Chapter IVBobby Unwelcome
Chapter IV
Bobby had learned U that day in school, and he strutted home beside his nurse, Olga, with conscious relief in the swing of his sturdy legs. There was a special reason why Bobby felt relieved to get to U. He glanced up, up, up, sidewise, at the non-committal face so far above him, and wondered in his anxious little way whether or not it would be prudent to speak of the special reason now. Olgahadtimes, Bobby had discovered, when you dassent speak of things, and it looked—yes, cert’nly—as though she was having one now. Still, if you only dast to—
“It’s the same one that’s in the middle o’ my name, don’t you know,” he plunged in, hurriedly.
“Mercy! What iss it the child iss talking about!”
There! wasn’t she having one? Didn’t she usually say “Mercy!” like that when she was?
“That letter, you know—U. The one in the middle o’ my name,” Bobby hastened on—“right prezac’ly in the middle of it. I wish”—but he caught himself up with a jerk. It didn’t seem best, after all, to consult Olga now—not now, while she was having one. Better wait—only, dear, dear, dear, how long he had waited a’ready!
It had not occurred to Bobby to consult his mother. They two were not intimately acquainted, and naturally he felt shy.
Bobby’s mother was very young and beautiful. He had seen her dressed in a wondrous soft white dress once, with little specks of shiny things burning on her bare throat, and ever since he had known what angels look like.
There were reasons enough why Bobby seldom saw his mother. The house was very big, and her room so far away from his;—that was one reason. Then he always went to bed, and got up, and ate his meals before she did.
There was another reason why he and the beautiful young mother did not know each other very well, but even Olga had never explained that one. Bobby had that ahead of him to find out,—poor Bobby! Some one had called him Fire Face once at school, but the kind-hearted teacher had never let it happen again.
At home, in the great empty house, the mirrors were all high up out of reach, and in the nursery there had never been any at all. Bobby had never looked at himself in a mirror. Of course he had seen himself up to his chin—dear, yes—and admired his own little straight legs often enough, and doubled up his little round arms to hunt for his “muscle.” In a quiet, unobtrusive way Bobby was rather proud of himself. He had to be—there was no one else, you see. And even at six, when there is so little else to do, one can put in considerable time regarding one’s legs and arms.
“I guess you don’t callthosebow-legged legs, do you, Olga?” he had exulted once, in an unguarded moment when he had been thinking of Cleggy Munro’s legs at school. “I guess you call those pretty straight-up-’n’-down ones!” And the hard face of the old nurse had suddenly softened in a strange, pleasant way, and for the one only time that he could remember, Olga had taken Bobby in her arms and kissed him.
“They’re beautiful legs, that iss so,” Olga had said, but she hadn’t been looking at them when she said it. She had been looking straight into his face. The look hurt, too, Bobby remembered. He did not know what pity was, but it was that that hurt.
The night after he learned U at school Bobby decided to hazard everything and ask Olga what the one in his name stood for. He could not put it off any longer.
“Olga, what does the U in the middle o’ my name stand for?” he broke out, suddenly, while he was being unbuttoned for bed. “I know it’s a U, but I don’t know a U-what. I’ve ’cided I won’t go to bed till I’ve found out.”
Things had gone criss-cross. The old Norwegian woman was not in a good humor.
“Unwelcome—that iss what it must stand for,” she laughed unpleasantly.
“Bobby Unwelcome!” Bobby laughed too. Then a piteous little suspicion crept into his mind and began to grow. He turned upon Olga sharply. “What does Unwelcome mean?” he demanded.
“Eh? Iss it not enough plain to you? Well, not wanted—that iss what it means then.”
“Not wanted,—not wanted.” Bobby repeated the words over and over to himself, not quite satisfied yet. They sounded bad—oh, very; but perhaps Olga had got them wrong. She was not a United States person. It would be easy for another kind of a person to get things wrong. Still—“not wanted”—they certainly sounded very plain. And they meant—Bobby gave a faint gasp, and suddenly his thoughts turned dizzily round and round one terrible pivot—“not wanted.” He sprang away out of the nurse’s hands and darted down the long, bright hall to his mother’s room. She was being dressed for a ball, and the room was pitilessly light. She sat at a table with a little mirror before her. Suddenly another face appeared in it with hers—a little, scarred, red face, stamped deep with childish woe. The contrast appalled her.
Bobby was not looking into the glass, but into her beautiful face.
“Is that what it stands for?” he demanded, breathlessly. “She said so. Did she lie?”
“Robert! For Heaven’s sake, child, stand away! You are tearing my lace. What are you doing here? Why are you not in bed?”
“Does it stand forthat?” he persisted.
