The Promise
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 were _worse_ times; 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'll _put_
you 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."
[Illustration: I can't play ... I'm being good]
"Oh, my!" shrilled the girl child derisively. "Can't you be good
tagging? Come on."
"No; because you might--_I_ might get no-fairing, and then Sheelah'd
come out and say I was bad. Le's sit here and talk; it's safer to.
What's a lark, Daisy? I was going to ask Sheelah."
"A--lark? Why, it's a bird, of course!"
"I don't mean the bird kind, but the kind you have when your mother
puts you--when something splendid happens. That kind, I mean."
Daisy pondered. Her acquaintance with larks was limited, unless it
meant--
"Do you mean a good time?" she asked. "We have larks over to my house
when we go to bed--"
"That's it! That's the kind!" shouted delighted Murray. "I'm going to
have one when I go to bed. Do you have _reg'lar_ ones, Daisy?" with a
secret little hope that she didn't. "_I'm_ going to have a reg'lar
one."
"Huh!--chase all 'round the room an' turn somersaults an' be highway
robberers? An' take the hair-pins out o' your mother's hair an'
_hide_ in it--what?"
Murray gasped a little at the picture of that kind of a lark. It was
difficult to imagine himself chasing 'round the room or being a
highwayman; and as for somersaults--he glanced uneasily over his
shoulder, as if Sheelah might be looking and read "somersaults"
through the back of his head. For once he had almost turned one and
Sheelah had found him in the middle of it and said pointed things. In
Sheelah's code of etiquette there were no somersaults in the "s"
column.
"It's a reg'lar lark to hide in your mother's hair," was going on the
girl child's voice. "Yes, sir, that's the reg'larest kind!"
Murray gasped again, harder. For that kind took away his breath
altogether and made him feel a little dizzy, as if he were--were
_doing it now_--hiding in his mother's hair! It was soft, beautiful,
gold-colored hair, and there was a great deal of it--oh, plenty to
hide in! He shut his eyes and felt it all about him and soft against
his face, and smelled the faint fragrance of it. The dizziness was
sweet.
Yes, that must be the reg'larest kind of a lark, but Murray did not
deceive himself, once the dream was over. He knew _that_ kind was not
waiting for him at the end of this long day. But a lark was waiting,
anyway--a plain lark. It might have been the bird kind in his little
heart now, singing for joy at the prospect.
Impatience seized upon Murray. He wanted this little neighbor's
half-hour to be up, so that he could go in and watch the clock. He
wanted Sheelah to come out here, for that would mean it was ten
o'clock; she always came at ten. He wanted it to be noon, to be
afternoon, to be _night!_ The most beautiful time in his rather
monotonous little life was down there at the foot of the day, and he
was creeping towards it on the lagging hours. He was like a little
traveller on a dreary plain, with the first ecstatic glimpse of a
hill ahead.
Murray in his childish way had been in love a long time, but he had
never got very near his dear lady. He had watched her a little way
off and wondered at the gracious beauty of her, and loved her eyes
and her lips and her soft, gold-colored hair. He had never--oh,
never--been near enough to be unlaced and unbuttoned and put to bed
by the lady that he loved. She had come in sometimes in a wondrous
dress to say good night, but often, stopping at the mirror on the way
across to him, she had seen a beautiful vision and forgotten to say
it. And Murray had not wondered, for he had seen the vision, too.
[Illustration: Murray had ... seen the vision, too]
"Your mamma's gone away, hasn't she? I saw her."
Daisy was still there! Murray pulled himself out of his dreaming, to
be polite.
"Yes; but she's coming back to-night. She promised."
"S'posing the cars run off the track so she can't?" Daisy said,
cheerfully.
"She'll come," Murray rejoined, with the decision of faith. "She
promised, I said."
"S'posing she's killed 'most dead?"
"She'll come."
"_Puffickly_ dead--s'posing?"
Murray took time, but even here his faith in the Promise stood its
ground, though the ground shook under it. Sheelah had taught him what
a promise was; it was something not to be shaken or killed even in a
railroad wreck.
"When anybody promises, _they do it_," he said, sturdily. "She
promised an' she'll come."
"Then her angel will have to come," remarked the older, girl child,
coolly, with awful use of the indicative mood.
When the half-hour was over and Murray at liberty, he went in to the
clock and stood before it with hands a-pocket and wide-spread legs. A
great yearning was upon him to know the mystery of telling time. He
wished--oh, how he wished he had let Sheelah teach him! Then he could
have stood here making little addition sums and finding out just how
long it would be till night. Or he could go away and keep coming back
here to make little subtraction sums, to find out how much time was
left _now_--and now--and now. It was dreadful to just stand and
wonder things.
Once he went up-stairs to his own little room out of the nursery and
sat down where he had always sat when Sheelah unlaced him, before he
had begun to unlace himself, and stood up where he had always stood
when Sheelah unbuttoned him. He sat very still and stood very still,
his grave little face intent with imagining. He was imagining how it
would be when _she_ did it. She would be right here, close--if he
dared, he could put out his hand and smooth her. If he _dared_, he
could take the pins out of her soft hair, and hide in it--
He meant to dare!
