David's Little Lad

by L. T. Meade

“Yes,” replied the woman; “she guessed it herself. She knows that the baby’s dead.”

“Thank God!” said the boy. I looked from one face to the other. I could not help pitying myself, as though it were my sorrow. I thought the boy’s tone the kindest—he should take me to see the murdered child. Suddenly I changed my mind. Why should I need or look for compassion. The mother had come all this way to punish me and mine—the mother’s just revenge should not be foiled. When we got into the group, I took her hand.

“You shall show him to me,” I said. “You shall show me your little dead baby.”

There was a pause on all sides—one or two people turned aside. I saw a woman put her apron to her face, and heard a man groan. Every eye was fixed on me, and, at the same moment, the under-viewer’s wife and Miles went on their knees, and began to sob.

“Oh! my darling; you are wrong—you have made a mistake,” began the woman.

“I felt she did not, could not know,” sobbed Miles.

The crowd opened a little more, and I went forward. Very near the mouth of the old shaft, lying on a soft bed of grass and undergrowth, was a woman—a woman with a face as white as death. I went up close to her, and gazed at her steadily. Her face looked like death, but she was not dead—a moan or two came through white lips. By the side of the woman, stretched also flat, lay a child; his hat was thrown by his side, and one little leg was bare of shoe and stocking. A white frock was also considerably soiled, and even torn. I took in all these minor details first—then my eyes rested on the face. I went down on my knees to examine the face, to note its expression more attentively. On the brow, but partly concealed by the hair, was a dark mark, like a bruise, otherwise the face was quiet, natural, life-like. A faint colour lingered in the cheeks; the lips were parted and smiling.

The woman was groaning in agony. The child was quiet—looking as a child will look when he has met with a new delight. I laid my hand on the little heart—it never stirred. I felt the tiny pulse—it was still. The injured and suffering woman was Gwen. The dead baby was not the under-viewer’s child, but David’s little lad.

I took no further notice of Gwen, but I kept on kneeling by the side of the dead child. I have not the least idea whether I was suffering at this moment; my impression is that I was not. Mind, body, spirit, were all quiet under the influence of a great shock. I knew and realised perfectly that little David was dead; but I took in, as yet, no surrounding circumstances. Finding that I was so still, that I neither sobbed nor groaned—in fact, that I did nothing but gaze steadily at the dead child, the under-viewer’s wife knelt down by my side, and began to pour out her tale. She did this with considerable relief in her tone. When she began to speak, Miles also knelt very close to me, and laid his hand with a caressing movement on my dress. I was pleased with Miles’ affection—glad to receive it—and found that I could follow the tale told by the under-viewer’s wife, without any effort.

I mention all this just to show how very quiet I not only was in body, but in mind.