He ain't here. But he's well looked after, Millie. Don't you fret
about him. By this time he's sound asleep."
She slipped from his embrace. He made no effort to detain her:
conceiving her secure in his possession. A moment she stood staring at
the floor, lost to her surroundings: then quickly turned to look upon
him--her face aglow with some high tenderness.
"Asleep?" she asked, her voice low, tremulous.
"Sound asleep."
"How do you know that he's asleep?" she pursued. "Asleep? No; he
ain't asleep." She paused--now woebegone. "He's wide awake--waiting,"
she went on. "He's waiting--just like he used to do--for me to come
in.... He's awake. Oh, sore little heart! He's lying alone in the
dark--waiting. And his mother will not come.... Last night, Jim, when
I come in, he was there in the bed, awake and waiting. 'Oh, mother,'
says he, 'I'm glad you're come at last. I been waiting so long. It's
lonesome here in the dark without you. And to-morrow I'll wake, and
wait, and wait; but you will not come!' He's awake, Jim. Don't you
tell me no different. The pillow's wet with his tears.... Lonely
child--waiting for me! Oh, little heart of my baby! Oh, sore little
heart!"
"Millie!"
"It ain't no use no more, Jim. You better go home. I'm all alone. My
child's not here. But--he's somewhere. And it's him I love."
The man sighed and went away....
Left alone, she put the little room in order and made the bed, blinded
by tears, her steps uncertain: muttering incoherently of her child,
whimpering broken snatches of lullaby songs. When there was no more
work left for her hands to do, she staggered to the bureau, and from
the lower drawer took a great, flaunting doll, which she had there
kept, poor soul! against the time when her arms would be empty, her
bosom aching for a familiar weight upon it. And for a time she sat
rocking the cold counterfeit, crooning, faintly singing, caressing it;
but she had known the warmth, the sweet restlessness, the soft,
yielding form of the living child, and could not be content.
Presently, in a surge of disgust, she flung the substitute violently
from her.
"It ain't no baby," she moaned, putting her hands to her face. "It's
only a doll!"
She sank limp to the floor. There she lay prone--the moonlight falling
softly upon her, but healing her not at all.
[Illustration: Tailpiece to _In the Current_]
[Illustration: Headpiece to _The Chorister_]
_THE CHORISTER_
The Rev. John Fithian lived alone with a man-servant in a
wide-windowed, sombre, red old house, elbowed by tenements, near the
Church of the Lifted Cross--once a fashionable quarter: now mean,
dejected, incongruously thronged, and fast losing the last appearances
of respectability. Sombre without--half-lit, silent, vast within: the
whole intolerant of frivolity, inharmony, garishness, ugliness, but yet
quite free of gloom and ghostly suggestion. The boy tiptoed over the
thick carpets, spoke in whispers, eyed the shadowy corners--sensitive
to impressions, forever alert: nevertheless possessing a fine feeling
of security and hopefulness; still wistful, often weeping in the night,
but not melancholy. Responsive to environment, by nature harmonious
with his new surroundings, he presently moved through the lofty old
rooms with a manner reflecting their own--the same gravity, serenity,
old-fashioned grace: expressing even their stateliness in a quaint and
childish way. Thus was the soil of his heart prepared for the seed of
a great change.
By and by the curate enlightened the child concerning sin and the
Vicarious Sacrifice. This was when the leaves were falling from the
trees in the park--a drear, dark night: the wind sweeping the streets
in violent gusts, the rain lashing the windowpanes. Night had come
unnoticed--swiftly, intensely: in the curate's study a change from gray
twilight to firelit shadows. The boy was squatted on the hearth-rug,
disquieted by the malicious beating at the window, glad to be in the
glow of the fire: his visions all of ragged men and women cowering from
the weather.
"It is time, now," the curate sighed, "that I told you the story."
"What story?"
"The story of the Man who died for us."
The boy turned--in wonderment. "I did not know," he said, quickly,
"that a man had died for us. What was his name? Why did he do it? My
mother never told me that story."
"I think she does not know it."
"Then I'll tell her when I learn."
"Perhaps," said the curate, "she will like to hear it--from you."
Very gently, then, in his deep, mellifluous voice--while the rain beat
upon the windows, crying out the sorrows of the poor--the curate
unfolded the poignant story: the terms simple, the recital clear,
vivid, complete.... And to the heart of this child the appeal was
immediate and irresistible.
"And they who sin," the curate concluded, "crucify Him again."
"I love that Jesus!" the boy sobbed. "I love Him--almost as much as
mother."