“Does what stand for what? Look, you are crushing my dress. Stand farther off. Don’t you see, child?”
“She said the U in the middle o’ my name stood for Not Wanted. Does it? Tell me quick. Does it?”
The contrast of the two faces in her mirror hurt her like a blow. It brought back all the disappointment and the wounded vanity of that time, six years ago, when they had shown her the tiny, disfigured face of her son.
“No, it wasn’t that. I morember now. It was Unwelcome, but itmeansthat. Is the middle o’ my name Unwelcome—what?”
“Oh yes, yes, yes!” she cried, scarcely knowing what she said. The boy’s eyes followed hers to the mirror, and in that brief, awful space he tasted of the Tree of Knowledge.
With a little cry he stumbled backward into the lighted hall. There was a slip, and the sound of a soft little body bounding down the polished stairs.
A good while afterwards Bobby opened his eyes wonderingly. There seemed to be people near him, but he could not see them at all distinctly. A faint, wonderful perfume crept to him.
“It’s very dark, isn’t it?” he said, in surprise. “I can smell a beautiful smell, but I can’t see it. Why, why! It isn’t you, is it?—not my mother? Why, I wasn’t ’specting to find— Oh, I morember it now—I morember it all! Then I’m glad it’s dark. I shouldn’t want it to be as light asthatagain. Oh no! oh no! I shouldn’t want her to see— Why, she’s crying! What is she crying for?”
He put out a small weak hand and groped towards the sound of bitter sobbing. Instinctively he knew it was she.
“I’m very sorry. I guess I know what the matter is. It’s me, and I’m very sorry. I never knew it before; no, I never. I’m glad it’s dark now—aren’t you?—’count o’ that. Only I’m a little speck sorry it isn’t light enough for you to see my legs. They’re very straight ones—you can ask Olga. You might feel of ’em if you thought ’twould help any to. P’r’aps it might make you feel a very little—just averylittle—better to. They’re cert’nly very straight ones. But then of course they aren’t like a—like a—aface. They’re only legs. But they’re the best I can do.”
He ended wearily, with a sigh of pain. The bitter sobbing kept on, and seemed to trouble him. Then a new idea occurred to him, and he made a painful effort to turn on his pillow and to speak brightly.
“I didn’t think of that— P’r’aps you think I’m feeling bad ’count o’ the U in the middle o’ my name. Is that what makes you cry? Why, you needn’t.That’sall right! After—after I looked inthere, of course I knew ’bout how it was. I wish you wouldn’t cry. It joggles my—my heart.”
But it was his little broken body that it joggled. The mother found it out, and stopped sobbing by a mighty effort. She drew very close to Bobby in the dark that was light to every one else, and laid her wet cheek against the little, scarred, red face. The motion was so gentle that it scarcely stirred the yellow tendrils of his soft hair. An infinite tenderness was born out of her anguish. There was left her a merciful moment to be a mother in. Bobby forgot his pain in the bliss of it.
“Why, why, this is very nice!” he murmured, happily. “I never knew it would be as nice as this—I never knew! But I’m glad it’s dark,—aren’t you? I’d rather it would—be——dark.”
And then it grew altogether dark for Bobby, and the little face against the new-born, heart-broken mother’s cheek felt cold, and would not warm with all her passionate kisses.
Chapter VThe Little Girl Who Should Have Been a Boy
Chapter V
There was so much time for the Little Girl who should have been a Boy to ponder over it. She was only seven, but she grew quite skilful in pondering. After lessons—and lessons were over at eleven—there was the whole of the rest of the day to wander, in her little, desolate way, in the gardens. She liked the fruit-garden best, and the Golden Pippin tree was her choicest pondering-place. There was never any one there with her. The Little Girl who should have been a Boy was always alone.
“You see how it is. I’ve told you times enough,” she communed with herself, in her quaint, unchildish fashion. “You are a mistake. You went and was born a Girl, when they wanted a Boy—oh, my, how they wanted a Boy! But the moment they saw you they knew it was all up with them. You wasn’t wicked, really,—Iguessit wasn’t wicked; sometimes I can’t be certain,—but you did go and make such a silly mistake! Look at me,—why didn’t you know how much they wanted a Boy anddidn’twant you? Why didn’t you be brave and go up to the Head Angel, and say, ‘Send me to another place; for pity sake don’t send methere. They want a Little Boy.’ Why didn’t you—oh, why didn’t you? It would have saved such a lot of trouble!”
The Little Girl who should have been a Boy always sighed at that point. The sigh made a period to the sad little speech, for after that she always sat in the long grass under the Golden Pippin tree and rocked herself back and forth silently. There was no use in saying anything more after that. It had all been said.
