chamber--which, indeed, was severe and chaste enough: for the curate
practiced certain monkish austerities not common to the clergy of this
day. It was a white, bare little room, at the top of the house,
overlooking the street: a still place, into which, at bedtime, no
distraction entered to break the nervous introspection, the high,
wistful dreaming, sadly habitual to the child when left alone in the
dark. But always, of fine mornings, the sun came joyously to waken
him; and often, in the night, when he lay wakeful, the moon peeped in
upon the exquisite simplicity, and, discovering a lonely child,
companionably lingered to hearten him. The beam fell over the
window-sill, crawled across the floor, climbed the bare wall.
There was a great white crucifix on the wall, hanging in the broad path
of the moonlight. It stared at the boy's pillow, tenderly appealing:
the head thorn-crowned, the body drawn tense, the face uplifted in
patient agony. Sometimes it made the boy cry.
"They who sin," he would repeat, "crucify the dear Lord again!"
It would be very hard, then, to fall asleep....
So did the crucifix on the wall work within the child's heart--so did
the shadows of the wide, still house impress him, so did the curate's
voice and gentle teaching, so did the gloom, the stained windows, the
lofty arches, the lights and low, sweet music of the Church of the
Lifted Cross favour the subtle change--that he was now moved to pain
and sickening disgust by rags and pinched faces and discord and dirt
and feverish haste and all manner of harshness and unloveliness,
conceiving them poignant as sin....
Mother and son were in the park. It was evening--dusk: a grateful balm
abroad in the air. Men and women, returning from church, idled through
the spring night.
"But, dear," said his mother, while she patted his hand, "you mustn't
_hate_ the wicked!"
He looked up in wonder.
"Oh, my! no," she pursued. "Poor things! They're not so bad--when you
know them. Some is real kind."
"I could not _love_ them!"
"Why not?"
"I _could_ not!"
So positive, this--the suggestion so scouted--that she took thought for
her own fate.
"Would you love me?" she asked.
"Oh, mother!" he laughed.
"What would you do," she gravely continued, "if I was--a wicked woman?"
He laughed again.
"What would you do," she insisted, "if somebody told you I was bad?"
"Mother," he answered, not yet affected by her earnestness, "you could
not be!"
She put her hands on his shoulders. "What would you do?" she repeated.
"Don't!" he pleaded, disquieted.
Again the question--low, intense, demanding answer. He trembled. She
was not in play. A sinful woman? For a moment he conceived the
possibility--vaguely: in a mere flash of feeling.
"What would you do?"
"I don't know!"
She sighed.
"I think," he whispered, "that I'd--die!"
That night, when the moonlight had climbed to the crucifix on the wall,
the boy got out of bed. For a long time he stood in the beam of soft
light--staring at the tortured Figure.
"I think I'd better do it!" he determined.
He knelt--lifted his clasped hands--began his childish appeal.
"Dear Jesus," he prayed, "my mother says that I must not hate the
wicked. You heard her, didn't you, dear Jesus? It was in the park,
to-night, after church--at the bench near the lilac bush. You _must_
have heard her.... Mother says the wicked are kind, and not so bad. I
would like very much to love them. She says they're nice--when you
know them. I know she's right, of course. But it seems queer. And
she says I _ought_ to love them. So I want to do it, if you don't
mind.... Maybe, if you would let me be a little wicked for a little
while, I could do it. Don't you think, Jesus, dear, that it is a good
idea? A little wicked--for just a little while. I wouldn't care very
much, if you didn't mind. But if it hurts you very much, I don't want
to, if you please.... But I would like to be a little wicked. If I
do, please don't forget me. I would not like to be wicked long. Just
a little while. Then I would be good again--and love the wicked, as my
mother wants me to do. Good-bye. I mean--Amen!"
The child knew nothing about sin.