"Almost?"
The boy misunderstood. He felt reproved. He flushed--ashamed that the
new love had menaced the old. "No," he answered; "but I love Him very
much."
"Not as much?"
"Oh, I could not!"
The boy was never afterwards the same. All that was inharmonious in
life--the pain and poverty and unloveliness--became as sin: a
continuous crucifixion, hateful, wringing the heart....
Late in the night, when he lay sleepless, sick for his mother's
presence, her voice, her kisses, her soothing touch, the boy would rise
to sit at the window--there to watch shadowy figures flit through the
street-lamp's circle of light. Once he fancied that his mother came
thus out of the night, that for a moment she paused with upturned
glance, then disappeared in woe and haste: returning, halted again; but
came no more....
At rare intervals the boy's mother came to the curate's door. She
would not enter: but timidly waited for her son, and then went with him
to the park, relieved to be away from the wide, still house, her
spirits and self-confidence reviving with every step. One mellow
evening, while they sat together in the dusk, an ill-clad man, gray and
unkempt, shuffled near.
"Mother," the boy whispered, gripping her hand, "he is looking at us."
She laughed. "Let him look!" said she. "It don't matter."
The man staggered to the bench--heavily sat down: limp and shameless,
his head hanging.
"Let us go away!" the boy pleaded.
"Why, darling?" his mother asked, puzzled. "What's the matter with
you, anyhow?" She looked at him--realizing some subtle change in him,
bewildered by it: searching eagerly for the nature and cause. "You
didn't used to be like that," she said.
"I don't like him. He's wicked. He frightens me."
The man slipped suddenly from the bench--sprawling upon the walk. The
woman laughed.
"Don't laugh!" the boy exclaimed--a cry of reproach, not free of
indignation. "Oh, mother," he complained, putting her hand to his
cheek, "how could you!"
She did not answer. The derelict picked himself up, whining in a
maudlin way.
"How could you!" the boy repeated.
"Oh," said she, lightly, "he's all right. He won't hurt us."
"He's wicked!"
"He's drunk. It don't matter. What's come over you, dear?"
"I'm afraid," said the boy. "He's sinful."
"He's only drunk, poor man!"
High over the houses beyond, the steeple of the Church of the Lifted
Cross pierced the blue-black sky. It was tipped with a blazing
cross--a great cross, flaming in the night: a symbol of sacrifice, a
hope, a protest, raised above the feverish world. To this the boy
looked. It transported him far from the woman whose hand he clutched.
"They who sin," he muttered, his eyes still turned to the lifted cross,
"crucify the dear Lord again!"
His mother was both mystified and appalled. She followed his
glance--but saw only the familiar landmark: an illuminated cross,
topping a steeple.
"For God's sake, Richard!" she demanded, "what you talking about?"
He did not hear.
"You ain't sick, are you?" she continued.
He shook his head.
"What's the matter with you?" she implored. "Oh, tell your mother!"
He loosened his hand from her clasp, withdrew it: but instantly caught
her hand again, and kissed it passionately. So much concerned was she
for his physical health that the momentary shrinking escaped her.
"You're sick," she said. "I know you are. You're singing too much in
the church."
"No."
"Then you're eating too much lemon pie," she declared, anxiously.
"You're too fond of that. It upsets your stomach. Oh, Richard!
Shame, dear! I told you not to."
"You told me not to eat _much_," he said. "So I don't eat any--to make
sure."
She was aware of the significance of this sacrifice--and kissed him
quickly in fond approval. Then she turned up his coat-sleeve. "The
fool!" she cried. "You got cold. That's what's the matter with you.
Here it is November! And he ain't put your flannels on. That there
curate," she concluded, in disgust, "don't know nothing about raising a
boy."
"I'm quite well, mother."
"Then what's the matter with you?"
"I'm sad!" he whispered.
She caught him to her breast--blindly misconceiving the meaning of
this: in her ignorance concluding that he longed for her, and was sick
because of that.... And while she held him close, the clock of the
Church of the Lifted Cross chimed seven. In haste she put him down,
kissed him, set him on his homeward way; and she watched him until he
was lost in the dusk and distance of the park. Then, concerned,
bewildered, she made haste to that quarter of the city--that swarming,
flaring, blatant place--where lay her occupation for the night.
