THE SUBSTITUTE
To Mrs. Wilson, the neighbor who had spent the better part of two
hours with David, Miss Eastman was saying, "_Must_ you go?"
Surely it is conclusive proof of superior intelligence in
womankind that any of the sex can understand when she is wanted
and when she is not wanted, although the idea in either case is
conveyed in precisely the same words.
Miss Eastman, for her part, was honestly grateful to Mrs. Wilson
for having remained with David during the early part of the
evening, but now Mrs. Wilson could go home and come again
another day. Miss Eastman did not say that; of course not! What
she did say was, "_Must_ you go?"
Mrs. Wilson saw she must. This, however, did not prevent her from
apologizing for her departure, and on the door-step still another
important subject was to be considered: the kindness of Mrs.
Wilson in staying with David. Mrs. Wilson averred that such
trifles were not to be spoken of. It was nothing at all. It had
been no trouble, indeed it had not; it had been a pleasure. Mrs.
Wilson said she believed in being neighborly.
Finally, when the merits of being neighborly had been
exhaustively commented upon, the women again made preparation to
bid each other good-evening.
"Come over and see us."
"Yes, thank you, I shall."
"Come over any time."
"Yes, I shall, thank you, and _you_ come over. Don't wait for me.
I hardly go any place."
Mrs. Wilson was moving her broad and well-intentioned person
sidewise down the porch steps, which still shone wet in the broad
white light of the moon, already looking serenely out through the
changeful interstices of the breaking storm clouds. Miss Eastman
watched her safely to the bottom step, but I regret to say that
she went into the house even before her neighbor had disappeared
down the glistening front walk.
Alone at last! She sighed with relief, and in the darkness of the
silent house she stole to the door of David's room that she might
listen there with some slight motherly apprehension, and then
peep in at the little white figure on the bed, where the
moonlight lay asleep.
Behold David, not greatly changed in looks. The cutting away of
his curls did not make such a difference in him as Mother had
supposed. He was as charming to her; he was as much her own
little boy as though no meddlesome hands had even been laid upon
him. In size he was quite the same, and, as Mother stood peering
in at him, she presently heard a small, far-away voice. In it was
the whispered awe of a child who feels the bigness of the night
about him and the strangeness of silvery moonbeams on his face.
"Mother!"
The queerness of everything was so very big that the little boy's
voice almost got lost in it.
"Yes, David, Mother is here."
"Are you coming to bed?"
"Do you want me to come?"
"I got trouvers," he said. But there was no pride in this
announcement; there was a touch of disappointment. For how is it
possible to have trouvers and at the same time to call babyishly
for your mother?
"Yes, David, you have them." A pause. The little boy was sitting
up, with a bare foot held meditatively in his hand. A wee, forlorn
figure of a child he was, who seemed to be listening to the
silence of the room. And by and by he was asking dispiritedly:--
"You aren't--you aren't afraid, are you, Mother?"
"How can I be afraid when I have a soldier-man to look out for
me? Are you afraid?"
No, indeed; David was not afraid. He flopped suddenly back upon
the bed, and resolutely turned his face to the wall. Mother need
not sit by him.
So she went back to her chair and rocked quietly, and thought of
a little child who was struggling hard to be more than a little
child. Later, as she was preparing to go to bed, she heard the
wee, sweet voice of him asking ruefully if she were not--maybe--a
little lonesome.
"I'm afraid so, dear," she reluctantly admitted.
One could see that this made a difference. If she was really
lonesome she might now come into the bedroom; she might sit by
David; she might even tell him a story if she wanted to.
"If you do," he said, "it won't matter to-night. It will help you
to get use-ter to having me all grown up."
In the trail of soft radiance across the pillow Mother could see
how wide open were the eyes of her little boy, but not long after
she had drawn a chair to the bedside the drowsy lids began to
droop.
"If you're real lonesome I'll hold your hand," said David, and he
went to sleep still holding her hand.
Before he was awake the next day she stood looking at her little
boy in the darkness of early morning, and she lighted the gas in
order to have a better look at him. According to an unvarying
custom, there was one wee fist cuddled under his cheek--a
wretched insurgent of a fist that had ever disdained all orders
to abide under the coverlet. Often in the night Mother had bowed
over the tiny sleeper to press her lips upon the plump, smooth
wrist before lifting the pretty arm to tuck it softly away into
the quilted warmth of the bed. And during such a time it was her
wont to listen, in the fear that is never far away from the heart
of motherhood, to know if his breathing was quite regular and
sweet. It sometimes happened, when she felt the tickling thrill
of his ringlets against her cheek, that she would want to wake
him up instantly to ask if he was not a dear.
But now had come a time when she felt no impulse to rouse him. The
touch of curls upon her cheek she would not feel any more. They
were gone, and that baby of hers was gone. When he presently
awoke, his greeting was characteristic of his altered condition.
He did not call to her, he did not crow with laughter of good
feeling and fine health. He merely sat up and solemnly whispered:--
"Trouvers!"
Mother assured him that they were not a dream. He could get up
now and put them on, for presently he and she would be setting
out to see their old friend, Dr. Redfield.
