The Mother by Norman Duncan (e novels to read TXT) 📕

"I never kneel to--do it," she continued. In a sharp glance she saw the wonder clearing from his eyes, the beginnings of a smile appear about his lips; and she was emboldened to proceed. "Some kneels," she said, "and some doesn't. The curate, I suppose, kneels. That's his way. Now, _I_ don't. I was brought up--the other way. I wait till I get in bed to--say mine. When you was a baby," she rattled, "I used to--keep it up--for hours at a time. I just _love_ to--do it. In bed, you know. I guess you never seen me kneel, did you? But I think I will, after this, because you--do it--that way."

His serenity was quite restored. Glad to learn that his mother knew the solace of prayer, he rolled back on the pillows. She tucked him in.

"Now, watch me," she said.

"And I," said he, "will pray all over again. In bed," he added; "because that's the way _you_ do it."

She knelt. "In God's name!" she thought, as she inclined her bead, "what can I do? I've lost him. Oh, I've lost him.... What'll I do when he finds out? He'll not love me then. Love me!" she thought, bitterly. "He'll look at me like them people in the church. I can't stand it! I got to _do_ something.... It won't be long. They'll tell him--some one. And I can't do nothing to help it! But I _got_ to do something.... My God! I got to do something. I'll dress better than this. This foulard's a botch." New fashions in dress, in coiffures, multiplied in her mind. She was groping, according to her poor enlightenment. "The pompadour!" she mused, inspired, according to the inspiration of her kind. "It might suit my style. I'll try it.... But, oh, it won't do no good," she thought, despairing. "_It_ won't do no good.... I've lost him! Good God! I've lost my own child...."

She rose.

"It took you an awful long time," said the boy.

"Yes," she answered, absently. "I'm the real thing. When I pray, I pray good and hard."


_A CHILD'S PRAYER_

The boy's room was furnished in the manner of the curate's chamber--which, indeed, was severe and chaste enough: for the curate practiced certain monkish austerities not common to the clergy of this day. It was a white, bare little room, at the top of the house, overlooking the street: a still place, into which, at bedtime, no distraction entered to break the nervous introspection, the high, wistful dreaming, sadly habitual to the child when left alone in the dark. But always, of fine mornings, the sun came joyously to waken him; and often, in the night, when he lay wakeful, the moon peeped in upon the exquisite simplicity, and, discovering a lonely child, companionably lingered to hearten him. The beam fell over the window-sill, crawled across the floor, climbed the bare wall.

There was a great white crucifix on the wall, hanging in the broad path of the moonlight. It stared at the boy's pillow, tenderly appealing: the head thorn-crowned, the body drawn tense, the face uplifted in patient agony. Sometimes it made the boy cry.

"They who sin," he would repeat, "crucify the dear Lord again!"

It would be very hard, then, to fall asleep....

So did the crucifix on the wall work within the child's heart--so did the shadows of the wide, still house impress him, so did the curate's voice and gentle teaching, so did the gloom, the stained windows, the lofty arches, the lights and low, sweet music of the Church of the Lifted Cross favour the subtle change--that he was now moved to pain and sickening disgust by rags and pinched faces and discord and dirt and feverish haste and all manner of harshness and unloveliness, conceiving them poignant as sin....

Mother and son were in the park. It was evening--dusk: a grateful balm abroad in the air. Men and women, returning from church, idled through the spring night.

"But, dear," said his mother, while she patted his hand, "you mustn't _hate_ the wicked!"

He looked up in wonder.

"Oh, my! no," she pursued. "Poor things! They're not so bad--when you know them. Some is real kind."

"I could not _love_ them!"

"Why not?"

"I _could_ not!"

So positive, this--the suggestion so scouted--that she took thought for her own fate.

"Would you love me?" she asked.

"Oh, mother!" he laughed.

"What would you do," she gravely continued, "if I was--a wicked woman?"

He laughed again.

"What would you do," she insisted, "if somebody told you I was bad?"

"Mother," he answered, not yet affected by her earnestness, "you could not be!"

She put her hands on his shoulders. "What would you do?" she repeated.

"Don't!" he pleaded, disquieted.

Again the question--low, intense, demanding answer. He trembled. She was not in play. A sinful woman? For a moment he conceived the possibility--vaguely: in a mere flash of feeling.

"What would you do?"

"I don't know!"

She sighed.

"I think," he whispered, "that I'd--die!"

That night, when the moonlight had climbed to the crucifix on the wall, the boy got out of bed. For a long time he stood in the beam of soft light--staring at the tortured Figure.

"I think I'd better do it!" he determined.

He knelt--lifted his clasped hands--began his childish appeal.

