CHILD-TALK.
As Clare came down the next morning but one, there was the child again
on the dark narrow stair. She had no doll. Her hands lay folded in her
lap. She sat on the same step, the very image of child-patience. As he
approached she did not move. I believe she held solemn revel of
expectation. He laid his hand on the whitey-brown hair smoothed flat
on her head with a brush dipped in water. Not much dressing was wasted
on Ann--common little name!
She rose, turned to him, and again laid her arms about his neck. No
kiss followed: she had not been taught to kiss.
“Where’s dolly?” asked Clare.
“Nowhere. Buried,” answered the child.
“Where did you bury her? In the garden?”
“No. The garden wouldn’t be nowhere!”
“Where, then?”
“Nowhere. I threw her out of the window.”
“Into the street?”
“Yes. She did fell on a horse’s back, and he jumped. I was sorry.”
“It didn’t hurt him. I hope it didn’t hurt dolly!”
The moment he said it, Clare’s heart reproached him: he was not
talking true! he was not talking out of his real heart to the child!
Almost with indignation she answered:--
“_Things_ don’t be hurt! Dolly was a thing! She’s _no_ thing now!”
“Why?”
“Because she fell under the horse, and was seen no more.”
“Is she old enough,” thought Clare, “to read the Pilgrim’s Progress?”
“Will you tell me, please,” he said, “_when_ a thing is only a thing?”
“When it won’t mind what you do or say to it.”
“And when is a thing no thing any more?”
“When you never think of it again.”
“Is a fly a thing?”
“I _could_ make a fly mind, only it would hurt it!”
“Of course we wouldn’t do that!”
“No; we don’t want to make a fly mind. It’s not one of our creatures.”
Clare thought that was far enough in metaphysics for one morning.
“I waited for you yesterday,” he said, “but you didn’t come!”
“Dolly didn’t like to be buried. I mean, I didn’t like burying
dolly. I cried and wouldn’t come.”
“Then why did you bury dolly?”
“She _had_ to be buried. I told you she couldn’t _be_ anybody! So I
_made_ her be buried.”
“I see! I quite understand.--But what have you to amuse yourself with
now?”
“I don’t want to be mused now. You’s come! I’m growed up!”
“Yes, of course!” answered Clare; but he was puzzled what to say next.
What could he do for her? Glad would he have been to take her down to
the sea, or to the docks, or into the country somewhere, till
dinner-time, and then after dinner take her out again! But there was
his work--ugly, stupid work that had to be done, as dolly _had_ to be
buried! Alas for the child who has discarded her toys, and is suddenly
growed up! What is she to do with herself? Clare’s coming had caused
the loss of Ann’s former interests: he felt bound to make up to her
for that loss. But how? It was a serious question, and not being his
own master, he could not in a moment answer it.
“I wish I could stay with you all day!” he said. “But your papa wants
me in the bank. I must go.”
Clare had not had a good sight of the child, and was at a loss to
think what must be her age. Her language, both in form and utterance,
was partly precise and _grown-up_, and partly childish; but her wisdom
was child-like--and that is the opposite both of precise and
childish. It was the wisdom that comes of unity between thought and
action.
“Is there anything I can do for you before I go?--for I must go,” said
Clare.
“Who says _must_ to you? Nurse says _must_ to me.”
“Your papa says _must_ to me.”
“If you didn’t say _yes_ when papa said _must_, what would come next?”
“He would say, ‘Go out of my house, and never come in again.’”
“And would you do it?”
“I must: the house is his, not mine.”
“If I didn’t say _yes_ when papa said _must_, what would happen?”
“He would try to make you say it.”
“And if I wouldn’t, would he say, ‘Go out of my house and never come
in again’?”
“No; you are his little girl!”
“Then I think he shouldn’t say it to you.--What is your name?”
“Clare.”
“Then, Clare, if my papa sends you out of his house, I will go with
you.--You wouldn’t turn me out, would you, when I was a _little_
naughty?”
“No; neither would your papa.”
“If he turned you out, it would be all the same. Where you go, I will
go. I must, you know! Would you mind if he said, ‘Go away’?”
“I should be very sorry to leave you.”
“Yes, but that’s not going to be! Why do you stay with papa? Were you
in the house always--ever so long before I saw you?”
“No; a very little while only.”
“Did you come in from the street?”
“Yes; I came in from the street. Your papa pays me to work for him.”
“And if you wouldn’t?”
“Then I should have no money, and nothing to eat, and nowhere to sleep
at night.”
“Would that make you uncomfable?”
“It would make me die.”
“Have you a papa?”
“Yes, but he’s far away.”
“You could go to him, couldn’t you?”
“One day I shall.”
“Why don’t you go now, and take me?”
“Because he died.”
“What’s _died_?”
“Went away out of sight, where we can’t go to look for him till we go
out of sight too.”
“When will that be?”
“I don’t know.”
“Does anybody know?”
“Nobody.”
“Then perhaps you will never go?”
“We must go; it’s only that nobody knows when.”
“I think the when that nobody knows, mayn’t never come.--Is that why
you have to work?”
“Everybody has to work one way or another.”
“I haven’t to work!”
“If you don’t work when you’re old enough, you’ll be miserable.”
“_You’re_ not old enough.”
“Oh, yes, indeed I am! I’ve been working a long time now.”
“Where? Not for papa?”
“No; not for papa.”
“Why not? Why didn’t you come sooner? Why didn’t you come _much_
sooner--_ever_ so much sooner? Why did you make me wait for you all
the time?”
“Nobody ever told me you were waiting.”
“Nobody ever told me you were coming, but I knew.”
“You had to wait for me, and you knew. I had to wait for you, and I
didn’t know! When we have time, I will tell you all about myself, and
how I’ve been waiting too.”
“Waiting for me?”
“No.”
“Who for?”
“For my father and mother--and somebody else, I think.”
“That’s me.”
“No; I’m waiting yet. I didn’t know I was coming to you till I came,
and there you were!”
The child was silent for a moment. Then she said thoughtfully,
“You will tell me _all_ about yourself! That _will_ be nice!--Can you
tell stories?” she added. “--Of course you can! You can do
_every_thing!”
“Oh, no, I can’t!”
“Can’t you?”
“No; I can do _some_ things--not many. I can love you, little
one!--Now I must go, or I shall be late, and nobody ever ought to be
late.”
“Go then. I will go to my nursery and wait again.”
She went down the stair without once looking behind her. Clare
followed. On the next floor she went one way to her nursery, and he
another to the back-stairs.
One of the causes and signs of Clare’s manliness was, that he never
aimed at being a man. Many men continue childish because they are
always trying to act like men, instead of simply trying to do
right. Such never develop true manliness; Clare’s manhood stole upon
him unawares. That which at once made him a man and kept him a child,
was, that he had no regard for anything but what was real, that is,
true.
All the day the thought kept coming, what could he do for the little
girl? Perhaps what stirred his feeling for her most, was a suspicion
that she was neglected. But the careless treatment of a nurse was
better for her than would have been the capricious blandishments and
neglects of a mother like Mrs. Shotover. Clare, however, knew nothing
yet about Ann’s mother. He knew only, by the solemnly still ways of
the child, that she must be much left to her own resources, and was
wonderfully developed in consequence--whether healthily or not, he
could not yet tell. The practical question was--how to contrive to be
her occasional companion; how to offer to serve her.
After much thinking, he concluded that he must wait: opportunity might
suggest mode; and he would rather find than make opportunity!