It was a great, beautiful estate, to east and west and north and south of her, and the Boy the Head Angel should have sent instead of the sad Little Girl was to have inherited it all. And there was a splendid title that went with the estate. In the sharp mind of the Little Girl nothing was hidden or undiscovered.
“It seems a pity to have it wasted,” she mused, wistfully, with her grave wide eyes on the beautiful green expanses all about her, “just for a mistake like that,—I mean likeme—too. You’d think the Head Angel would be ashamed of himself, wouldn’t you? He prob’ly is.”
The Shining Mother—it was thus the Little Girl who should have been a Boy had named her, on account of her sparkling eyes and wonderful sparkling gowns; everything about the Shining Mother sparkled—the Shining Mother was almost always away. So was the Ogre. Somewhere outside—clear outside—of the green expanses there was a gay, frivolous world where almost always they two stayed.
The Little Girl called her father the Ogre for want of a better name. She was never quite satisfied with the name, but it had to answer till she found another. Prob’ly ogres didn’t wear an eye-glass in one of their eyes, or flip off the sweet little daisy heads with cruel canes, but they were oldish and scare-ish, and of course they wouldn’t have noticed you any, even if you were their Little Girl. Ogres would have prob’ly wanted a Boy too, and that’s the way they’d have let you see your mistake. So, till she found a better name, the Little Girl who had made the mistake called her father the Ogre. She was very proud and fond of the Shining Mother, but she was a little afraid of the Ogre. After all, one feeling mattered about as much as the other.
“It doesn’t hurt you any to be afraid, when you do it all alone by yourself,” she reasoned, “and it doesn’t do you any good to be fond. It only amuses you,” she added, with sad wisdom. As I said, she was only seven, but she was very old indeed.
So the time went along until the weeks piled up into months. The summer she was eight, the Little Girl could not stand it any longer. She decided that something must be done. The Shining Mother and the Ogre were coming back to the green expanses. She had found that out at lessons.
“And then they will have it all to go over again—all the miser’bleness of my not being a Boy,” the Little Girl thought, sadly. “And I don’t know whether they can stand it or not, butIcan’t.”
A wave of infinite longing had swept over the shy, sensitive soul of the Little Girl who should have been a Boy. One of two things must happen—she must be loved, or die. So, being desperate, she resolved to chance everything. It was under the Golden Pippin tree, rocking herself back and forth in the long grass, that she made her plans. Straight on the heels of them she went to the gardener’s little boy.
“Lend me—no, I mean give me—your best clothes,” she said, with gentle imperiousness. It was not a time to waste words. At best, the time that was left to practise in was limited enough.
“Yourbestclothes,” she had said, realizing distinctly that fustian and corduroy would not do. She was even a little doubtful of the best clothes. The gardener’s little boy, once his mouth had shut and his legs come back to their locomotion, brought them at once. If there was a suspicion of alacrity in his obedience towards the last, it escaped the thoughtful eyes of the Little Girl. Having always been a mistake, nothing more, how could she know that a boy’s best clothes are not always his dearest possession? Now if it had been the threadbare, roomy, easy little fustians, with their precious pocket-loads, that she had demanded!
There were six days left to practise in—only six. How the Little Girl practised! It was always quite alone by herself. She did it in a sensible, orderly way,—the leaps and strides first, whoops next, whistle last. The gardener’s little boy’s best clothes she kept hidden in the long grass, under the Golden Pippin tree, and on the fourth day she put them on. Oh, the agony of the fourth day! She came out of that practice period a wan, white, worn little thing that shouldneverhave been a Boy.
For it was heart-breaking work. Every instinct of the Little Girl’s rebelled against it. It was terrible to leap and whoop and whistle; her very soul revolted. But it was life or death to her, and always she persevered.
In those days lessons scarcely paid. They were only a pitiful makeshift. The Little Girl lived only in her terrible practice hours. She could not eat or sleep. She grew thin and weak.
“I don’t look like me at all,” she told herself, on a chair before her mirror. “But that isn’t the worst of it. I don’t look like the Boy, either. Ugh! how I look! I wonder if the Angel would know me? It would be kind of dreadful not to haveanybodyknow you. Well, you won’t beyouwhen you’re the Boy, so prob’ly it won’t matter.”
On the sixth day—the last thing—she cut her hair off. She did it with her eyes shut to give herself courage, but the snips of the shears broke her heart. The Little Girl had always loved her soft, shining hair. It had been like a beautiful thing apart from her, that she could caress and pet. She had made an idol of it, having nothing else to love.
When it was all shorn off she crept out of the room without opening her eyes. After that the gardener’s little boy’s best clothes came easier to her, she found. And she could whoop and leap and whistle a little better. It was almost as if she had really made herself the Boy she should have been.
