It was apparent that the Dog-faced Man's thoughts must immediately be diverted into more cheerful channels. "Won't you please read to me, Mr. Poddle," said the boy, "what it says in the paper about my mother?"
The ruse was effective. Mr. Poddle looked up with a start. "Eh?" he ejaculated.
"Won't you?" the boy begged.
"I been talkin' so much, Richard," Mr. Poddle stammered, turning hoarse all at once, "that I gone and lost my voice."
He decamped to his room across the hall without another word.
Headpiece to _At Midnight_
Headpiece to _At Midnight_
At midnight the boy had long been sound asleep in bed. The lamp was turned low. It was very quiet in the room—quiet and shadowy in all the tenement.... And the stair creaked; and footfalls shuffled along the hall—and hesitated at the door of the place where the child lay quietly sleeping; and there ceased. There was the rumble of a man's voice, deep, insistent, imperfectly restrained. A woman protested. The door was softly opened; and the boy's mother stepped in, moving on tiptoe, and swiftly turned to bar entrance with her arm.
"Hist!" she whispered, angrily. "Don't speak so loud. You'll wake the boy."
"Let me in, Millie," the man insisted. "Aw, come on, now!"
"I can't, Jim. You know I can't. Go on home now. Stop that! I won't marry you. Let go my arm. You'll wake the boy, I tell you!"
There was a short scuffle: at the end of which, the woman's arm still barred the door.
"Here I ain't seen you in three year," the man complained. "And you won't let me in. That ain't right, Millie. It ain't kind to an old friend like me. You didn't used to be that way."
"No," the woman whispered, abstractedly; "there's been a change. I ain't the same as I used to be."
"You ain't changed for the better, Millie. No, you ain't."
"I don't know," she mused. "Sometimes I think not. It ain't because I don't want you, Jim," she continued, speaking more softly, now, "that I don't let you in. God knows, I like to meet old friends; but——"
It was sufficient. The man gently took her arm from the way. He stepped in—glanced at the sleeping boy, lying still as death, shaded from the lamp—and turned again to the woman.
"Don't wake him!" she said.
They were still standing. The man was short, long-armed, vastly broad at the shoulders, deep-chested: flashy in dress, dull and kind of feature—handsome enough, withal. He was an acrobat. Even in the dim light, he carried the impression of great muscular strength—of grace and agility. For a moment the woman's eyes ran over his stocky body: then, spasmodically clenching her hands, she turned quickly to the boy on the bed; and she moved back from the man, and thereafter regarded him watchfully.
"Don't make no difference if I do wake him," he complained. "The boy knows me."
"But he don't like you."
"Aw, Millie!" said he, in reproach. "Come off!"
"I seen it in his eyes," she insisted.
The man softly laughed.
"Don't you laugh no more!" she flashed. "You can't tell a mother what she sees in her own baby's eyes. I tell you, Jim, he don't like you. He never did."
"That's all fancy, Millie. Why, he ain't seen me in three year! And you can't see nothing in the eyes of a four year old kid. You're too fond of that boy, anyhow," the man continued, indignantly. "What's got into you? You ain't forgot that winter night out there in Idaho, have you? Don't you remember what you said to Dick that night? You said Dick was to blame, Millie, don't you remember? Remember the doctor coming to the hotel? I'll never forget how you went on. Never heard a woman swear like you before. Never seen one go on like you went on. And when you hit Dick, Millie, for what you said he'd done, I felt bad for Dick, though I hadn't much cause to care for what happened to him. Millie, girl, you was a regular wildcat when the doctor told you what was coming. You didn't want no kid, then!"
"Don't!" she gasped. "I ain't forgot. But I'm changed, Jim—since then."
He moved a step nearer.
"I ain't the same as I used to be in them days," she went on, staring at the window, and through the window to the starry night. "And Dick's dead, now. I don't know," she faltered; "it's all sort of—different."
"What's gone and changed you, Millie?"
"I ain't the same!" she repeated.
"What's changed you?"
"And I ain't been the same," she whispered, "since I got the boy!"
In the pause, he took her hand. She seemed not to know it—but let it lie close held in his great palm.
"And you won't have nothing to do with me?" he asked.
"I can't," she answered. "I don't think of myself no more. And the boy—wouldn't like it."
