LIZZIE LEIGH
by Elizabeth Gaskell


CHAPTER I.


When Death is present in a household on a Christmas Day, the very
contrast between the time as it now is, and the day as it has often been,
gives a poignancy to sorrow--a more utter blankness to the desolation.
James Leigh died just as the far-away bells of Rochdale Church were
ringing for morning service on Christmas Day, 1836. A few minutes before
his death, he opened his already glazing eyes, and made a sign to his
wife, by the faint motion of his lips, that he had yet something to say.
She stooped close down, and caught the broken whisper, "I forgive her,
Annie! May God forgive me!"

"Oh, my love, my dear! only get well, and I will never cease showing my
thanks for those words. May God in heaven bless thee for saying them.
Thou'rt not so restless, my lad! may be--Oh, God!"

For even while she spoke he died.

They had been two-and-twenty years man and wife; for nineteen of those
years their life had been as calm and happy as the most perfect
uprightness on the one side, and the most complete confidence and loving
submission on the other, could make it. Milton's famous line might have
been framed and hung up as the rule of their married life, for he was
truly the interpreter, who stood between God and her; she would have
considered herself wicked if she had ever dared even to think him