm not--not good enough.'

I repeated these words to Mrs. Silver, and with a beautiful smile she embraced the poor girl and kissed her.

'Will you not kiss me, my child?' Mrs. Silver asked.

The sobs that came from Blade-o'-Grass came from a heart overcharged with gratitude. But she was most at home with Rachel, and the two girls sat by the bed, while Mrs. Silver busied herself about the room. She stopped until the evening, and when she and Rachel were preparing to go, I saw an imploring look in Blade-o'-Grass's eyes. I stepped to her side.

'What is it you want, my dear?' She made no reply, but she looked at Rachel most wistfully and yearningly. I saw the thought and the wish that she was too humble to express.

'Let Rachel stop with her tonight,' I said to Mrs. Silver.

For one moment only did Mrs. Silver hesitate; her child had never slept away from her home.

'Rachel, my dear,' she said, 'will you stop to-night with Blade-o'-Grass?'

'O yes!' answered Rachel with cheerful willingness; 'I shall be glad to stop.'

With a gasp of joy Blade-o'-Grass caught Rachel's hand, and fondled it and kissed it again and again. Rachel released her hand, and placed her arm round Blade-o'-Grass's neck. The head of Blade-o'-Grass drooped to her breast, but Rachel's was lifted in simple trustfulness and love. We left to Mr. Merrywhistle the task of seeing to Rachel's comfort for the night.

'I shall be here very early in the morning,' said Mrs. Silver, as she kissed her child. She kissed Blade-o'-Grass again also, and went out of the room with Mr. Merrywhistle. I lingered behind for a moment or two. With Rachel's hand in mine I could not help saying to her,

'You gladden my heart, my dear.'

She flushed slightly, and trembled.

'I am glad you are pleased with me, Mr. Meadow. Good-night.'

'Good-night, my dear.'

We left Mr. Merrywhistle in Stoney-alley; he expressed his intention of sleeping in the house, and I saw Mrs. Silver home.

'How shall I thank you, dear madam,' I said as I stood with her in Buttercup-square, 'for the confidence you place in me?'

'Do you know what I have been thinking of as we walked along, Mr. Meadow?'

'No.'

'That it was a fortunate day for me when I wrote to ask you to assist us in our children's holiday. If it had pleased God to have given me a son of my own, I should have wished him to resemble you.'

I cannot resist writing these words here, for they were very pleasant to me.

The funeral took place on the Thursday. Rachel, Mrs. Silver, and Mr. Merrywhistle accompanied Blade-o'-Grass to the last resting-place of her child. The women brought some winter flowers with them. If anything could have soothed the heart of Blade-o'-Grass on that occasion, it was the sight of these flowers, as well as the tender consideration which lay in the act. Before the lid of the coffin was nailed down, Blade-o'-Grass, with trembling hands and white lips, placed some of these flowers in her dead child's hands; her tears rained upon them as she stooped and kissed the lifeless clay. She did not raise her head for many moments, and I heard her whisper to her dear to be sure and wait for her in the better land. I led her from the coffin, and bade her take heart.

'I do, sir, I do!' she sobbed. 'I remember every word you said.

Stoney-alley and the narrow streets through which we wended our way to the wider thoroughfares were thronged with poor people, and many a 'Lord love you!' came from their lips, and women pressed forward and asked Rachel, whose arm was round the weeping mother's waist, to shake hands with them. When we arrived at the churchyard, we found Jimmy Virtue waiting by the side of the grave. The simple service was soon ended, and the clay of the poor child was left to peace and God.