Then the Shining Mother came, and the Ogre. The Little Girl—I mean the Boy—was waiting for them, swinging her—his—feet from a high branch of the Golden Pippin tree. He was whistling.
“But I think I am going to die,” he thought, behind the whistle. “I’m certain I am. I feel it coming on.”
Of course, after a little, there was a hunt everywhere for the Little Girl. Even little girls cannot slip out of existence like that, undiscovered. The beautiful green expanses were hunted over and over, but only a gardener’s little boy in his best clothes, whistling faintly, was found. He fell out of the Golden Pippin tree as the field-servants went by, and they stopped to carry his limp little figure to the gardener’s lodge. Then the hunt went forward again. The Shining Mother grew faint and sick with fear, and the Ogre strode about like one demented. It was hardly what was to be expected of the Shining Mother and the Ogre.
Towards night the mystery was partly solved. It was the Shining Mother who found the connecting threads. She found the little, jagged locks of soft, sweet hair. The Ogre came upon her sitting on the floor among them, and the whiteness of her face terrified him.
“I know—you need not tell me what has happened!” she said, scarcely above a whisper, as if in the presence of the dead. “A door in me has opened, and I see it all—all, I tell you! We have never had her,—and now, dear God in heaven, we have lost her!”
It was very nearly so. They could hardly know then how near it came to being true. Link by link they came upon the little chain of pitiful proofs. They found all the little, sweet, white girl-clothes folded neatly by themselves and laid in a pile together, as if on an altar for sacrifice. If the Little Girl had written “Good-bye” in her childish scrawl upon them, the Shining Mother would not have better understood. So many things she was seeing beyond that open door.
They found the Little Girl’s dolls laid out like little, white-draped corpses in one of her bureau-drawers. The row of stolid little faces gazed up at them with the mystery of the Sphinx in all their glittering eyes. It was the Shining Mother who shut the drawer, but first she kissed the faces.
After all, the Ogre discovered the last little link of the chain. He brought it home in his arms from the gardener’s lodge, and laid it on the Little Girl’s white bed. It was very still and pitiful and small. The took the gardener’s little boy’s best clothes off from it and put on the soft white night-gown of the Little Girl. Then, one on one side and one on the other, they kept their long hard vigil.
It was night when the Little Girl opened her eyes, and the first thing they saw was the chairful of little girl-clothes the Shining Mother had set beside the bed. Then they saw the Shining Mother. Things came back to the Little Girl by slow degrees. But the look in the Shining Mother’s face—that did not come back. That had never been there before. The Little Girl, in her wise, old way, understood that look, and gasped weakly with the joy and wonder of it. Oh, the joy! Oh, the wonder!
“But I tried to be one,” she whispered after a while, a little bewildered still. “I should have done it, if I hadn’t died. I couldn’t help that; I felt it coming on. Prob’ly, though, I shouldn’t have made a very good one.”
The Shining Mother bent over and took the Little Girl in her arms.
“Dear,” she whispered, “it was the Boy that died. I am glad he died.”
So, though the Ogre and the Shining Mother had not found their Boy, the Little Girl had found a father and mother.
Chapter VIThe Lie
Chapter VI
The Lie went up to bed with him. Russy didn’t want it to, but it crept in through the key-hole,—it must have been the key-hole, for the door was shut the minute Metta’s skirt had whisked through. But one thing Russy had to be thankful for,—Metta didn’t know it was there in the room. As far as that went, it was a kind-hearted Lie. But after Metta went away,—after she had put out the light and said “Pleasant dreams, Master Russy, an’ be sure an’ don’t roll out,”—after that!
Russy snuggled deep down in the pillows and said he would go right to sleep; oh, right straight! He always had before. It made you forget the light was out, and there were queer, creaky night-noises all round your bed,—under it some of ’em; over by the bureau some of ’em; and some of ’em coming creepy, cree-py up the stairs. You dug your head deep down in the pillows, and the next thing you knew you were asleep,—no, awake, and the noises were beautiful day-ones that you liked. You heard roosters crowing, and Mr. Vandervoort’s cows calling for breakfast, and, likely as not, some mother-birds singing duets with their husbands. Oh yes, it was a good deal the best way to do, to go right straight to sleep when Metta put the light out.
But to-night it was different, for the Lie was there. You couldn’t go to sleep with a Lie in the room. It was worse than creepy, creaky noises,—mercy, yes! You’d swap it for those quick enough and not ask a single bit of “boot.” You almostwantedto hear the noises.