"Dear Jesus," he prayed, "my mother says that I must not hate the wicked. You heard her, didn't you, dear Jesus? It was in the park, to-night, after church--at the bench near the lilac bush. You _must_ have heard her.... Mother says the wicked are kind, and not so bad. I would like very much to love them. She says they're nice--when you know them. I know she's right, of course. But it seems queer. And she says I _ought_ to love them. So I want to do it, if you don't mind.... Maybe, if you would let me be a little wicked for a little while, I could do it. Don't you think, Jesus, dear, that it is a good idea? A little wicked--for just a little while. I wouldn't care very much, if you didn't mind. But if it hurts you very much, I don't want to, if you please.... But I would like to be a little wicked. If I do, please don't forget me. I would not like to be wicked long. Just a little while. Then I would be good again--and love the wicked, as my mother wants me to do. Good-bye. I mean--Amen!"

The child knew nothing about sin.


_MR. PODDLE'S FINALE_

Of a yellow, balmy morning, with a languid breeze stirring the curtains in the open windows of the street, a hansom cab, drawn by a lean gray beast, appeared near the curate's door. What with his wild career, the nature of his errand, the extraordinary character of his fare, the driver was all elbows and eyes--a perspiring, gesticulating figure, swaying widely on the high perch.

Within was a lady so monstrously stout that she completely filled the vehicle. Rolls of fat were tucked into every nook, jammed into every corner, calked into every crevice; and, at last, demanding place, they scandalously overflowed the apron. So tight was the fit--so crushed and confined the lady's immensity--that, being quite unable to articulate or stir, but desiring most heartily to do both, she could do little but wheeze, and faintly wave a gigantic hand.

Proceeding thus--while the passenger gasped, and the driver gesticulated, and the hansom creaked and tottered, and the outraged horse bent to the fearful labour--the equipage presently arrived at the curate's door, and was there drawn up with a jerk.

The Fat Lady was released, assisted to alight, helped across the pavement; and having waddled up three steps of the flight, and being unable without a respite to lift her massive foot for the fourth time, she loudly demanded of the impassive door the instant appearance of Dickie Slade: whereupon, the door flew open, and the boy bounded out.

"Madame Lacara!" he cried.

"Quick, child!" the Fat Lady wheezed. "Git your hat. Your mother can't stay no longer--and I can't get up the stairs--and Poddle's dyin'--and _git your hat_!"

In a moment the boy returned. The Fat Lady was standing beside the cab--the exhausted horse contemplating her with no friendly eye.

"Git in!" said she.

"Don't you do it," the driver warned.

"Git in!" the Fat Lady repeated.

"Not if he knows what's good for him," said the driver. "Not first."

The boy hesitated.

"Git in, child!" screamed the Fat Lady.

"Don't you do it," said the driver.

"Child," the Fat Lady gasped, exasperated, "git in!"

"Not first," the driver repeated. "There ain't room for both; and once she lets her weight down----"

"Maybe," the Fat Lady admitted, after giving the matter most careful consideration, "it would be better for you to set on me."

"Maybe," the boy agreed, much relieved, "it would."

So Madame Lacara entered, and took the boy in her arms; and off, at last, they went towards the Box Street tenement, swaying, creaking, wheezing, with a troop of joyous urchins in the wake....

It was early afternoon--with the sunlight lying thick and warm on the window-ledge of Mr. Poddle's room, about to enter, to distribute cheer, to speak its unfailing promises. The sash was lifted high; a gentle wind, clean and blue, blowing from the sea, over the roofs and the river, came sportively in, with a joyous little rush and swirl--but of a sudden failed: hushed, as though by unexpected encounter with the solemnity within.

The boy's mother was gone. It was of a Saturday; she had not dared to linger. When the boy entered, Mr. Poddle lay alone, lifted on the pillows, staring deep into the wide, shining sky: composed and dreamful. The distress of his deformity, as the pains of dissolution, had been mitigated by the woman's kind and knowing hand: the tawny hair, by nature rank and shaggy, by habit unkempt, now damp with sweat, was everywhere laid smooth upon his face--brushed away from the eyes: no longer permitted to obscure the fast failing sight.

Beside him, close--drawing closer--the boy seated himself. Very low and broken--husky, halting--was the Dog-faced Man's voice. The boy must often bend his ear to understand.

"The hirsute," Mr. Poddle whispered, "adornment. All ready for the last appearance. 'Natural Phenomonen Meets the Common Fate.' Celebrities," he added, with a little smile, "is just clay."

The boy took his hand.

"She done it," Mr. Poddle explained, faintly indicating the unusual condition of his deforming hair, "with a little brush."

"She?" the boy asked, with significant emphasis.

"No," Mr. Poddle sighed. "Hush! Not She--just her."

By this the boy knew that the Mexican Sword Swallower had not relented--but that his mother had been kind.

"She left that there little brush somewheres," Mr. Poddle continued, with an effort to lift his head, but failing to do more than roll his glazed eyes.