"You always said you would, if it wasn't for Dick; and Dick ain't here no more. There ain't no harm in loving me now." He tried to draw her to him. "Aw, come on!" he pleaded. "You know you like me."
She withdrew her hand—shrank from him. "Don't!" she said. "I like you, Jim. You know I always did. You was always good to me. I never cared much for Dick. Him and me teamed up pretty well. That was all. It was always you, Jim, that I cared for. But, somehow, now, I wish I'd loved Dick—more than I did. I feel different, now. I wish—oh, I wish—that I'd loved him!"
The man frowned.
"He's dead," she continued. "I can't tell him nothing, now. The chance is gone. But I wish I'd loved him!"
"He never done much for you."
"Yes, he did, Jim!" she answered, quickly. "He done all a man can do for a woman!"
She was smiling—but in an absent way. The man started. There was a light in her eyes he had never seen before.
"He give me," she said, "the boy!"
"You're crazy about that kid," the man burst out, a violent, disgusted whisper. "You're gone out of your mind."
"No, I ain't," she replied, doggedly. "I'm different since I got him. That's all. And I'd like Dick to know that I look at him different since he died. I can't love Dick. I never could. But I could thank him if he was here. Do you mind what I called the boy? I don't call him Claud now. I call him—Richard. It's all I can do to show Dick that I'm grateful."
The man caught his breath—in angry impatience. "Millie," he warned, "the boy'll grow up."
She put her hands to her eyes.
"He'll grow up and leave you. What you going to do then?"
"I don't know," she sighed. "Just—go along."
"You'll be all alone, Millie."
"He loves me!" she muttered. "He'll never leave me!"
"He's got to, Millie. He's got to be a man. You can't keep him."
"Maybe Ican'tkeep him," she replied, in a passionate undertone. "Maybe Idolove you. Maybe he'd get to love you, too. But look at him, Jim! See where he lies?"
The man turned towards the bed.
"It's on my side, Jim! Understand? He lies there always till I come in. Know why?"
He watched her curiously.
"He'll wake up, Jim, when I lift him over. That's what he wants. He'll wake up and say, 'Is that you, mother?' And he'll be asleep again, God bless him! before I can tell him that it is. My God! Jim, I can't tell you what it means to come in at night and find him lying there. That little body of a man! That clean, white soul! I can't tell you how I feel, Jim. It's something a man can't know. And do you think he'd stand for you? He'd say he would. Oh, he'd say he would! He'd look in my eyes, Jim, and he'd find out what I wanted him to say; and he'dsayit. But, Jim, he'd be hurt. Understand? He'd think I didn't love him any more. He's only a child—and he'd think I didn't love him. Where'd he sleep, Jim? Alone? He couldn't do it. Don't yousee? I can't live with nobody, Jim. And I don't want to. I don't care for myself no more. I used to, in them days—when you and me and Dick and the crowd was all together. But I don't—no more!"
The man stooped, picked a small stocking from the floor, stood staring at it.
"I'm changed," the woman repeated, "since I got the boy."
"I don't know what you'll do, Millie, when he grows up."
She shook her head.
"And when he finds out?"
"That's what I'm afraid of," she whispered, hoarsely. "Somebody'll tell him—some day. He don't know, now. And I don't want him to know. He ain't our kind. Maybe it's because I keep him here alone. Maybe it's because he don't see nobody. Maybe it's just because I love him so. I don't know. But he ain't like us. It would hurt him to know. And I can't hurt him. I can't!"
The man tossed the stocking away. It fell upon a heap of little under-garments, strewn upon the floor.
"You're a fool, Millie," said he. "I tell you, he'll leave you. He'll leave you cold—when he grows up—and another woman comes along."
She raised her hand to stop him. "Don't say that!" she moaned. "There won't be no other woman. There can't be. Seems to me I'll want to kill the first that comes. A woman? What woman? There won't be none."
"There'sgotto be a woman."
"What woman? There ain't a woman in the world fit to—oh," she broke off, "don't talk ofhim—and a woman!"
"It'll come, Millie. He's a man—and there's got to be a woman. And she won't want you. And you'll be too old, then, to——"
The boy stirred.
"Hist!" she commanded.
They waited. An arm was tossed—the boy smiled—there was a sigh. He was sound asleep again.
"Millie!" The man approached. She straightened to resist him. "You love me, don't you?"
She withdrew.
"You want to marry me?"
