It was Mercy Fisher who sat in the room to the left of the bar, and
played with the children, and laughed when they laughed, and tried to
forget that she was not as young as they were, and as happy and as free
from thought, living as they lived, from hour to hour, with no past, and
without a future, and all in the living present. But she was changed,
and was now no longer quite a child, though she had a child's heart that
would never grow old, but be a child's heart still, all the same that
the weight of a woman's years lay upon it, and the burden of a woman's
sorrow saddened it. A little older, a little wiser, perhaps, a little
graver of face, and with eyes a little more wistful.
A neighbor who had gone to visit a relative five miles away had brought
round her children, begging the "young missy" to take care of them in
her absence. A curly-headed boy of four sat wriggling in Mercy's lap,
while a girl of six stood by her side, watching the needles as she
knitted. And many a keen thrust the innocent, prattling tongues sent
straight as an arrow to Mercy's heart. The little fellow was revolving a
huge lozenge behind his teeth.
"And if oo had a little boy would oo give him sweets ery often--all
days--sweets and cakes--would oo?"
"Yes, every day, darling; I'd give him sweets and cakes every day."
"I 'ikes oo. And would oo let him go out to play with the big boys, and
get birds' nests and things, would oo?"
"Yes, bird's nests, and berries, and everything."
"I 'ikes oo, I do. And let him go to meet daddy coming home at night,
and ride on daddy's back?"
A shadow shot across the girl's simple face, and there was a pause.
"Would oo? And lift him on daddy's shoulder, would oo?"
"Perhaps, dear."
"Oh!" the little chap's delight required no fuller expression.
"Ot's oo doing?"
"Knitting, darling--there, rest quiet on my knee."
"Ot is it--knitting--stockings for oo little boy?"
"I have no little boy, sweetheart. They are mittens for a gentleman."
"How pooty! Ot's a gentleman?"
"A man, dear. Mr. Drayton is a gentleman, you know."
"Oh!" Then after a moment's sage reflection, "Me knows--a raskill."
"Willy!"
"'At's what daddy says he is."
All this time the little maiden at Mercy's side had been pondering her
own peculiar problem. "What would you do if you had a little girl?"
"Well, let me see; I'd teach her to knit and to sew, and I'd comb her
hair so nice, and make her a silk frock with flounces, and, oh! such a
sweet little hat."
"How nice! And would you take her to market and to church, and to see
the dolls in Mrs. Bicker's window?"
"Yes, dearest, yes."
"And never whip her?"
"My little girl would be very, very good, and oh! so pretty."
"And let her go to grandma's whenever she liked, and not tell grandpa
he's not to give her ha'pennies, would you?"
"Yes ... dear ... yes ... perhaps."
"Are your eyes very sore to-day, Mercy, they are so red?"
But the little one of all was not interested in this turn of the
conversation: "Well, why don't oo have a little boy?"
A dead silence.
"Wont oo, eh?"
Willy was put to the ground. "Let us sing something. Do you like
singing, sweetheart?"
The little fellow climbed back to her lap in excitement. "Me sing, me
sing. Mammy told I a song--me sing it oo."
And without further ceremony the little chap struck up the notes of a
lullaby.
Mercy had learned that same song, as her mother crooned it long ago by
the side of her cot. A great wave of memory and love and sorrow and
remorse, in one, swept over her. It cost her a struggle not to break
into a flood of tears. And the little innocent face looked up at the
ceiling as the sweet child-voice sung the familiar words.
There was a new-comer in the bar outside. It was Hugh Ritson, clad in a
long ulster, with the hood drawn over his hat. He stepped up to the
landlady, who courtesied low from behind the counter. "So he has
returned?" he said, without greeting of any kind.
"Yes, sir, he is back, sir; he got home in the afternoon, sir."
"You told him nothing of any one calling?"
"No, sir--that is to say, sir--not to say told him, sir--but I did
mention--just mention, sir, that--"
Hugh Ritson smiled coldly. "Of course--precisely. Were you more prudent
with the girl?"
"Oh, yes, sir, being as you told me not to name it to the missy--"
"He is asleep, I see."
"Yes, sir; he'd no sooner taken bite and sup than he dropped off in his
chair, same as you see, sir; and never a word since. He must have
traveled all night."
"He did not explain?"
"Oh, no, sir; he on'y called for his cold meat and his ale, sir, and--"
"You see, his old mother ain't noways in his confidence, master," said
one of the countrymen on the bench.
"Nor you in mine, my friend," said Hugh Ritson, facing about. Then
turning again to the landlady, he said: "Tell him some one wants to
speak with him. Or, wait, I'll tell him myself."
He stepped into the room with the sleeping man, and closed the door
after him.
"Luke Sturgis," said the landlady, with sudden austerity, "I'll have you
know as it's none of your business saying words what's onpleasant--and
me his mother, too. What's it you say? Cloven hoof? He's a personable
gentleman, if he has got summat a matter with a foot, and a clever face
how-an'-ever!"