Near Christmas, in a burst of snowy weather, the boy sang his first
solo at the Church of the Lifted Cross: this at evening. His mother,
conspicuously gowned, somewhat overcome by the fashion of the place,
which she had striven to imitate--momentarily chagrined by her
inexplicable failure to be in harmony--seated herself obscurely, where
she had but an infrequent glimpse of his white robe, wistful face,
dark, curling hair. She had never loved him more proudly--never before
realized that his value extended beyond the region of her arms: never
before known that the babe, the child, the growing boy, mothered by
her, nursed at her breast, her possession, was a gift to the world,
sweet and inspiring. "Angels, ever bright and fair!" She felt the
thrill of his tender voice; perceived the impression: the buzz, the
subsiding confusion, the spell-bound stillness. "Take, oh, take me to
your care!" It was in her heart to strike her breasts--to cry out that
this was her son, born of her; her bosom his place....
When the departing throng had thinned in the aisle, she stepped from
the pew, and stood waiting. There passed, then, a lady in rich
attire--sweet-faced, of exquisite manner. A bluff, ruddy young man
attended her.
"Did you like the music?" he asked--a conventional question: everywhere
repeated.
"Perfectly lovely!" she replied. "A wonderful voice! And such a
pretty child!"
"I wonder," said he, "who the boy can be?"
Acting upon ingenuous impulse, the boy's mother overtook the man,
timidly touched his elbow, looked into his eyes, her own bright with
proud love.
"He is my son," she said.
The lady turned in amazement. In a brief, appraising glance, she
comprehended the whole woman; the outré gown, the pencilled eyebrows,
the rouged cheeks, the bleached hair. She took the man's arm.
"Come!" she said.
The man yielded. He bowed--smiled in an embarrassed way, flushing to
his sandy hair: turned his back.
"How strange!" the lady whispered.
The woman was left alone in the aisle--not chagrined by the rebuff,
being used to this attitude, sensitive no longer: but now knowing, for
the first time, that the world into which her child had gone would not
accept her.... The church was empty. The organ had ceased. One by
one the twinkling lights were going out. The boy came bounding down
the aisle. With a glad little cry he leaped into her waiting arms....
[Illustration: Tailpiece to _The Chorister_]
[Illustration: Headpiece to _Alienation_]
_ALIENATION_
This night, after a week of impatient expectation, they were by the
curate's permission to spend together in the Box Street tenement. It
was the boy's first return to the little room overlooking the river.
Thither they hurried through the driving snow, leaning to the blasts,
unconscious of the bitterness of the night: the twain in high
spirits--the boy chattering, merrily, incoherently, as he trotted at
his silent mother's side. Very happy, now, indeed, they raced up the
stair, rioting up flight after flight, to top floor rear, where there
was a cheery fire, a kettle bubbling on the stove, a lamp turned low--a
feeling of warmth and repose and welcome, which the broad window,
noisily shaken by a hearty winter wind from the sea, pleasantly
accentuated.
The gladness of this return, the sudden, overwhelming realization of a
longing that had been agonizing in its intensity, excited the boy
beyond bounds. He gave an indubitable whoop of joy, which so startled
and amazed the woman that she stared open-mouthed; tossed his cap in
the air, flung his overcoat and gloves on the floor, peeped through the
black window-panes, pried into the cupboard, hugged his mother so
rapturously, so embarrassingly, that he tumbled her over and was
himself involved in the hilarious collapse: whereupon, as a measure of
protection while she laid the table, she despatched him across the hall
to greet Mr. Poddle, who was ill abed, anxiously awaiting him.
The Dog-faced Man was all prinked for the occasion--his hirsute
adornment neatly brushed and braided, smoothly parted from crown over
brow and nose to chin: so that, though, to be sure, his appearance
instantly suggested a porcupine, his sensitive lips and mild gray eyes
were for once allowed to impress the beholder. The air of Hockley's
Musee had at last laid him by the heels. No longer, by any license of
metaphor, could his lungs be said to be merely restless. He was flat
on his back--white, wan, gasping: sweat dampening the hair on his brow.
But he bravely chirked up when the child entered, subdued and pitiful;
and though, in response to a glance of pain and concern, his eyes
overran with the weak tears of the sick, he smiled like a man to whom
Nature had not been cruel, while he pressed the small hand so swiftly
extended.
"I'm sick, Richard," he whispered. "'Death No Respecter of Persons.'
Git me? 'High and Low Took By the Grim Reaper.' I'm awful sick."
The boy, now seated on the bed, still holding the ghastly hand, hoped
that Mr. Poddle would soon be well.
"No," said the Dog-faced Man. "I won't. 'Climax of a Notable Career.'
Git me? It wouldn't--be proper."
