There was something mysterious in the woman's manner that startled the ruffian. "Come up with me, Godfrey, and speak to her. One word from you will make my peace with Mary. I did not mean to hurt the girl."
Mary had been sleeping. The sound of their steps broke in upon her feverish slumber; but she still kept her eyes closed, as if unwilling to rouse herself from the stupor of grief in which she had fallen.
"She is sleeping," said Mathews, approaching the bed. "By Jove! I thought she was dead. How still she lies. How deadly pale she looks—and what is that upon her breast?"
"A child! my child!" cried Godfrey, stepping eagerly forward. "Poor Mary! she is safe through that trial. But the child—"
"Is dead," said Mathews. "Yes, dead. Godfrey you are in luck. What a fortunate thing for us all."
"Dead!" said the young father, laying his hand upon the cold pale cheek of his first born. "Aye, so it is. She was so healthy, I dared not hope for this. Poor little pale cold thing, how happy I am to see you thus! What a load of anxiety your death has removed from my heart! What a blessing it would have been if it had pleased God to take them both!"
This from the man she loved—the father of her child—was too much. Mary opened her large tear-swollen eyes, and fixed them mournfully upon his face. He stooped down, and would have kissed her; but she drew back with ill-disguised horror. The love she had so madly cherished for him was gone—vanished for ever in those cruel words, and nought but the blank darkness and horror of remorse remained. She turned upon her pillow, and fixing her eyes upon the dead infant, mentally swore that she would live for revenge. She no longer shed a tear, or uttered the least complaint, but secretly blessed God that the babe was dead. She had lived to hear the father of that child, for whose sake she had borne the contempt of her neighbors, the reproaches of conscience, and the fears of eternal punishment, rejoice in the death of his first-born; and without a tear or sigh, wish that she might share the same grave. Could such things be? Alas! they happen every day, and are the sure reward of guilt.
"My poor Mary," said the hypocrite. "You have suffered a good deal for my sake; but do not cry. God knew best when he took the child from us. It is painful for us to part with him, but depend upon it, he is much better off where he is."
"I know it now," said the young mother. "Yes, Godfrey Hurdlestone, he is better off where he is; and for some wise end, God has spared my worthless life. Is that you, William? The murderer of my child has no business here."
"Mary, it was the drink. I did not mean to hurt either you or the child; so shake hands, and say that you forgive me."