Still she withdrew; but he overtook her, and caught her hand. She was now driven to a corner—at bay. Her face was flushed; there was an irresolute light in her eyes—the light, too, of fear.
"Go 'way!" she gasped. "Leave me alone!"
He put his arm about her.
"Don't!" she moaned. "You'll wake the boy."
"Millie!" he whispered.
"Let me go, Jim!" she protested, weakly. "I can't. Oh, leave me alone! You'll wake the boy. I can't. I'd like to. I—I—I want to marry you; but I——"
"Aw, come on!" he pleaded, drawing her close. And he suddenly found her limp in his arms. "You got to marry me!" he whispered, in triumph. "By God! you can't help yourself. I got you! I got you!"
"Oh, let me go!"
"No, I won't, Millie. I'll never let you go."
"For God's sake, Jim! Jim—oh, don't kiss me!"
The boy stirred again—and began to mutter in his sleep. At once the woman commanded herself. She stiffened—released herself—pushed the man away. She lifted a hand—until the child lay quiet once more. There was meantime breathless silence. Then she pointed imperiously to the door. The man sullenly held his place. She tiptoed to the door—opened it; again imperiously gestured. He would not stir.
"I'll go," he whispered, "if you tell me I can come back."
The boy awoke—but was yet blinded by sleep; and the room was dim-lit. He rubbed his eyes. The man and the woman stood rigid in the shadow.
"Is it you, mother?"
There was no resisting her command—her flashing eyes, the passionate gesture. The man moved to the door, muttering that he would come back—and disappeared. She closed the door after him.
"Yes, dear," she answered. "It is your mother."
"Was there a man with you?"
"It was Lord Wychester," she said, brightly, "seeing me home from the party."
"Oh!" he yawned.
"Go to sleep."
He fell asleep at once. The stair creaked. The tenement was again quiet....
He was lying in his mother's place in the bed.... She looked out upon the river. Somewhere, far below in the darkness, the current still ran swirling to the sea—where the lights go different ways.... The boy was lying in his mother's place. And before she lifted him, she took his warm little hand, and kissed his brow, where the dark curls lay damp with the sweat of sleep. For a long, long time, she sat watching him through a mist of glad tears. The sight of his face, the outline of his body under the white coverlet, the touch of his warm flesh: all this thrilled her inexpressibly. Had she been devout, she would have thanked God for the gift of a son—and would have found relief.... When she crept in beside him, she drew him to her, tenderly still closer, until he was all contained in her arms; and she forgot all else—and fell asleep, untroubled.
Tailpiece to _At Midnight_
Tailpiece to _At Midnight_
Headpiece to _A Meeting by Chance_
Headpiece to _A Meeting by Chance_
Came, then, into the lives of these two, to work wide and immediate changes, the Rev. John Fithian, a curate of the Church of the Lifted Cross—a tall, free-moving, delicately spare figure, clad in spotless black, with a hint of fashion about it, a dull gold crucifix lying suspended upon the breast: pale, long of face, the eye-sockets deep and shadowy; hollow-cheeked, the bones high and faintly touched with red; with black, straight, damp hair, brushed back from a smooth brow and falling in the perfection of neatness to the collar—the whole severe and forbidding, indeed, but for saving gray eyes, wherein there lurked, behind the patient agony, often displacing it, a tender smile, benignant, comprehending, infinitely sympathetic, by which the gloomy exterior was lightened and in some surprising way gratefully explained.
By chance, on the first soft spring day of that year, the Rev. John Fithian, returning from the Neighbourhood Settlement, where he had delighted himself with good deeds, done of pure purpose, came near the door of the Box Street tenement, distributing smiles, pennies, impulsive, genuine caresses, to the children as he went, tipping their faces, patting their heads, all in the rare, unquestioned way, being not alien to the manner of the poor. A street piano, at the corner, tinkled an air to which a throng of ragged, lean little girls danced in the yellow sunshine, dodging trucks and idlers and impatient pedestrians with unconcern, colliding and tripping with utmost good nature. The curate was arrested by the voice of a child, singing to the corner accompaniment—low, in the beginning, brooding, tentative, but in a moment rising sure and clear and tender. It was not hard for the Rev. John Fithian to slip a cassock and surplice upon this wistful child, to give him a background of lofty arches and stained windows, to frame the whole in shadows. And, lo! in the chancel of the Church of the Lifted Cross there stood an angel, singing.