Illustration: Boy in bed and personification of Lie.It was worse than creepy, creaky noises
It was worse than creepy, creaky noises
It came across the room. There was no sound, but Russy knew it was coming well enough. He knew when it got up close to the side of the bed. Then it stopped and began to speak. It wasn’t “out loud” and it wasn’t a whisper, but Russy heard it.
“Move over; I’m coming into bed with you,” the Lie said. “I hope you don’t think I’m going to sit up all night. Besides, I’m always scared in the dark,—it runs in my family. The Lies are always afraid. They’re not good sleepers, either, so let’s talk. You begin—or shall I?”
“You,” moaned Russy.
“Well, I say, this is great, isn’t it! I like this house. I stayed at Barney Toole’s last night and it doesn’t begin with this. Barney’s folks are poor, and there aren’t any curtains or carpets or anything,—nor pillows on the bed. I never slept a wink at Barney’s. I’m hoping I shall drop off here, after a while. It’s a new place, and I’m more likely to in new places. You never slept with one o’ my family before, did you?”
“No,” Russy groaned. “Oh no, I never before!”
“That’s what I thought. I should have been likely to hear of it if you had. I was a little surprised,—I say, what made you have anything to do with me. I was never more surprised in my life! They’d always said: ‘Well, you’ll never get acquainted with that Russy Rand. He’s another kind.’ Then you went and shook hands with me!”
“I had to.” Russy sat up in bed and stiffened himself for self-defence. “I had to! When Jeffy Vandervoort said that aboutHer,—well, I guess you’d have had to if they said things about yourmother—”
“I never had one. The Lies have a Father, that’s all. Go ahead.”
“There isn’t anything else,—I justhadto.”
“Tell what you said and whathesaid. Go ahead.”
“You know all about—”
“Go ahead!”
Russy rocked himself back and forth in his agony. It was dreadful to have to say it all over again.
“Well, then,” doggedly, “Jeffy saidmymother never did, but his did—oh, always!”
“Did what—oh, always?”
Russy clinched his little round fingers till the bones cracked under the soft flesh.
“Kissed him good-night—went up to his room a-purpose to, an’—an’—tucked him in. Oh, always, he said. He saidminenever did. An’ I said—”
“You said—go ahead!”
“I said she did, too,—oh—always,” breathed Russy in the awful dark. “I had to. When it’s your mother, you have to—”
“I never had one, I told you! How do I know? Go on.”
He was driven on relentlessly. He had it all to go through with, and he whispered the rest hurriedly to get it done.
“I said she tucked me in,—came up a-purpose to,—an’ always kissed metwice(his only does once), an’ always—called me—Dear.” Russy fell back in a heap on the pillows and sobbed into them.
“My badness!”—anybody but a Lie would have said “my goodness,”—“but you did do it up brown that time, didn’t you! But I don’t suppose he believed a word of it—you didn’t make him believe you, did you?”
“He had to,” cried out Russy, fiercely. “He said I’d never lied to him in my life—”
“Before;—yes, I know.”
Russy slipped out of bed and padded over the thick carpet towards the place where the window-seat was in the daytime. But it wasn’t there. He put out his hands and hunted desperately for it. Yes, there,—no, that was sharp and hard and hurt you. That must be the edge of the bureau. He tried again, for he must find it,—he must! He would not stay in bed with that Lie another minute. It crowded him,—it tortured him so.
“This is it,” thought Russy, and sank down gratefully on the cushions. His bare feet scarcely touched toe-tips to the floor. Here he would stay all night. This was better than—
“I’m coming,—which way are you? Can’t you speak up?”
The Lie was coming, too! Suddenly an awful thought flashed across Russy’s little, weary brain. What if the Lie wouldalwayscome, too? What if he could never get away from it? What if it slept with him, walked with him, talked with him,livedwith him,—oh, always!
But Russy stiffened again with dogged courage. “I had to!” he thought. “I had to,—I had to,—I had to! When he said things aboutHer,—when it’s your mother,—you have to.”
A great time went by, measureless by clock-ticks and aching little heart-beats. It seemed to be weeks and months to Russy. Then he began to feel a slow relief creeping over his misery, and he said to himself the Lie must have “dropped off.” There was not a sound of it in the room. It grew so still and beautiful that Russy laughed to himself in his relief. He wanted to leap to his feet and dance about the room, but he thought of the sharp corners and hard edges of things in time. Instead, he nestled among the cushions of the window-seat and laughed on softly. Perhaps it was all over,—perhaps it wasn’t asleep, but had gone away—to Barney Toole’s, perhaps, where they regularly “put up” Lies,—and would never come back! Russy gasped for joy. Perhaps when you’d never shaken hands with a Lie but once in your life, and that time youhadto, and you’d borne it, anyway, for what seemed like weeks and months,—perhaps then they went away and left you in peace! Perhaps you’d had punishment enough then.