[Illustration: Tailpiece to _A Child's Prayer_]
[Illustration: Headpiece to _Mr. Poddle's Finale_]
_MR. PODDLE'S FINALE_
Of a yellow, balmy morning, with a languid breeze stirring the curtains
in the open windows of the street, a hansom cab, drawn by a lean gray
beast, appeared near the curate's door. What with his wild career, the
nature of his errand, the extraordinary character of his fare, the
driver was all elbows and eyes--a perspiring, gesticulating figure,
swaying widely on the high perch.
Within was a lady so monstrously stout that she completely filled the
vehicle. Rolls of fat were tucked into every nook, jammed into every
corner, calked into every crevice; and, at last, demanding place, they
scandalously overflowed the apron. So tight was the fit--so crushed
and confined the lady's immensity--that, being quite unable to
articulate or stir, but desiring most heartily to do both, she could do
little but wheeze, and faintly wave a gigantic hand.
Proceeding thus--while the passenger gasped, and the driver
gesticulated, and the hansom creaked and tottered, and the outraged
horse bent to the fearful labour--the equipage presently arrived at the
curate's door, and was there drawn up with a jerk.
The Fat Lady was released, assisted to alight, helped across the
pavement; and having waddled up three steps of the flight, and being
unable without a respite to lift her massive foot for the fourth time,
she loudly demanded of the impassive door the instant appearance of
Dickie Slade: whereupon, the door flew open, and the boy bounded out.
"Madame Lacara!" he cried.
"Quick, child!" the Fat Lady wheezed. "Git your hat. Your mother
can't stay no longer--and I can't get up the stairs--and Poddle's
dyin'--and _git your hat_!"
In a moment the boy returned. The Fat Lady was standing beside the
cab--the exhausted horse contemplating her with no friendly eye.
"Git in!" said she.
"Don't you do it," the driver warned.
"Git in!" the Fat Lady repeated.
"Not if he knows what's good for him," said the driver. "Not first."
The boy hesitated.
"Git in, child!" screamed the Fat Lady.
"Don't you do it," said the driver.
"Child," the Fat Lady gasped, exasperated, "git in!"
"Not first," the driver repeated. "There ain't room for both; and once
she lets her weight down----"
"Maybe," the Fat Lady admitted, after giving the matter most careful
consideration, "it would be better for you to set on me."
"Maybe," the boy agreed, much relieved, "it would."
So Madame Lacara entered, and took the boy in her arms; and off, at
last, they went towards the Box Street tenement, swaying, creaking,
wheezing, with a troop of joyous urchins in the wake....
It was early afternoon--with the sunlight lying thick and warm on the
window-ledge of Mr. Poddle's room, about to enter, to distribute cheer,
to speak its unfailing promises. The sash was lifted high; a gentle
wind, clean and blue, blowing from the sea, over the roofs and the
river, came sportively in, with a joyous little rush and swirl--but of
a sudden failed: hushed, as though by unexpected encounter with the
solemnity within.
The boy's mother was gone. It was of a Saturday; she had not dared to
linger. When the boy entered, Mr. Poddle lay alone, lifted on the
pillows, staring deep into the wide, shining sky: composed and
dreamful. The distress of his deformity, as the pains of dissolution,
had been mitigated by the woman's kind and knowing hand: the tawny
hair, by nature rank and shaggy, by habit unkempt, now damp with sweat,
was everywhere laid smooth upon his face--brushed away from the eyes:
no longer permitted to obscure the fast failing sight.
Beside him, close--drawing closer--the boy seated himself. Very low
and broken--husky, halting--was the Dog-faced Man's voice. The boy
must often bend his ear to understand.
"The hirsute," Mr. Poddle whispered, "adornment. All ready for the
last appearance. 'Natural Phenomonen Meets the Common Fate.'
Celebrities," he added, with a little smile, "is just clay."
The boy took his hand.
"She done it," Mr. Poddle explained, faintly indicating the unusual
condition of his deforming hair, "with a little brush."
"She?" the boy asked, with significant emphasis.
"No," Mr. Poddle sighed. "Hush! Not She--just her."
By this the boy knew that the Mexican Sword Swallower had not
relented--but that his mother had been kind.