Little David did not instantly hop out of bed, as she had
supposed he would. Little David sat very still. He looked at
Mother and at the floor. Then he suddenly lay down again and
turned his face to the wall.
"You want to put them on, don't you?"
Mother seemed greatly puzzled. She waited, but David did not
move. He said nothing. It was as though he had grown suddenly
deaf.
"You had a fine time yesterday, didn't you?" she asked, but David
did not reply. He flattened himself against the wall. And Mother
added: "It was great fun, wasn't it?--to go to the barber shop
with Doctor and afterward to get trouvers?"
There was no sign of life in the little boy, until presently his
foot began to wiggle. By degrees he turned over and slowly sat
up.
Mother did not seem to see him; she was seated at a low table
strewn with toilet articles that sparkled under the rays of the
gas-jet. She was dressing her hair, and her arm swung in long,
even strokes; from time to time she paused to wind something from
the teeth of the white comb about her fingers, which she
afterwards tucked deftly into a small wicker box beneath the
tilted mirror. In the meantime David was looking at her with a
very long face, and by and by he slid quietly off the bed and
went to her, pressing himself against her knees.
"What else," she inquired, "did Dr. Redfield give you?"
David did not answer. He pushed his face deep into Mother's lap.
"Didn't Doctor give you something else?"
"No."
The word came with smothered indistinctness, but its meaning was
unmistakable.
"What, nothing?"
David raised his head and caught hold of Mother's hand. He had
grown very red in the face.
"Then what about the picture?" she asked, giving no heed to his
embarrassment. "Where did you get that?"
Both of David's fists were now clinging fast to the woman's
hand.
"Mother," he said, "I just tooked it."
"Oh, dear me!"
"Mother, I knocked it down. It broke. I tooked it."
A sudden silence had got hold of the room. The little boy's head
sank once more into Mother's lap and he shook with silent sobs. A
moist warmth went through her skirt and was felt upon her knee.
"This is hard on the Doctor," she said, and her voice was firm,
but her hand gently stroked her little boy's hair. "He let you
look at the picture, and now it is spoiled. He had only the one,
and can never get another like it. You broke it, and you took it
from him. We cannot mend it; it is done for. My, my! what are we
to do?"
David's arms went tight about Mother's knees. In mute anguish he
clung to her, pleading for help without saying a word.
"If only we had another picture!" Mother suggested.
Would--would that do?
All of a sudden David had stopped crying. With the wet, shiny,
tear-trails across his cheeks he looked up.
"Mother!" His eyes were wide open. "In your drawer," he said, but
his voice was so small he could hardly make himself heard, "in
your drawer there is one--a fine picture!"
"Is there?" Eagerness was in Mother's tone; hopefulness was in
Mother's look, but the look vanished and left nothing but
disappointment in her eyes. She had remembered a little golden
locket in a drawer of the chiffonier, a locket that held the
handsome face of a young man. She had never shown the picture to
her little boy, and was not aware that he knew anything about it.
"That will never do," she told David. "It does not belong to you,
and it cannot be given away. It must be kept always. People care
a great deal for--some pictures. They have a meaning which is
often one of the very best things life can ever have. If you
should be taken from me, and if I should still have your picture,
that would be almost the best thing I could have. You see how it
is. If some one should take the picture, I could never get
another that would mean so much to me."
They began to walk up and down the room. The little boy was
clinging to Mother's hand and he kept tangling his pink feet in
the folds of his night dress, while his tearful eyes were fixed
steadfastly upon the earnest face above him.
"Mother!" he suddenly called out, "where's my scrap-book?"
David had found a way. He and Mother hurried to the bookcase. In
great haste they rummaged the shelves; magazines were pushed
aside; pamphlets and papers were pushed aside--Good! Here it was,
that scrapbook. Wild with excitement David began thumbing the
pages; he laughed; he tore some of the leaves. Then he pounced
down upon his chief treasure, a picture which Mitch Horrigan had
wanted to buy with some strips of tin, a broken Jew's harp, and a
wad of shoemaker's wax.
A great masterpiece, this. To the eyes of childhood nothing could
be more beautiful. It was a pink and pensive cow with a slight
clerical expression, a very dignified animal, caught in the act
of sedately skipping the rope.
"Splendid!" Mother exclaimed.
"Yes," David answered, gasping with relief. Then he chuckled in
triumph, and Mother did, too. When the picture had been detached
from the page the little boy held it tenderly in his hands.
Nothing must happen to it until it could be used in making things
right with the Doctor.
There had been so much excitement over the cow, so much delight
over securing a sacrifice to take the place of the Broken Lady,
that when Mother began to dress her little boy she imagined that
all thought of trousers had gone from him. But it was not so.
With prompt disfavor he regarded the blue suit of kilts edged
with lacy braid, and although there was reluctance in Mother's
heart, she began to look for the missing knickerbockers.
Every mother must come to it. She must help us tug and pull at
the clumsy things even if there comes something to tug and pull
at her heart. What matter if there be a voice within her that is
crying out to the child of yesterday to linger yet a little
longer in the dear winsomeness that will so soon be gone? Call as
you will, poor mother; your boy will not heed you now, for the
way to manhood is long to travel, and we men-children cannot wait
until you, with your pretty dreams, are willing to have us go.