Very late Russy’s mother came up-stairs. She was very tired, and her pretty young face in the frame of soft down about her opera-cloak looked a little cross. Russy’s father plodded behind more heavily.
“The boy’s room, Ellen?—just this once?” he pleaded in her ear. “It will take but a minute.”
“I am so tired, Carter! Well, if I must— Why, he isn’t in the bed!”
The light from the hall streamed in, showing it tumbled and tossed as if two had slept in it. But no one was in it now. The mother’s little cry of surprise sharpened to anxiety.
“Where is he, Carter? Why don’t you speak? He isn’t here in bed, I tell you! Russy isn’t here!”
“He has rolled out,—no, he hasn’t rolled out. I’ll light up—there he is, Ellen! There’s the little chap on the window-seat!”
“And the window is open!” she cried, sharply. She darted across to the little figure and gathered it up into her arms. She had never been frightened about Russy before. Perhaps it was the fright that brought her to her own.
“He is cold,—his little night-dress is damp!” she said. Then her kisses rained down on the little, sleeping face. In his sleep, Russy felt them, but he thought it was Jeffy’s mother kissing Jeffy.
“It feels good, doesn’t it?” he murmured. “I don’t wonder Jeffy likes it! If my mother kissedme— I told Jeffy she did! It was a Lie, but I had to. You have to, when they say things like that about yourmother. You have to say she kisses you—oh, always! She comes ’way up-stairs every night a-purpose to. An’ she tucks you in, an’ she calls you—Dear. It’s a Lie an’ it ’most kills you, but you have to say it. But it’s perfectly awful afterwards.” He nestled against the soft down of her cloak and moaned as if in pain. “It’s awful afterwards when you have to sleep with the Lie. It’s perfectly—aw—ful—”
“Oh, Carter!” the mother broke out, for it was all plain to her. In a flash of agonized understanding the wistful little sleep-story was filled out in every detail. She understood all the tragedy of it.
“Russy! Russy!” She shook him in her eagerness. “Russy, it’s my kisses!I’mkissing you! It isn’t Jeffy’s mother,—it’s your mother, Russy! Feel them!—don’t you feel them on your forehead and your hair and your little red lips? It’s your mother kissingyou!”
Russy opened his eyes.
“Why! Why, so it is!” he said.
“And calling you ‘Dear,’ Russy! Don’t you hear her? Dear boy,—dearlittle boy! You hear her, don’t you, Russy—dear?”
“Why, yes!—why!”
“And tucking you into bed—like this,—so!She’s tucking in the blanket now,—and now the little quilt, Russy! That is what mothers are for—I never thought before—oh, I never thought!” She dropped her face beside his on the pillow and fell to kissing him again. He held his face quite still for the sweet, strange baptism. Then suddenly he laughed out happily, wildly.
“Then it isn’t a Lie!” he cried, in a delirium of relief and joy. “It’s true!”
Chapter VIIThe Princess of Make-Believe
Chapter VII
The Princess was washing dishes. On her feet she would barely have reached the rim of the great dish-pan, but on the soap-box she did very well. A grimy calico apron trailed to the floor.
“Now this golden platter I must washextryclean,” the Princess said. “The Queen is ve-ry particular about her golden platters. Last time, when I left one o’ the corners—it’s such a nextremely heavy platter to hold—she gave me a scold—oh, I mean—I mean she tapped me a little love pat on my cheek with her golden spoon.”
It was a great, brown-veined, stoneware platter, and the arms of the Princess ached with holding it. Then, in an unwary instant, it slipped out of her soapsudsy little fingers and crashed to the floor. Oh! oh! the Queen! the Queen! She was coming! The Princess heard her shrill, angry voice, and felt the jar of her heavy steps. There was the space of an instant—an instant is so short!—before the storm broke.
“You little limb o’ Satan! That’s my best platter, is it? Broke all to bits, eh? I’ll break—” But there was a flurry of dingy apron and dingier petticoats, and the little Princess had fled. She did not stop till she was in her Secret Place among the willows. Her small lean face was pale but undaunted.
“Th-the Queen isn’t feeling very well to-day,” she panted. “It’s wash-day up at the Castle. She never enjoys herself on wash-days. And then that golden platter—I’m sorry I smashed it all to flinders! When the Prince comes I shall ask him to buy another.”
The Prince had never come, but the Princess waited for him patiently. She sat with her face to the west and looked for him to come through the willows with the red sunset light filtering across his hair. That was the way the Prince was coming, though the time was not set. It might be a good while before he came, and then again—you never could tell!