"She left that there little brush somewheres," Mr. Poddle continued,
with an effort to lift his head, but failing to do more than roll his
glazed eyes. "There was a little handkerchief with it. Can't you find
'em, Richard? I wish you could. They make me--more comfortable. Oh,
I'm glad you got 'em! I feel easier--this way. She said you'd stay
with me--to the last. She said, Richard, that maybe you'd keep the
hair away from my eyes, and the sweat from rollin' in. For I'm easier
that way; and I want to _see_," he moaned, "to the last!"
The boy pressed his hand.
"I'm tired of the hair," Mr. Poddle sighed. "I used to be proud of it;
but I'm tired of it--now. It's been admired, Richard; it's been
applauded. Locks of it has been requested by the Fair; and the Strong
has wished they was me. But, Richard, celebrities sits on a lonely
eminence. And I _been_ lonely, God knows! though I kept a smilin'
face.... I'm tired of the hair--tired of fame. It all looks
different--when you git sight of the Common Leveller. 'Tired of His
Talent.' Since I been lyin' here, Richard, sick and alone, I been
thinkin' that talent wasn't nothin' much after all. I been wishin',
Richard--wishin'!"
The Dog-faced Man paused for breath.
"I been wishin'," he gasped, "that I wasn't a phenomonen--but only a
man!"
The sunlight began to creep towards Mr. Poddle's bed--a broad, yellow
beam, stretching into the blue spaces without: lying like a golden
pathway before him.
"Richard," said Mr. Poddle, "I'm goin' to die."
The boy began to cry.
"Don't cry!" Mr. Poddle pleaded. "I ain't afraid. Hear me, Richard?
I ain't afraid."
"No, no!"
"I'm glad to die. 'Death the Dog-faced Man's Best Friend.' I'm glad!
Lyin' here, I seen the truth. It's only when a man looks back that he
finds out what he's missed--only when he looks back, from the end of
the path, that he sees the flowers he might have plucked by the way....
Lyin' here, I been lookin' back--far back. And my eyes is opened. Now
I see--now I know! I have been travellin' a road where the flowers
grows thick. But God made me so I couldn't pick 'em. It's love,
Richard, that men wants. Just love! It's love their hearts is thirsty
for.... And there wasn't no love--for me. I been awful thirsty,
Richard; but there wasn't no water anywhere in all the world--for me.
'Spoiled In the Making.' That's me. 'God's Bad Break.' Oh, that's
me! I'm not a natural phenomonen no more. I'm only a freak of nature.
I ain't got no kick comin'. I stand by what God done. Maybe it wasn't
no mistake; maybe He wanted to show all the people in the world what
would happen if He was in the habit of gittin' careless. Anyhow, I
guess He's man enough to stand by the job He done. He made me what I
am--a freak. I ain't to blame. But, oh, my God! Richard, it
hurts--to be that!"
The boy brushed the tears from the Dog-faced Man's eyes.
"No," Mr. Poddle repeated. "I ain't afraid to die. For I been
thinkin'--since I been lyin' here, sick and alone--I been thinkin' that
us mistakes has a good deal----"
The boy bent close.
"Comin' to us!"
The sunlight was climbing the bed-post.
"I been lookin' back," Mr. Poddle repeated. "Things don't look the
same. You gits a bird's-eye view of life--from your deathbed. And it
looks--somehow--different."
There was a little space of silence--while the Dog-faced Man drew long
breaths: while his wasted hand wandered restlessly over the coverlet.
"You got the little brush, Richard?" he asked, his voice changing to a
tired sigh. "The adornment has got in the way again."
The boy brushed back the fallen hair--wiped away the sweat.
"Your mother," said Mr. Poddle, faintly smiling, "does it better.
She's used--to doing it. You ain't--done it--quite right--have you?
You ain't got--all them hairs--out of the way?"
"Yes."
"Not all," Mr. Poddle gently persisted; "because I can't--see--very
well."
While the boy humoured the fancy, Mr. Poddle lay musing--his hand still
straying over the coverlet: still feverishly searching.
"I used to think, Richard," he whispered, "that it ought to be done--in
public." He paused--a flash of alarm in his eyes. "Do you hear me,
Richard?" he asked.