"Little silly," perhaps she would call him; perhaps she would
remember to kiss him good-night. And afterwards, when the lark was
over, it would stay on, singing in his heart. And he would lie in the
dark and love Her.
For Her part, it was a busy day enough and did not lag. She did her
shopping and called on a town friend or two. In the late afternoon
she ran in to several art-stores where pictures were on exhibition.
It was at the last of these places that she chanced to meet a woman
who was a neighbor of hers in the suburbs.
"Why, Mrs. Cody!" the neighbor cried. "How delightful! You've come in
to see Irving, too?"
"No," with distinct regret answered Murray's mother, "but I wish I
had! I'm only in for a little shopping."
"Not going to stay! Why, it will be _wicked_ to go back
to-night--unless, of course, you've seen him in Robespierre."
"I haven't. Cicely Howe has been teasing me to stop over and go with
her. It's a 'sure-enough' temptation, as Fred says. Fred's away, so
that part's all right. Of course there's Murray, but there's also
Sheelah--" She was talking more to herself now than to the neighbor.
The temptation had taken a sudden and striking hold upon her. It was
the chance of a lifetime. She really ought--
"I guess you'll stop over!" laughed the neighbor. "I know the signs."
"I'll telephone to Sheelah," Murray's mother decided, aloud, "then
I'll run along back to Cicely's. I've always wanted to see Irving in
that play."
But it was seven o'clock before she telephoned. She was to have been
at home at half-past seven.
"That you, Sheelah? I'm not coming out to-night--not until morning.
I'm going to the theatre. Tell Murray I'll bring him a present. Put
an extra blanket over him if it comes up chilly."
She did not hang up the receiver at once, holding it absently at her
ear while she considered if she ought to say anything else to
Sheelah. Hence she heard distinctly an indignant exclamation.
"Will you hear that, now! An' the boy that certain! 'She's promised,'
he says, an' he'll kape on 'She's-promising' for all o' me, for it's
not tell him I will! He can go to slape in his poor little boots,
expectin' her to kape her promise!"
The woman with the receiver at her ear uttered a low exclamation. She
had not forgotten the Promise, but it had not impressed her as
anything vital. She had given it merely to comfort Little Silly when
he cried. That he would regard it as sacred--that it _was_
sacred--came to her now with the forcible impact of a blow. And,
oddly enough, close upon its heels came a remembrance picture--of a
tiny child playing with his soldiers on the floor. The sunlight lay
over him--she could see it on his little hair and face. She could
hear him talking to the "Captain soldier." She had at the time
called it a sermon, with a text, and laughed at the child who
preached it. She was not laughing now.
"Lissen, Cappen Sojer, an' I'll teach you a p'omise. A p'omise--a
p'omise--why, when anybody p'omises, _they do it!_"
Queer how plainly she could hear Little Silly say that and could see
him sitting in the sun! Just the little white dress he had on--tucks
in it and a dainty edging of lace! She had recognized Sheelah's
maxims and laughed. Sheelah was stuffing the child with notions.
"If anybody p'omises, they do it." It seemed to come to her over the
wire in a baby's voice and to strike against her heart. This mother
of a little son stood suddenly self-convicted of a crime--the crime
of faithlessness. It was not, she realized with a sharp stab of pain,
faith in _her_ the little child at the other end of the line
was exercising, but faith in the Promise. He would keep on
"She-promising" till he fell asleep in his poor little boots--
"Oh!" breathed in acute distress the mother of a little son. For all
unexpectedly, suddenly, her house built of cards of carelessness,
flippancy, thoughtlessness, had fallen round her. She struggled among
the flimsy ruins.
Then came a panic of hurry. She must go home at once, without a
moment's delay. A little son was waiting for her to come and put him
to bed. She had promised; he was waiting. They were to have a regular
little lark--that she remembered, too, with distinctness. She was
almost as uncertain as Murray had been of the meaning of a "lark";
she had used the word, as she had used so many other words to the
child, heedlessly. She had even and odd, uncertain little feeling as
to what it meant to put a little son to bed, for she had never
unlaced or unbuttoned one. She had never wanted to until now. But
now--she could hardly wait to get home to do it. Little Silly was
growing up--the bare brown space between the puffs of his little
trousers and the top rims of his little socks were widening. She must
hurry, hurry! What if he grew up before she got there! What if she
never had a chance to put a little son to bed! She had lost so many
chances; this one that was left had suddenly sprung into prominence
and immense value. With the shock of her awakening upon her she felt
like one partially paralyzed, but with the need upon her to rise and
walk--to _run_.
She started at once, scarcely allowing herself time to explain to her
friend. She would listen to no urgings at all.
"I've got to go, Cicely--I've promised my little son," was all she
took time to say; and the friend, knowing of the telephone message,
supposed it had been a telephone promise.