“But when he does, and we’ve had a little while to get acquainted, then I shall say to him, ‘Hear, O Prince, and give ear to my—my petition! For verily, verily, I have broken many golden platters and jasper cups and saucers, and the Queen, long live her! is sore—sore—’”
The Princess pondered for the forgotten word. She put up a little lean brown hand and rubbed a tingling spot on her temple—ah, not the Queen! It was the Princess—long live her!—who was “sore.”
“‘I beseech thee, O Prince,’ I shall say, ‘buy new golden platters and jasper cups and saucers for the Queen, and then shall I verily, verily be—be—’”
Oh, the long words—how they slipped out of reach! The little Princess sighed rather wearily. She would have to rehearse that speech so many times before the Prince came. Suppose he came to-night! Suppose she looked up now, this minute, towards the golden west and he was there, swinging along through the willow canes towards her!
But there was no one swinging along through the willows. The yellow light flickered through—that was all. Somewhere, a long way off, sounded the monotonous hum of men’s voices. Through the lace-work of willow twigs there showed the faintest possible blur of color. Down beyond, in the clearing, the Castle Guards in blue jean blouses were pulling stumps. The Princess could not see their dull, passionless faces, and she was glad of it. The Castle Guards depressed her. But they were not as bad as the Castle Guardesses.Theywere mostly old women with bleared, dim eyes, and they wore such faded—silks.
“Mysilk dress is rather faded,” murmured the little Princess wistfully. She smoothed down the scant calico skirt with her brown little fingers. The patch in it she would not see.
“I shall have to have the Royal Dress-maker make me another one soon. Let me see,—what color shall I choose? I’dlikemy gold-colored velvet made up. I’m tired of wearing royal purple dresses all the time, though of course I know they’re appropriater. I wonder what color the Prince would like best? I should rather choose that color.”
The Princess’s little brown hands were clasped about one knee, and she was rocking herself slowly back and forth, her eyes, wistful and wide, on the path the Prince would come. She was tired to-day and it was harder to wait.
“But when he comes I shall say, ‘Hear, O Prince. Verily, verily, I did not know which color you would like to find me dressed—I mean arrayed—in, and so I beseech thee excuse—pardon, I mean—mine infirmity.’”
The Princess was not sure of “infirmity,” but it sounded well. She could not think of a better word.
“And then—Ithinkthen—he will take me in his arms, and his face will be all sweet and splendid like the Mother o’ God’s in the picture, and he will whisper,—I don’t think he will say it out loud,—oh, I’d rather not!—‘Verily, Princess,’ he will whisper, ‘Oh, verily,verily, thou hast found favor in my sight!’ And that will mean that he doesn’t care what color I am, for he—loves—me.”
Lower and lower sank the solemn voice of the Princess. Slower and slower rocked the little, lean body. The birds themselves stopped singing at the end. In the Secret Place it was very still.
“Oh no, no, no,—notverily!” breathed the Princess, in soft awe. For the wonder of it took her breath away. She had never in her life been loved, and now, at this moment, it seemed so near! She thought she heard the footsteps of the Prince.
They came nearer. The crisp twigs snapped under his feet. He was whistling.
“Oh, I can’t look!—I can’t!” gasped the little Princess, but she turned her face to the west,—she had always known it would be from the west, and lifted closed eyes to his coming. When he got to the Twisted Willow she might dare to look,—to the Little Willow Twins, anyway.
“And I shall know when he does,” she thought. “I shall know the minute!”
Her face was rapt and tender. The miracle she had made for herself,—the gold she had coined out of her piteous alloy,—was it not come true at last?—Verily, verily?
Hush! Was the Prince not coming through the willows? And the sunshine was trickling down on his hair! The Princess knew, though she did not look.
“He is at the Twisted Willow,” she thought. “Nowhe is at the Little Willow Twins.” But she did not open her eyes. She did not dare. This was a little different, she had never counted on being afraid.
The twigs snapped louder and nearer—now very near. The merry whistle grew clearer, and then it stopped.
“Hullo!”
Did princes say “hullo!” The Princess had little time to wonder, for he was there before her. She could feel his presence in every fibre of her trembling little being, though she would not open her eyes for very fear that it might be somebody else. No, no, it was the Prince! It was his voice, clear and ringing, as she had known it would be. She put up her hands suddenly and covered her eyes with them to make surer. It was not fear now, but a device to put off a little longer the delight of seeing him.
“I say, hullo! Haven’t you got any tongue?”
“Oh, verily, verily,—I mean hear, O Prince, I beseech,” she panted. The boy’s merry eyes regarded the shabby small person in puzzled astonishment. He felt an impulse to laugh and run away, but his royal blood forbade either. So he waited.