"Yes."
"Sure?"
"Oh, yes!"
Mr. Poddle frowned--puzzled, it may be, by the distant sound, the
muffled, failing rumble, of his own voice.
"I used to think," he repeated, dismissing the problem, as beyond him,
"that I'd like to do it--in public."
The boy waited.
"Die," Mr. Poddle explained.
A man went whistling gaily past the door. The merry air, the buoyant
step, were strangely not discordant; nor was the sunshine, falling over
the foot of the bed.
"'Last Appearance of a Famous Freak!'" Mr. Poddle elucidated, his eyes
shining with delight--returning, all at once, to his old manner. "Git
me, Richard?" he continued, excitedly. "'Fitting Finale! Close of a
Curious Career! Mr. Henry Poddle, the eminent natural phenomonen, has
consented to depart this life on the stage of Hockley's Musee, on
Sunday next, in the presence of three physicians, a trained nurse, a
minister of the gospel and a undertaker. Unparalleled Entertainment!
The management has been at unprecedented expense to git this unique
feature. Death Defied! A Extraordinary Educational Exhibition! Note:
Mr. Poddle will do his best to oblige his admirers and the patrons of
the house by dissolving the mortal tie about the hour of ten o'clock;
but the management cannot guarantee that the exhibition will conclude
before midnight.'" Mr. Poddle made a wry face--with yet a glint of
humour about it. "'Positively,'" said he, "'the last appearance of
this eminent freak. No return engagement.'"
Again the buoyant step in the hall, the gaily whistled air--departing:
leaving an expectant silence.
"Do it," Mr. Poddle gasped, worn out, "in public. But since I been
lyin' here," he added, "lookin' back, I seen the error. The public,
Richard, has no feelin'. They'd laugh--if I groaned. I don't like the
public--no more. I don't want to die--in public. I want," he
concluded, his voice falling to a thin, exhausted whisper, "only your
mother--and you, Richard--and----"
"Did you say--Her?"
"The Lovely One!"
"I'll bring her!" said the boy, impulsively.
"No, no! She wouldn't come. I been--in communication--recent. And
she writ back. Oh, Richard, she writ back! My heart's broke!"
The boy brushed the handkerchief over the Dog-faced Man's eyes.
"'Are you muzzled,' says she, 'in dog days?'"
"Don't mind her!" cried the boy.
"In the eyes of the law, Richard," Mr. Poddle exclaimed, his eyes
flashing, "I ain't no dog!"
The boy kissed his forehead--there was no other comfort to offer: and
the caress was sufficient.
"I wish," Mr. Poddle sighed, "that I knew how God will look at
it--to-night!"
Mr. Poddle, exhausted by speech and emotion, closed his eyes. By and
by the boy stealthily withdrew his hand from the weakening clasp. Mr.
Poddle gave no sign of knowing it. The boy slipped away.... And
descending to the third floor of the tenement, he came to the room
where lived the Mexican Sword Swallower: whom he persuaded to return
with him to Mr. Poddle's bedside.
They paused at the door. The woman drew back.
"Aw, Dick," she simpered, "I hate to!"
"Just this once!" the boy pleaded.
"Just to say it!"
The reply was a bashful giggle.
"You don't have to _mean_ it," the boy argued. "Just _say_ it--that's
all!"
They entered. Mr. Poddle was muttering the boy's name--in a vain
effort to lift his voice. His hands were both at the
coverlet--picking, searching: both restless in the advancing sunshine.
With a sob of self-reproach the boy ran quickly to the bedside, took
one of the wandering hands, pressed it to his lips. And Mr. Poddle
sighed, and lay quiet again.
"Mr. Poddle," the boy whispered, "she's come at last."
There was no response.
"She's come!" the boy repeated. He gave the hand he held to the woman.
Then he put his lips close to the dying man's ear. "Don't you hear me?
She's come!"
Mr. Poddle opened his eyes. "Her--massive--proportions!" he faltered.
"Quick!" said the boy.