The boy looked up, a glance of suspicion, of fear; but he was at once reassured: there was no guile in the smiling gray eyes of the questioner.
"I am waiting," he answered, "for my mother. She will be home soon."
In a swift, penetrating glance, darting far and deep, dwelling briefly, the curate discovered the pathos of the child's life—the unknowing, patient outlook, the vague sense of pain, the bewilderment, the wistful melancholy, the hopeful determination.
"You, too!" he sighed.
The expression of kindred was not comprehended; but the boy was not disquieted by the sigh, by the sudden extinguishment of the beguiling smile.
"She has gone," he continued, "to the wedding of Sir Arthur Coll and Miss Stillison. She will have a very good time."
The curate came to himself with a start and a gasp.
"She's a bridesmaid," the boy added.
"Oh!" ejaculated the curate.
"Why do you say, 'Oh!'" the boy complained, frowning. "Everybody says that," he went on, wistfully; "and I don't know why."
The curate was a gentleman—acute and courteous. "A touch of indigestion," he answered, promptly, laying a white hand on his black waistcoat. "Oh! There it is again!"
"Stomach ache?"
"Well, you might call it that."
The boy was much concerned. "If you come up-stairs," said he, anxiously, "I'll give you some medicine. Mother keeps it for me."
Thus, presently, the curate found himself top-floor rear, in the room that overlooked the broad river, the roofs of the city beyond, the misty hills: upon which the fading sunshine now fell. And having gratefully swallowed the dose, with a broad, persistent smile, he was given a seat by the window, that the beauty of the day, the companionship of the tiny craft on the river, the mystery of the far-off places, might distract and comfort him. From the boy, sitting upright and prim on the extreme edge of a chair, his feet on the rung, his hands on his knees, proceeded a stream of amiable chatter—not the less amiable for being grave—to which the curate, compelled to his best behavior, listened with attention as amiable, as grave: and this concerned the boats, afloat below, the lights on the river, the child's mother, the simple happenings of his secluded life. So untaught was this courtesy, spontaneous, native—so did it spring from natural wish and perception—that the curate was soon more mystified than entertained; and so did the curate's smile increase in gratification and sympathy that the child was presently off the chair, lingering half abashed in the curate's neighbourhood, soon seated familiarly upon his knee, toying with the dull gold crucifix.
"What's this?" he asked.
"It is the symbol," the curate answered, "of the sacrifice of our dear Lord and Saviour."
There was no meaning in the words; but the boy held the cross very tenderly, and looked long upon the face of the Man there in torture—and was grieved and awed by the agony....
In the midst of this, the boy's mother entered. She stopped dead beyond the threshold—warned by the unexpected presence to be upon her guard. Her look of amazement changed to a scowl of suspicion. The curate put the boy from his knee. He rose—embarrassed. There was a space of ominous silence.
"What you doing here?" the woman demanded.
"Trespassing."
She was puzzled—by the word, the smile, the quiet voice. The whole was a new, nonplussing experience. Her suspicion was aggravated.
"What you been telling the boy? Eh? What you been saying about me? Hear me? Ain't you got no tongue?" She turned to the frightened child. "Richard," she continued, her voice losing all its quality of anger, "what lies has this man been telling you about your poor mother?"
The boy kept a bewildered silence.
"What you been lying about?" the woman exclaimed, advancing upon the curate, her eyes blazing.
"I have been telling," he answered, still gravely smiling, "the truth."
Her anger was halted—but she was not pacified.
"Telling," the curate repeated, with a little pause, "the truth."
"You been talking aboutme, eh?"
"No; it was of your late husband."
She started.
"I am a curate of the Church of the Lifted Cross," the curate continued, with unruffled composure, "and I have been telling the exact truth concerning——"
"You been lying!" the woman broke in. "Yes, you have!"
"No—not so," he insisted. "The exact truth concerning the funeral of Dick Slade from the Church of the Lilted Cross. Your son has told me of his father's death—of the funeral, And I have told your son that I distinctly remember the occasion. I have told him, moreover," he added, putting a hand on the boy's shoulder, his eyes faintly twinkling, "that his father was—ah—as I recall him—of most distinguished appearance."
She was completely disarmed.