“You are the Prince,” the little Princess cried. “I’ve been waiting the longest time,—but I knew you’d come,” she added, simply. “Have you got your velvet an’ gold buckles on? I’m goin’ to look in a minute, but I’m waiting to make it spend.”
The Prince whistled softly. “No,” he said then, “I didn’t wearthemclo’es to-day. You see, my mother—”
“The Queen,” she interrupted, “you mean the Queen?”
“You bet I do! She’s a reg’lar-builter! Well, she don’t like to have me wearin’ out my best clo’es every day,” he said, gravely.
“No,” eagerly, “nor mine don’t. Queen, I mean,—but she isn’t a mother, mercy, no! I only wear silk dresses every day, not my velvet ones. This silk one is getting a little faded.” She released one hand to smooth the dress wistfully. Then she remembered her painfully practised little speech and launched into it hurriedly.
“Hear, O Prince. Verily, verily, I did not know which color you’d like to find me dressed in—I meanarrayed. I beseech thee to excuse—oh,pardon, I mean—”
But she got no further. She could endure the delay no longer, and her eyes flew open.
She had known his step; she had known his voice. She knew his face. It was terribly freckled, and she had not expected freckles on the face of the Prince. But the merry, honest eyes were the Prince’s eyes. Her gaze wandered downward to the home-made clothes and bare, brown legs, but without uneasiness. The Prince had explained about his clothes. Suddenly, with a shy, glad little cry, the Princess held out her hands to him.
The royal blood flooded the face of the Prince and filled in all the spaces between its little, gold-brown freckles. But the Prince held out his hand to her. His lips formed for words and she thought he was going to say, “Verily, Princess, thou hast found favor—”
“Le’ ’s go fishin’,” the Prince said.
Chapter VIIIThe Promise
Chapter VIII
Murray was not as one without hope, for there was the Promise. The remembrance of it set him now to exulting, in an odd, restrained little way, where a moment ago he had been desponding. He clasped plump, brown little hands around a plump, brown little knee and swayed gently this way and that.
“Maybe she’ll begin with my shoes,” Murray thought, and held his foot quite still. He could almost feel light fingers unlacing the stubbed little shoe; Sheelah’s fingers were rather heavy and not patient with knots. Hers would be patient—there are some things one is certain of.
“When she unbuttons me,” Murray mused on, sitting absolutely motionless, as if she were unbuttoning him now—“when she unbuttons me I shall hold in my breath—this way,” though he could hardly have explained why.
She had never unlaced or unbuttoned him. Always, since he was a little, breathing soul, it had been Sheelah. It had never occurred to him that he loved Sheelah, but he was used to her. All the mothering he had ever experienced had been the Sheelah kind—thorough enough, but lacking something; Murray was conscious that it lacked something. Perhaps—perhaps to-night he should find out what. For to-night not Sheelah, but his mother, was going to undress him and put him to bed. She had promised.
It had come about through his unprecedented wail of grief at parting, when she had gone into the nursery to say good-bye, in her light, sweet way. Perhaps it was because she was to be gone all day; perhaps he was a little lonelier than usual. He was always rather a lonely little boy, but there wereworsetimes; perhaps this had been a worse time. Whatever had been the reason that prompted him, he had with disquieting suddenness, before Sheelah could prevent it, flung his arms about the pretty mother and made audible objection to her going.
“Why, Murray!” She had been taken by surprise. “Why, you little silly! I’m coming back to-night; I’m only going for the day! You wouldn’t see much more of me if I stayed at home.” Which, from its very reasonableness, had quieted him. Of course he would not see much more of her. As suddenly as he had wailed he stopped wailing. Yet she had promised. Something had sent her back to the nursery door to do it.
“Be a good boy and I’ll come home before you go to bed! I’llputyou to bed,” she had promised. “We’ll have a regular lark!”
Hence he was out here on the door-step being a good boy. That Sheelah had taken unfair advantage of the Promise and made the being good rather a perilous undertaking, he did not appreciate. He only knew he must walk a narrow path across a long, lonely day.
There were certain things—one especial certain thing—he wanted to know, but instinct warned him not to interrupt Sheelah till her work was done, or she might call it not being good. So he waited, and while he waited he found out the special thing. An unexpected providence sent enlightenment his way, to sit down beside him on the door-step. Its other name was Daisy.
“Hullo, Murray! Is it you?” Daisy, being of the right sex, asked needless questions sometimes.
“Yes,” answered Murray, politely.
“Well, le’s play. I can stay half a hour. Le’s tag.”
“I can’t play,” rejoined Murray, caution restraining his natural desires. “I’m being good.”