"Poddle," the woman lied, "I love you!"
Then came the Dog-faced Man's one brief flash of ecstasy--expressed in
a wondrous glance of joy and devotion: but a swiftly fading fire.
"She loves me!" he muttered.
"I do, Poddle!" the woman sobbed, willing, now, for the grotesque
deception. "Yes, I do!"
"'Beauty,'" Mr. Poddle gasped, "'and the Beast!'"
They listened intently. He said no more.... Soon the sunbeam
glorified the smiling face....
[Illustration: Tailpiece to _Mr. Poddle's Finale_]
[Illustration: Headpiece to _His Mother_]
_HIS MOTHER_
While he waited for his mother to come--seeking relief from the
melancholy and deep mystification of this death--the boy went into the
street. The day was well disposed, the crowded world in an amiable
mood; he perceived no menace--felt no warning of catastrophe. He
wandered far, unobservant, forgetful: the real world out of mind. And
it chanced that he lost his way; and he came, at last, to that loud,
seething place, thronged with unquiet faces, where, even in the
sunshine, sin and poverty walked abroad, unashamed.... Rush, crash,
joyless laughter, swollen flesh, red eyes, shouting, rags, disease:
flung into the midst of it--transported from the sweet feeling and
quiet gloom of the Church of the Lifted Gross--he was confused and
frightened....
A hand fell heartily on the boy's shoulder. "Hello, there!" cried a
big voice. "Ain't you Millie Blade's kid?"
"Yes, sir," the boy gasped.
It was a big man--a broad-shouldered, lusty fellow, muscular and lithe:
good-humoured and dull of face, winning of voice and manner.
Countenance and voice were vaguely familiar to the boy. He felt no
alarm.
"What the devil you doing here?" the man demanded. "Looking for
Millie?"
"Oh, no!" the boy answered, horrified. "My mother isn't--_here_!"
"Well, what you doing?"
"I'm lost."
The man laughed. He clapped the boy on the back. "Don't you be
afraid," said he, sincerely hearty. "I'll take you home. You know me,
don't you?"
"Not your name."
"Anyhow, you remember me, don't you? You've seen me before?"
"Yes, sir."
"Well, my name's Jim Millette. I'm an acrobat. And I know you. Why,
sure! I remember when you was born. Me and your mother is old
friends. Soon as I seen you I knew who you was. 'By gad!' says I, 'if
that ain't Millie Slade's kid!' How is she, anyhow?"
"She's very well."
"Working?"
"No," the boy answered, gravely; "my mother does not work."
The man whistled.
"I am living with Mr. Fithian, the curate," said the boy, with a sigh.
"So my mother is having--a very good--time."
"She must be lonely."
The boy shook his head. "Oh, no!" said he. "She is much
happier--without me."
"She's _what_?"
"Happier," the boy repeated, "without me. If she were not," he added,
"I would not live with the curate."
The man laughed. It was in pity--not in merriment. "Well, say," he
said, "when you see your mother, you tell her you met Jim Millette on
the street. Will you? You tell her Jim's been--married. She'll
understand. And I guess she'll be glad to know it. And, say, I guess
she'll wonder who it's to. You tell her it's the little blonde of the
Flying Tounsons. She'll know I ain't losing anything, anyhow, by
standing in with that troupe. Tell her it's all right. You just tell
her I said that everything was all right. Will you?"
"Yes, sir."
"You ain't never been to a show, have you?" the man continued. "I
thought not. Well, say, you come along with me. It ain't late. We'll
see the after-piece at the Burlesque. I'll take you in."
"I think," said the boy, "I had better not."
"Aw, come on!" the acrobat urged.
"I'm awful glad to see you, Dick," he added, putting his arm around the
boy, of kind impulse; "and I'd like to give you a good time--for
Millie's sake."
The boy was still doubtful. "I had better go home," he said.
"Oh, now, don't you be afraid of me, Dick. I'll take you home after
the show. We got lots of time. Aw, come on!"
It occurred to the boy that Providence had ordered events in answer to
his prayer.
"Thank you," he said.