When, after an agreeable interval, the Rev. John Fithian took his leave, the boy's mother followed him from the room, and closed the door upon the boy. "I'm glad," she faltered, "that you didn't give me away. It was—kind. But I'm sorry you lied—like that. You didn't have to, you know. He's only a child. It's easy to fool him.Youwouldn't have to lie. But Igotto lie. It makes him happy—and there's things he mustn't know. Hemustbe happy. I can't stand it when he ain't. It hurts me so. But," she added, looking straight into his eyes, gratefully, "you didn't have to lie. And—it was kind." Her eyes fell. "It was—awful kind."
"I may come again?"
She stared at the floor. "Come again?" she muttered. "I don't know."
"I should very much like to come."
"What do you want?" she asked, looking up. "It ain'tme, is it?"
The curate shook his head.
"Well, what do you want? I thought you was from the Society. I thought you was an agent come to take him away because I wasn't fit to keep him. But it ain't that. And it ain'tme. What is it you want, anyhow?"
"To come again."
She turned away. He patiently waited. All at once she looked into his eyes, long, deep, intensely—a scrutiny of his very soul.
"You got a good name to keep, ain't you?" she asked.
"Yes," he answered. "And you?"
"It don't matter about me."
"And I may come?"
"Yes," she whispered.
Headpiece to _Renunciation_
Headpiece to _Renunciation_
After that the curate came often to the room in the Box Street tenement; but beyond the tenants of top floor rear he did not allow the intimacy to extend—not even to embrace the quaintly love-lorn Mr. Poddle. It was now summer; the window was open to the west wind, blowing in from the sea. Most the curate came at evening, when the breeze was cool and clean, and the lights began to twinkle in the gathering shadows: then to sit at the window, describing unrealities, not conceived in the world of the listeners; and these new and beautiful thoughts, melodiously voiced in the twilight, filled the hours with wonder and strange delight. Sometimes, the boy sang—his mother, too, and the curate: a harmony of tender voices, lifted softly. And once, when the songs were all sung, and the boy had slipped away to the comfort of Mr. Poddle, who was now ill abed with his restless lungs, the curate turned resolutely to the woman.
"I want the boy's voice," he said.
She gave no sign of agitation. "His voice?" she asked, quietly. "Ain't the boy'sselfnothing to your church?"
"Not," he answered, "to the church."
"Not to you?"
"It is very much," he said, gravely, "to me."
"Well?"
He lifted his eyebrows—in amazed comprehension. "I must say, then," he said, bending eagerly towards her, "that I want the boy?"
"The boy," she answered.
For a little while she was silent—vacantly contemplating the bare floor. There had been no revelation. She was not taken unaware. She had watched his purpose form. Long before, she had perceived the issue approaching, and had bravely met it. But it was all now definite and near. She found it hard to command her feeling—bitter to cut the trammels of her love for the child.
"You got to pay, you know," she said, looking up. "Boy sopranos is scarce. You can't have him cheap."
"Of course!" he hastened to say. "The church will pay."
"Money? It ain't money I want."
To this there was nothing to say. The curate was in the dark—and quietly awaited enlightenment.
"Take him!" she burst out, rising. "My God! just you take him. That's all I want. Understand me? I want to get rid of him."
He watched her in amazement. For a time she wandered about the room, distraught, quite aimless: now tragically pausing; now brushing her hand over her eyes—a gesture of weariness and despair. Then she faced him.
"Take him," she said, her voice hoarse. "Take him away from me. I ain't fit to have him. Understand? He's got to grow up into a man. And I can't teach him how. Take him. Take him altogether. Make him—like yourself. Before you come," she proceeded, now feverishly pacing the floor, "I never knew that men was good. No man ever looked in my eyes the way you do. I know them—oh, I know them! And when my boy grows up, I want him to look in the eyes of women the way you look—in mine. Just that! Only that! If only, oh, if only my son will look in the eyes of women the way you look in mine! Understand? Iwanthim to. But I can't teach him how. I don't know enough. I ain't good enough."
The curate rose.
"You can't take his voice and leave his soul," she went on. "You got to take his soul. You got to make it—like your own."
"Not like mine!"