At the station they told her there was another train at seven-thirty,
and she walked about uneasily until it came. Walking about seemed to
hurry it along the rails to her.
Another woman waited and walked with her. Another mother of little
sons, she decided whimsically, reading it in the sweet, quiet face.
The other woman was in widow's black, and she thought how merciful it
was that there should be a little son left her. She yielded to an
inclination to speak.
"The train is late," she said. "It must be."
"No." The other woman glanced backward at the station clock. "It's
we who are early."
"And in a hurry," laughed Murray's mother, in the relief of speech.
"I've got to get home to put my little son to bed! I don't suppose
you are going home for that?"
The sweet face for an instant lost its quietness. Something like a
spasm of mortal pain crossed it and twisted it. The woman walked away
abruptly, but came back. "I've been home and--put him to bed," she
said, slowly--"in his last little bed."
Then Murray's mother found herself hurrying feverishly into a car,
her face feeling wet and queer. She was crying.
"Oh, the poor woman!" she thought, "the poor woman! And I'm going
home to a little live one. I can cover him up and tuck him in! I can
kiss his little, solemn face and his little, brown knees. Why haven't
I ever kissed his knees before? If I could only hurry! Will this car
ever start?" She put her head out of the window. An oily personage
in jumpers was passing.
"Why don't we start?" she said.
"Hot box," the oily person replied, laconically.
The delay was considerable to a mother going home to put her little
child to bed. It seemed to this mother interminable. When at length
she felt a welcome jar and lurch her patience was threadbare. She sat
bolt upright, as if by so doing she were helping things along.
It was an express and leaped ahead splendidly, catching up with
itself. Her thoughts leaped ahead with it. No, no, he would not be in
bed. Sheelah was not going to tell him, so he would insist upon
waiting up. But she might find him asleep in his poor little boots!
She caught her breath in half a sob, half tender laugh. Little Silly!
But if an express, why this stop? They were slowing up. It was not
time to get to the home station; there were no lights. Murray's
mother waylaid a passing brakeman.
"What is it? What is it?"
"All right, all right! Don't be scairt, lady! Wreck ahead
somewheres--freight-train. We got to wait till they clear the track."
But the misery of waiting! He might get tired of waiting, or Sheelah
might tell him his mother was not coming out to-night; he might go to
bed, with his poor little faith in the Promise wrecked, like the
freight on there in the dark. She could not sit still and bear the
thought; it was not much easier pacing the aisle. She felt a wild
inclination to get off the train and walk home.
At the home station, when at last she reached it, she took a
carriage. "Drive fast!" she said, peremptorily. "I'll pay you double
fare."
The houses they rattle past were ablaze with light down-stairs, not
up-stairs where little sons would be going to bed. All the little
sons had gone to bed.
They stopped with a terrific lurch. It threw her on to the seat
ahead.
"This is not the place," she cried, sharply, after a glance without.
"No'm; we're stopping fer recreation," drawled sarcastically the
unseen driver. He appeared to be assisting the horse to lie down. She
stumbled to the ground and demanded things.
"Yer'll have to ax this here four-legged party what's doin'. _I_
didn't stop--I kep' right on goin'. He laid down on his job, that's
all, marm. I'll get him up, come Chris'mas. Now then, yer ole fool!"
There was no patience left in the "fare" standing there beside the
plunging beast. She fumbled in her purse, found something, dropped it
somewhere, and hurried away down the street. She did not walk home,
because she ran. It was well the streets were quiet ones.
"Has he gone to bed?" she came panting in upon drowsy Sheelah,
startling that phlegmatic person out of an honest Irish dream.
"Murray--Little Silly--has he gone to bed? Oh no!" for she saw him
then, an inert little heap at Sheelah's feet. She gathered him up in
her arms.
"I won't! I won't go, Sheelah! I'm waiting. She promis--" in drowsy
murmur.
"She's here--she's come, Murray! Mamma's come home to put you to
bed--Little Silly, open your eyes and see mamma!"
And he opened them and saw the love in her eyes before he saw her.
Sleep took instant wings. He sprang up.
"I knew you'd come! I told Sheelah! When anybody promises, they--
Come on quick up-stairs! I can unlace myself, but I'd rather--"
"Yes, yes!" she sobbed.
"And we'll have a lark, won't we? You said a lark; but not the
reg'larest kind--I don't suppose we could have the reg'larest kind?"
"Yes--yes!"
"Oh!--why!" His eyes shone. He put up his hand, then drew it shyly
back. If she would only take out the pins herself--if he only dared
to--
"What is it, Little Silly--darling?" They were up in his room. She
had her cheek against his little, bare, brown knees. It brought her
soft, gold-colored hair so near--if he only dared--
"What is it you'd like, little son?" And he took courage. She had
never called him Little Son before. It made him brave enough.
"I thought--the reg'larest kind--your hair--if you'd let it tumble
all down, I'd--hide in it," he breathed, his knees against her cheek
trembling like little frightened things.
It fell about him in a soft shower and he hid in it and laughed.
Sheelah heard them laughing together.