"You'll have a good time," the acrobat promised. "They say Flannigan's
got a good show."
They made their way to the Burlesque. Flannigan's Forty Flirts there
held the boards. "Girls! Just Girls! Grass Widows and Merry Maids!
No Nonsense About 'Em! Just Girls! Girls!" The foul and tawdry
aspect of the entrance oppressed the child. He felt some tragic
foreboding....
Within it was dark to the boy's eyes. The air was hot and
foul--stagnant, exhausted: the stale exhalation of a multitude of lungs
which vice was rotting; tasting of their very putridity. A mist of
tobacco smoke filled the place--was still rising in bitter, stifling
clouds. There was a nauseating smell of beer and sweat and
disinfectants. The boy's foot felt the unspeakable slime of the floor:
he tingled with disgust.
An illustrated song was in listless progress. The light, reflected
from the screen, revealed a throng of repulsive faces, stretching, row
upon row, into the darkness of the rear, into the shadows of the
roof--sickly and pimpled and bloated flesh: vicious faces, hopeless,
vacuous, diseased. And these were the faces that leered and writhed in
the boy's dreams of hell. Here, present and tangible, were gathered
all his terrors. He was in the very midst of sin.
The song was ended. The footlights flashed high. There was a burst of
blatant music--a blare: unfeeling and discordant. It grated
agonizingly. The boy's sensitive ear rebelled. He shuddered....
Screen and curtain disappeared. In the brilliant light beyond, a group
of brazen women began to cavort and sing. Their voices were harsh and
out of tune. At once the faces in the shadow started into eager
interest--the eyes flashing, with some strangely evil passion, unknown
to the child, but acutely felt.... There was a shrill shout of
welcome--raised by the women, without feeling. Down the stage, her
person exposed, bare-armed, throwing shameless glances, courting the
sensual stare, grinning as though in joyous sympathy with the evil of
the place, came a woman with blinding blonde hair.
It was the boy's mother.
"Millie!" the acrobat ejaculated.
The boy had not moved. He was staring at the woman on the stage. A
flush of shame, swiftly departing, had left his face white. Presently
he trembled. His lips twitched--his head drooped. The man laid a
comforting hand on his knee. A tear splashed upon it.
"I didn't know she was here, Dick!" the acrobat whispered. "It's a
shame. But I didn't know. And I--I'm--sorry!"
The boy looked up. He called a smile to his face. It was a brave
pretense. But his face was still wan.
"I think I'd like to go home," he answered, weakly. "It's--time--for
tea."
"Don't feel bad, Dick! It's all right. _She's_ all right."
"If you please," said the boy, still resolutely pretending ignorance,
"I think I'd like to go--now."
The acrobat waited for a blast of harsh music to subside. The boy's
mother began to sing--a voice trivially engaged: raised beyond its
strength. A spasm of distress contorted the boy's face.
"Brace up, Dick!" the man whispered. "Don't take it so hard."
"If you please," the boy protested, "I'll be late for tea if I don't go
now."
The acrobat took his hand--guided him, stumbling, up the aisle: led him
into the fresh air, the cool, clean sunlight, of the street.... There
had been sudden confusion on the stage. The curtain had fallen with a
rush. But it was now lifted, again, and the dismal entertainment was
once more in noisy course.
It was now late in the afternoon. The pavement was thronged. Dazed by
agony, blinded by the bright light of day, the boy was roughly jostled.
The acrobat drew him into an eddy of the stream. There the child
offered his hand--and looked up with a dogged little smile.
"Good-bye," he said. "Thank you."
The acrobat caught the hand in a warm clasp. "You don't know your way
home, do you?" he asked.
"No, sir."
"Where you going?"
The boy looked away. There was a long interval. Into the shuffle and
chatter of the passing crowd crept the muffled blare of the orchestra.
The acrobat still held the boy's hand tight--still anxiously watched
him, his face overcast.
"Box Street?" he asked.
"No, sir."
"Aw, Dick! think again," the acrobat pleaded. "Come, now! Ain't you
going to Box Street?"