"Just," she said, passionately, "like yours. Don't you warn me!" she flashed. "I know the difference between your soul and mine. I know that when his soul is like yours he won't love me no more. But I can't help that. I got to do without him. I got to live my life—and let him live his. It's the way with mothers and sons. God help the mothers! It's the way of the world.... And he'll go with you," she added. "I'll get him so he'll be glad to go. It won't be nice to do—but I can do it. Maybe you think I can't. Maybe you think I love him too much. It ain't that I love him too much. It's because I love himenough!"
"You offer the boy to me?"
"Will you take him—voice and soul?"
"I will take him," said the curate, "soul and voice."
She began at once to practice upon the boy's love for her—this skillfully, persistently: without pity for herself or him. She sighed, wept, sat gloomy for hours together: nor would she explain her sorrow, but relentlessly left it to deal with his imagination, by which it was magnified and touched with the horror of mystery. It was not hard—thus to feign sadness, terror, despair: to hint misfortune, parting, unalterable love. Nor could the boy withstand it; by this depression he was soon reduced to a condition of apprehension and grief wherein self-sacrifice was at one with joyful opportunity. Dark days, these—hours of agony, premonition, fearful expectation. And when they had sufficiently wrought upon him, she was ready to proceed.
One night she took him in her lap, in the old close way, in which he loved to be held, and sat rocking, for a time, silently.
"Let us talk, dear," she said.
"I think I'm too sick," he sighed. "I just want to lie here—and not talk."
He had but expressed her own desire—to have him lie there: not to talk, but just to feel him lying in her arms.
"We must," she said.
Something in her voice—something distinguishable from the recent days as deep and real—aroused the boy. He touched the lashes of her eyes—and found them wet.
"Why are you crying?" he asked. "Oh, tell me, mother! Tell menow!"
She did not answer.
"I'm sick," he muttered. "I—I—think I'm very sick."
"Something has happened, dear," she said. "I'm going to tell you what." She paused—and in the pause felt his body grow tense in a familiar way. For a moment the prospect frightened her. She felt, vaguely, that she was playing with that which was infinitely delicate—which might break in her very hands, and leave her desolate. "You know, dear," she continued, faltering, "we used to be very rich. But we're not, any more." It was a poor lie—she realized that: and was half ashamed. "We're very poor, now," she went on, hurriedly. "A man broke into the bank and stole all your mother's gold and diamonds and lovely dresses. She hasn't anything—any more." She had conceived a vast contempt for the lie; she felt that it was a weak, unpracticed thing—but she knew that it was sufficient: for he had never yet doubted her. "So I don't know what she'll do," she concluded, weakly. "She will have to stop having good times, I guess. She will have to go to work."
He straightened in her lap. "No, no!" he cried, gladly. "I'llwork!"
Her impulse was to express her delight in his manliness, her triumphant consciousness of his love—to kiss him, to hug him until he cried out with pain. But she restrained all this—harshly, pitilessly. She had no mercy upon herself.
"I'll work!" he repeated.
"How?" she asked. "You don't know how."
"Teach me."
She laughed—an ironical little laugh: designed to humiliate him. "Why," she exclaimed, "I don't know how to teach you!"
He sighed.
"But," she added, significantly, "the curate knows."
"Then," said he, taking hope, "the curate will teach me."
"Yes; but——"
"But what? Tell me quick, mother!"
"Well," she hesitated, "the curate is so busy. Anyhow, dear," she continued, "I would have to work. We are very poor. You see, dear, it takes a great deal of money to buy new clothes for you. And, then, dear, you see——"
He waited—somewhat disturbed by the sudden failure of her voice. It was all becoming bitter to her, now; she found it hard to continue.
"You see," she gasped, "you eat—quite a bit."
"I'll not eat much," he promised. "And I'll not want new clothes. And it won't take long for the curate to teach me how to work."
She would not agree.
"Tell me!" he commanded.
"Yes," she said; "but the curate says he wants you to live with him."
"Would you come, too?"
"No," she answered.
He did not yet comprehend. "Would I go—alone?"
"Yes."
"All alone?"
"Alone!"
Quiet fell upon all the world—in the twilighted room, in the tenement, in the falling night without, where no breeze moved. The child sought to get closer within his mother's arms, nearer to her bosom—then stirred no more. The lights were flashing into life on the river—wandering aimlessly: but yet drifting to the sea.... Some one stumbled past the door—grumbling maudlin wrath.
"There is no other way," the mother said.
There was no response—a shiver, subsiding at once: no more than that.
"And I would go to see you—quite often."