Not proper?
"No, Richard. It really wouldn't be proper. 'Dignified in Death.'
Understand? Distinguished men has their limits. 'Outlived His Fame.'
I really couldn't stand it. Git me?"
"Not--quite."
"Guess I'll have to tell you. Look!" The Dog-faced Man held up his
hand--but swiftly replaced it between the child's warm, sympathetic
palms. "No rings. Understand? 'Pawned the Family Jewells.' Git me?
'Reduced to Poverty.' Where's my frock coat? Where's my silk hat?
'Wardrobe of a Celebrity Sold For A Song.' Where's them two pair of
trousers? 'A Tragic Disappearance.' All up the spout. Everything
gone. 'Not a Stitch to His Name.' Really, Richard, it wouldn't be
proper to get well. A natural phenomenon of my standing
couldn't--simply _couldn't_, Richard--go back to the profession with a
wardrobe consistin' of two pink night-shirts, both the worse for wear.
It wouldn't _do_! On the Stage In Scant Attire.' I couldn't stand it.
'Fell From His High Estate.' It would break my heart."
No word of comfort occurred to the boy.
"So," sighed the Dog-faced Man, "I guess I better die. And the
quicker the better."
To change the distressful drift of the conversation, the boy inquired
concerning the Mexican Sword Swallower.
"Hush!" implored Mr. Poddle, in a way so poignant that the boy wished
he had been more discreet. "Them massive proportions! Them socks!
'Her Fate a Tattooed Man,'" he pursued, in gentle melancholy. "Don't
ask me! 'Nearing the Fateful Hour.' Poor child!' Wedded To A
Artificial Freak.'"
"Is she married?"
"No--not yet," Mr. Poddle explained. "But when the dragon's tail is
finished, accordin' to undenigeable report, the deed will be did.
'Shackled For Life.' Oh, my God! He's borrowed the money to pay the
last installment; and I'm informed that only the scales has to be
picked out with red. But why should I mourn?" he asked. "'Adored From
Afar.' Understand? That's what I got to do. 'His Love a Tragedy.'
Oh, Richard," Mr. Poddle concluded, in genuine distress, "that's me!
It couldn't be nothing else. Natural phenomens is natural phenomens.
'Paid the Penalty of Genius.' That's me!"
The boy's mother called to him.
"Richard," said Mr. Poddle, abruptly, "I'm awful sick. I can't last
much longer. Git me? I'm dyin'. And I'm poor. I ain't got a cent.
I'm forgot by the public. I'm all alone in the world. Nobody owes me
no kindness." He clutched the boy's hand. "Know who pays my rent?
Know who feeds me? Know who brings the doctor when I vomit blood?
Know who sits with me in the night--when I can't sleep? Know who
watches over me? Who comforts me? Who holds my hand when I git afraid
to die? Know who that is, Richard?"
"Yes," the boy whispered.
"Who is it?"
"My mother!"
"Yes--your mother," said the Dog-faced Man. He lifted himself on the
pillow. "Richard," he continued, "listen to me! I'll be dead, soon,
and then I can't talk to you no more. I can't say no word to you from
the grave--when the time she dreads has come. Listen to me!" His
voice rose. He was breathing in gasps. There was a light in his eyes.
"It is your mother. There ain't a better woman in all the world.
Listen to me! Don't you forget her. She loves you. You're all she's
got. Her poor heart is hungry for you. Don't you forget her. There
ain't a better woman nowhere. There ain't a woman more fit for heaven.
Don't you go back on her! Don't you let no black-and-white curick
teach you no different!"
"I'll not forget!" said the boy.
Mr. Poddle laid a hand on his head. "God bless you, Richard!" said he.
The boy kissed him, unafraid of his monstrous countenance--and then
fled to his mother....
For a long time the Dog-faced Man lay alone, listening to the voices
across the hall: himself smiling to know that the woman had her son
again; not selfishly reluctant to be thus abandoned. The door was
ajar. Joyous sounds drifted in--chatter, soft laughter, the rattle of
dishes.... Presently, silence: broken by the creaking of the
rocking-chair, and by low singing.... By and by, voices, speaking
gravely--in intimate converse: this for a long, long time, while the
muttering of the tenement ceased, and quiet fell.... A plea and an
imploring protest. She was wanting him to go to bed. There followed
the familiar indications that the child was being disrobed: shoes
striking the floor, yawns, sleepy talk, crooning encouragement....
Then a strange silence--puzzling to the listener: not accountable by
his recollection of similar occasions.
