Chapter 8 - Lizzie Leigh

Will sat very still for a long time before he spoke. At last he said, I'll not hinder you. I think she's dead, but that's no matter. She's not dead, said her mother with low earnestness. Will took no notice of the interruption. We will all go to Manchester for a twelve month, and let the farm to Tom Higginbottom. I'll get blacksmith's work, and Tom can have good schooling for a while, which he's always craving for. At the end of the year you'll come back, mother, and give over fretting for Lizzie, and think with me that she's dead, and to my mind that would be more comfort than to think of her living. He dropped his voice as he spoke these last words. She shook her head, but made no answer. He asked again. Will your mother agree to this? I'll agree to it a thisons, said she, if I hear and see nought of her for a twelve month, me being in Manchester looking out. I'll just have broken my heart fairly before the years ended, and then I shall know neither love nor sorrow for her any more, when I'm at rest in the grave. I'll agree to that, Will. Well, I suppose it must be so. I shall not tell Tom, mother, why we flit into Manchester. Best spare him. As thou wilt, said she sadly. So that we go, that's all. Before the wild daffodils were up in flower in the sheltered copses round up Close Farm, the Lees were settled in their Manchester home. If they could ever grow to consider that place as a home, where there was no garden or outbuilding, no fresh breezy outlet, no far-stretching view over moor and hollow, no dumb animals to be tended, and what more than all they missed, no old haunting memories, even though those remembrances told of sorrow and the dead and gone. Mrs. Lee heeded the loss of all these things less than her sons. She had more spirit in her countenance than she had had for months, because now she had hope, of a sad enough kind to be sure, but still it was hope.