THE CHILDREN'S MOTHER
'You've had your pennyworth.'
'Oh, Charlie, I haven't! you must send me higher. You mustn't stop;
I've only just begun to swing.'
'I shall stop; it's my turn. You'd keep on for ever.'
The boy drew to one side. The swing began to slow. Doris grew
indignant. She endeavoured to swing herself, wriggling on the seat,
twisting herself in various attitudes. The result was failure. The
swing moved slower. She tried a final appeal.
'Oh, Charlie, I do think you might push me just a little longer; it's
not fair. You said you'd give me a good one. Then I'll give you a
splendid swing.'
'You've had a good one. You'd keep on for ever, you would. Get off!'
The swing stopped dead. The girl made a vain attempt to give it
momentum.
'It's beastly of you,' she said.
She scrambled to the ground. The boy got on. He was not content to
sit; he stood upright.
'Now, then,' he cried, 'why don't you start me? Don't you see I'm
ready?'
'You'll tumble off. Mamma said you weren't to stand.'
'Shall stand. Go and tell! Start me!'
'You will tumble.'
'All right, then, I will tumble. Start me! Don't you hear?'
She 'started' him. The swing having received its initial impetus, he
swung himself. He mounted higher and higher. Doris watched him,
leaning her right shoulder against the beech tree, her hands behind
her back. She interpolated occasional remarks on the risk which he
was running.
'You'll fall if you don't take care. You oughtn't to go so high.
Mamma said you oughtn't to go so high.'
He received her observations with scorn.
'Just as though I will fall! How silly you are! You will keep on!'
As he spoke, one of the ropes gave way. The other rope swerving, he
was dashed against an upright. He fell to the ground. The thing was
the work of an instant. He was ascending jubilantly towards the sky:
the same second he was lying on the ground. Doris did not realise
what had happened. She had been envying him the ease with which he
swung himself, the height of his ascent. She did not understand why
he had stopped so suddenly. She perceived how still he seemed, half
wondering.
'Charlie!' His silence frightened her. Her voice sank. 'Charlie!' She
became angry. 'Why don't you answer me?' She moved closer to him,
observing in what an ugly heap he lay. 'Charlie!'
Yet he vouchsafed her no reply. He lay so still. It was such an
unusual thing for Charlie to be still, the strangeness of it began to
get upon her nerves. Her face clouded. She was making ready to rush
off and alarm the house in an agony of weeping. Already she was
starting, when Someone came to her from across the lawn, and laid His
hand upon her shoulder.
'Doris, what is wrong?'
The voice was a stranger's, and the presence. But she paid no heed to
that: all her thoughts were concentrated on a single theme.
'Charlie!' she gasped.
'What ails Charlie?'
The Stranger, kneeling beside the silent boy, bent over him, gently
turning him so that He could see his face. Then, raising him from the
ground, gathering him in His arms, He held him to His breast; and,
stooping, He whispered in his ear:
'Wake up, Charlie! Doris wants you.'
And the boy sat up, and looked in the face of Him in whose arms he
was.
'Hollo!' he said. 'Who are you?'
'The friend of little children.'
There was an appreciable space of time before the answer came, and
when it did come it was accompanied by a smile, as the Stranger
looked the boy straight in the eyes. The boy laughed outright.
'I like the look of you.'
Doris drew a little nearer. She had her fingers to her lips, seeming
more than half afraid.
'Charlie, I thought you were hurt.'
'Hurt!' he flashed at her; then back at the Stranger: 'I'm not hurt,
am I?'
'No, you are not hurt; you are well, and whole, and strong.'
'But you tumbled from the swing.' The boy stared at Doris as if he
thought she must be dreaming. 'The swing broke.'
'Broke?' Glancing up, he perceived the severed rope. 'Why, so it
has.'
'It can soon be mended.'
The Stranger put the boy down, and went to the swing, and
in a moment the two ends of the rope were joined together.
Then He lifted them both on the seat, the boy and the girl together--
there was ample room for both--and swung them gently to and fro. And
as He swung He talked to them, and they to Him.
And when they had had enough of swinging He went with them, hand in
hand, and sat with them on the grass by the side of the lake, with
the trees at their back. And again He talked to them, and they to
Him. And the simple things of which He spoke seemed strange to them,
and wonderful. Never had anyone talked to them like that before. They
kept as close to Him as they could, and put their arms about Him so
far as they were able, and nestled their faces against His side, and
they were happy.
While the Stranger and the children still conversed together there
came down through the woods, towards the lake, a lady and a
gentleman. He was a tall man, and held himself very straight,
speaking as if he were very much in earnest.
'Doris, why should we keep on pretending to each other? I know that
you love me, and you know that I love you. Why should you spoil your
life--and mine!--for the sake of such a hound?'
'He is my husband.'
She spoke a little below her breath, as if she were ashamed of the
fact. He struck impatiently at the bracken with his stick.
'Your husband! That creature! As though it were not profanation to
link you with such an animal.'
'And then there are the children.'
Her voice sank lower, as if this time she spoke of something sacred.
He noted the difference in the intonation; apparently he resented it.
He struck more vigorously at the bracken, as if actuated by a desire
to relieve his feelings. There was an interval, during which both of
them were silent. Then he turned to her with sudden passion.
'Doris, come with me, at once! now! Give yourself to me, and I'll
devote my whole life to you. You've known enough of me through all
these things to be sure that you can trust me. Aren't you sure that
you can trust me?'
'Yes, I am sure that I can trust you--in a sense.'