There was a quick step in the hall.
"Poddle!"
The Dog-faced Man started. There was alarm in the voice--despair,
resentment. On the threshold stood the woman--distraught: one hand
against the door-post, the other on her heart.
"Poddle, he's----"
Mr. Poddle, thrown into a paroxysm of fright by the pause, struggled to
his elbow, but fell back, gasping.
"What's he doin'?" he managed to whisper.
"Prayin'!" she answered, hoarsely.
Mr. Poddle was utterly nonplussed. The situation was unprecedented:
not to be dealt with on the basis of past experience.
"'Religion In Haste,'" he sighed, sadly confounded. "'Repent At
Leisure.'"
"Prayin'!" she repeated, entering on tiptoe. "He's down on his
knees--_prayin'_!" She began to pace the floor--wringing her hands: a
tragic figure. "It's come, Poddle!" she whimpered, beginning now to
bite at her fingernails. "He's changed. He never seen me pray. _I_
never told him how. Oh, he's--different. And he'll change more. I
got to face it. He'll soon be like the people that--that--don't
understand us. I couldn't stand it to see that stare in his eyes.
It'll kill me, Poddle! I knew it would come," she continued,
uninterrupted, Mr. Poddle being unable to come to her assistance for
lack of breath. "But I didn't think it would be so--awful soon. And I
didn't know how much it would hurt. I didn't _think_ about it. I
didn't dare. Oh, my baby!" she sobbed. "You'll not love your mother
any more--when you find her out. You'll be just like--all them
people!" She came to a full stop. "Poddle," she declared, trembling,
her voice rising harshly, "I got to do something. I got to do
it--_quick_! What shall I do? Oh, what shall I do?"
Mr. Poddle drew a long breath. "Likewise!" he gasped.
She did not understand.
"Likewise!" Mr. Poddle repeated. "'Fought the Devil With Fire.'
Quick!" He weakly beckoned her to be off. "Don't--let him
know--you're different. Go and--pray yourself. Don't--let on
you--never done it--before."
She gave him a glad glance of comprehension--and disappeared...
The boy had risen.
"Oh!" she exclaimed, brightly. "You got through, didn't you, dear?"
He was now sitting on the edge of the bed, his legs dangling--still
reluctant to crawl within. And he was very gravely regarding her, a
cloud of anxious wonder in his eyes.
"Who taught you to," she hesitated, "do it--that way?" she pursued,
making believe to be but lightly interested. "The curate? Oh, my!"
she exclaimed, immediately changing the thought. "Your mother's awful
sleepy." She counterfeited a yawn. "I never kneel to--do it," she
continued. In a sharp glance she saw the wonder clearing from his
eyes, the beginnings of a smile appear about his lips; and she was
emboldened to proceed. "Some kneels," she said, "and some doesn't.
The curate, I suppose, kneels. That's his way. Now, _I_ don't. I was
brought up--the other way. I wait till I get in bed to--say mine.
When you was a baby," she rattled, "I used to--keep it up--for hours at
a time. I just _love_ to--do it. In bed, you know. I guess you never
seen me kneel, did you? But I think I will, after this, because
you--do it--that way."
His serenity was quite restored. Glad to learn that his mother knew
the solace of prayer, he rolled back on the pillows. She tucked him in.
"Now, watch me," she said.
"And I," said he, "will pray all over again. In bed," he added;
"because that's the way _you_ do it."
She knelt. "In God's name!" she thought, as she inclined her bead,
"what can I do? I've lost him. Oh, I've lost him.... What'll I do
when he finds out? He'll not love me then. Love me!" she thought,
bitterly. "He'll look at me like them people in the church. I can't
stand it! I got to _do_ something.... It won't be long. They'll tell
him--some one. And I can't do nothing to help it! But I _got_ to do
something.... My God! I got to do something. I'll dress better than
this. This foulard's a botch." New fashions in dress, in coiffures,
multiplied in her mind. She was groping, according to her poor
enlightenment. "The pompadour!" she mused, inspired, according to the
inspiration of her kind. "It might suit my style. I'll try it....
But, oh, it won't do no good," she thought, despairing. "_It_ won't do
no good.... I've lost him! Good God! I've lost my own child...."
She rose.
"It took you an awful long time," said the boy.
"Yes," she answered, absently. "I'm the real thing. When I pray, I
pray good and hard."
[Illustration: Tailpiece to _Alienation_]
[Illustration: Headpiece to _A Child's Prayer_]
_A CHILD'S PRAYER_