She tried to see his face; but it was hid against her.
"It would be better," she whispered, "for you."
"Oh, mother," he sobbed, sitting back in her lap, "what would you do without me?"
It was a crucial question—so appealing in unselfish love, so vividly portraying her impending desolation, that for an instant her resolution departed. What would she do without him? God knew! But she commanded herself.
"I would not have to work," she said.
He turned her face to the light—looked deep in her eyes, searching for the truth. She met his glance without wavering. Then, discerning the effect, deliberately, when his eyes were alight with filial love and concern, at the moment when the sacrifice was most clear and most poignant, she lied.
"I would be happier," she said, "without you."
A moan escaped him.
"Will you go with the curate?" she asked.
"Yes."
He fell back upon her bosom....
There was no delay. 'Twas all done in haste. The night came. Gently the curate took the child from her arms.
"Good-bye," she said.
"I said I would not cry, mother," he faltered. "I am not crying."
"Good-bye, dear."
"Mother, I am not crying."
"You are very brave," she said, discovering his wish. "Good-bye. Be a good boy."
He took the curate's hand. They moved to the door—but there turned and lingered. While the child looked upon his mother, bravely calling a smile to his face, that she might be comforted, there crept into his eyes, against his will, some reproach. Perceiving this, she staggered towards him, but halted at the table, which she clutched: and there stood, her head hanging forward, her body swaying. Then she levelled a finger at the curate.
"Take him away, you damn fool!" she screamed.
Tailpiece to _Renunciation_
Tailpiece to _Renunciation_
Headpiece to _In the Current_
Headpiece to _In the Current_
Seven o'clock struck. It made no impression upon her. Eight o'clock—nine o'clock. It was now dark. Ten o'clock. She did not hear. Still at the window, her elbow on the sill, her chin resting in her hand, she kept watch on the river—but did not see the river: but saw the sea, wind-tossed and dark, where the lights go wide apart. Eleven o'clock. Ghostly moonlight filled the room. The tenement, restless in the summer heat, now sighed and fell asleep. Twelve o'clock. She had not moved: nor dared she move. There was a knock at the door—a quick step behind her. She turned in alarm.
"Millie!"
She rose. Voice and figure were well known to her. She started forward—but stopped dead.
"Is it you, Jim?" she faltered.
"Yes, Millie. It's me—come back. You don't feel the way you did before, do you, girl?" He suddenly subdued his voice—as though recollecting a caution. "You ain't going to send me away, are you?" he asked.
"Go 'way!" she complained. "Leave me alone."
He came nearer.
"Give me a show, Jim," she begged. "Go 'way. It ain't fair to come—now. Hear me?" she cried, in protest against his nearer approach, her voice rising shrilly. "It ain't fair——"
"Hist!" he interrupted. "You'll wake the——"
She laughed harshly. "Wake what?" she mocked. "Eh, Jim? What'll I wake?"
"Why, Millie!" he exclaimed. "You'll wake the boy."
"Boy!" she laughed. "What boy? There ain't no boy. Look here!" she cried, rushing impetuously to the bed, throwing back the coverlet, wildly tossing the pillows to the floor. "What'll I wake? Eh, Jim? Where's the boy I'll wake?" She turned upon him. "What you saying 'Hist!' for? Hist!" she mocked, with a laugh. "Talk as loud as you like, Jim. You don't need to care what you say or how you say it. There ain't nobody here to mind you. For I tell you," she stormed, "there ain't no boy—no more!"
He caught her hand.
"Let go my hand!" she commanded. "Keep off, Jim! I ain't in no temper to stand it—to-night."
He withdrew. "Millie," he asked, in distress, "the boy ain't——"
"Dead?" she laughed. "No. I give him away. He was different from us. I didn't have no right to keep him. I give him to a parson. Because," she added, defiantly, "I wasn't fit to bring him up. And he ain't here no more," she sighed, blankly sweeping the moonlit room. "I'm all alone—now."
"Poor girl!" he muttered.
She was tempted by this sympathy. "Go home, Jim," she said. "It ain't fair to stay. I'm all alone, now—and it ain't treating me right."
"Millie," he answered, "you ain't treating yourself right."
She flung out her arms—in dissent and hopelessness.
"No, you ain't," he continued. "You've give him up. You're all alone. You can't go on—alone. Millie, girl," he pleaded, softly, "I want you. Come to me!"