Something in her face seemed to make an irresistible appeal to him.
He took her in his arms, she offering no resistance.
'In a sense? In what sense? Can't you trust me in every sense?'
'I can trust you to be true to me; but I am not so sure that I can
trust you to let me be true to myself.'
'What hair-splitting's this? I'll let you be true to your own
womanhood; it's you who shirk. You seem to want me to treat you as if
you were an automatic figure, not a creature of flesh and blood. I
can't do it--you can't trust me to do it; that thing's plain. Come,
darling, let's take the future in our own hands, and together wrest
happiness from life. You know that at my side you'll be content. See
how you're trembling! There's proof of it. I'll swear I'll be content
at yours! Come, Doris, come!'
'Where will you take me?'
'That's not your affair just now. I'll take you where I will. All you
have to do is--come.'
She drew herself out of his arms, and a little away from him. She put
up her hand as if to smooth her hair, he watching her with eager
eyes.
'I'll come.'
He took her again in his embrace, softly, tenderly, as if she were
some fragile, priceless thing. His voice trembled.
'You darling! When?'
'Now. Since all's over, and everything's to begin again, the sooner a
beginning's made the better.' A sort of rage came into her voice--a
note of hysteric pain. 'If you're to take me, take me as I am, in
what I stand. I dare say he'll send my clothes on after me--and my
jewels, perhaps.'
It seemed as if her tone troubled him, as if he endeavoured to soothe
her.
'Don't talk like that, Doris. Everything that you want I'll get you--
all that your heart can desire.'
'Except peace of mind!'
'I trust that I shall be able to get you even that. Only come!'
'Don't I tell you that I am ready? Why don't you start?'
He appeared to find her manner disconcerting. He searched her face,
as if to discover if she were in earnest, then looked at his watch.
'If we make haste across the park, we shall be able to catch the
express to town.'
'Then let's make haste and catch it.'
'Come!'
They began to walk quickly, side by side. As they passed round the
bend they came on the two children sitting, with the Stranger, beside
the lake. The children, scrambling to their feet, came running to
them.
'Mamma,' they cried, 'come and see the friend of little children!'
At sight of them the woman drew back, as if afraid. The man
interposed.
'Don't worry, you youngsters! Your mother's in a hurry--run away!
Come, Doris, make haste; we've no time to lose if we wish to catch
the train.'
He put his arm through hers, and made as if to draw her past them.
She seemed disposed to linger.
'Let me--say good-bye to them.'
He whispered in her ear:
'There'll only be a scene; don't be foolish, child! There's not a
moment to lose!' He turned angrily to the boy and girl. 'Don't you
hear, you youngsters!--run away!' As the children moved aside,
frightened at his violence, and bewildered by the strangeness of
their mother's manner, he gripped the woman's arm more firmly,
beginning by sheer force to hurry her off. 'Come, Doris,' he
exclaimed, 'don't be an idiot!'
The Stranger, who had been sitting on the grass, stood up and faced
them.
'Rather be wise. There still is time. What is it you would do?'
The interruption took the pair completely by surprise. The man stared
angrily at the Stranger.
'Who are you, sir? And what do you mean by interfering in what is no
concern of yours?
'Are you sure that it is no concern of Mine?'
The man endeavoured to meet the Stranger's eyes, with but scant
success. His erect, bold, defiant attitude gave place to one of
curious uncertainty.
'How can it be any concern of yours?'
'All things are My concern, the things which you do, and the things
which you leave undone. Would it were not so, for many and great are
the burdens which you lay upon me. You wicked man! Yet more foolish
even than wicked! What is this woman to you that you should seek to
slay her body and soul? Is she not of those who know not what is the
thing they do till it is done? It is well with you if this sin, also,
shall not be laid to your charge,--that you are a blind leader of the
blind!'
The Stranger turned to the woman.
'Your eyes shall be opened. Look upon this man to see him as he is.'
The woman looked at the man. As she looked, a change came over him.
Before her accusatory glance he seemed to dwindle and wax old. He
grew ugly, his jaw dropped open, his eyes were full of lust, cruelty
was writ upon his countenance. On a sudden he had become a thing of
evil. She shrank back with a cry of horror and alarm, while he stood
before her cowering like some guilty creature whose shame has been
suddenly made plain. And the Stranger said to him:
'Go! and seek that peace of which you would have robbed her.'
The man, shambling away round the bend in the path, presently was
lost to sight. The Stranger was left alone with the children and the
woman. The woman stood before Him trembling, with bowed form and face
cast down, and she cried:
'Who are you, sir?'
The Stranger replied:
'Look upon Me: and as you knew the man, so, also, you shall know Me.'
She looked on Him, and knew Him, and wept.
'Lord, I know You! Have mercy upon me!'
He answered:
'I am the friend of little children, and of the mothers that bare
them; for the pains of the women are not little ones; and because
they are great, so also shall great mercy be shown unto them. For
unto those that suffer most, shall not most be forgiven? for is not
suffering akin to repentance?'
And the woman cried:
'Lord, I am not worthy Thy forgiveness!'
And to her He said:
'Is any worthy? No, not one. Yet many are those to whom forgiveness
comes. There are your children, that are an heritage to you of God.
Take them, and as you are unto them, so shall God be unto you, and
more. Return to your husband; say to him what things have happened
unto you, and fear not because of him.'
And the woman went, holding a child by either hand. And the Stranger
stood and watched them as they went. And when they had gone some
distance, the woman turned and looked at Him. And He called to her:
'Be of good courage!'
And after that she saw Him no more.