She wavered.
"Come to me!" he repeated, his voice tremulous, his arms extended. "You're all alone. You've lost him. Come to me!"
"Lost him?" she mused. "No—not that. If I'd lost him, Jim, I'd take you. If ever he looked in my eyes—as if I'd lost him—I'd take you. I've give him up; but I ain't lost him. Maybe," she proceeded, eagerly, "when the time comes, he'll not give me up. He loves me, Jim; he'll not forget. I know he's different from us. You can't tell a mother nothing about such things as that. God!" she muttered, clasping her hands, "how strangely different he is. And every day he'll change. Every day he'll be—more different. That's what I want. That's why I give him up. To make him—more different! But maybe," she continued, her voice rising with the intensity of her feeling, "when he grows up, and the time comes—maybe, Jim, when he can't be made no more different—maybe, when I go to him, man grown—are you listening?—maybe, when I ask him if he loves me, he'll remember! Maybe, he'll take me in. Lost him?" she asked. "How do you know that? Go to you, Jim? Go to you, now—when he might take me in if I wait? I can't! Don't you understand? When the time comes, he might ask me—where you was."
"You're crazy, Millie," the man protested. "You're just plain crazy."
"Crazy? Maybe, I am. To love and hope! Crazy? Maybe, I am. But, Jim, mothers is all that way."
"All that way?" he asked, regarding her with a speculative eye.
"Mothers," she repeated, "is all that way."
"Well," said he, swiftly advancing, "lovers isn't."
"Keep back!" she cried.
"No, I won't."
"You'll make a cat of me. I warn you, Jim!"
"You can't keep me off. You said you loved me. You do love me. You can't help yourself. You got to marry me."
She retreated. "Leave me alone!" she screamed. "I can't. Don't you see how it is? Quit that, now, Jim! You ain't fair. Take your arms away. God help me! I love you, you great big brute! You know I do. You ain't fair.... Stop! You hurt me." She was now in his arms—but still resisting. "Leave me alone," she whimpered. "You hurt me. You ain't fair. You know I love you—and you ain't fair.... Oh, God forgive me! Don't do that again, Jim. Stop! Let me go. For God's sake, stop kissing me! I like you, Jim. I ain't denying that. But let me go.... Please, Jim! Don't hold me so tight. It ain't fair.... Oh, it ain't fair...."
She sank against his broad breast; and there she lay helpless—bitterly sobbing.
"Don't cry, Millie!" he whispered.
Still she sobbed.
"Oh, don't cry, girl!" he repeated, tenderly. "It's all right. I won't hurt you. You love me, and I love you. That's all right, Millie. What's the matter with you, girl? Lift your face, won't you?"
"No, no!"
"Why not, Millie?"
"I don't know," she whispered. "I think I'm—ashamed."
There was no longer need to hold her fast. His arms relaxed. She did not move from them. And while they stood thus, in the moonlight, falling brightly through the window, he stroked her hair, murmuring, the while, all the reassuring words at his command.
"The boy's gone," he said, at last. "You'd be all alone without me. He ain't here. But he's well looked after, Millie. Don't you fret about him. By this time he's sound asleep."
She slipped from his embrace. He made no effort to detain her: conceiving her secure in his possession. A moment she stood staring at the floor, lost to her surroundings: then quickly turned to look upon him—her face aglow with some high tenderness.
"Asleep?" she asked, her voice low, tremulous.
"Sound asleep."
"How do you know that he's asleep?" she pursued. "Asleep? No; he ain't asleep." She paused—now woebegone. "He's wide awake—waiting," she went on. "He's waiting—just like he used to do—for me to come in.... He's awake. Oh, sore little heart! He's lying alone in the dark—waiting. And his mother will not come.... Last night, Jim, when I come in, he was there in the bed, awake and waiting. 'Oh, mother,' says he, 'I'm glad you're come at last. I been waiting so long. It's lonesome here in the dark without you. And to-morrow I'll wake, and wait, and wait; but you will not come!' He's awake, Jim. Don't you tell me no different. The pillow's wet with his tears.... Lonely child—waiting for me! Oh, little heart of my baby! Oh, sore little heart!"
"Millie!"
"It ain't no use no more, Jim. You better go home. I'm all alone. My child's not here. But—he's somewhere. And it's him I love."
The man sighed and went away....