TO BEG FOR MERCY
An upward glance at the clock on the mantel. It was late: within an hour
of midnight. The servants had already gone to bed. Going to their rooms
she gently knocked at the door; called to one of them by name:
"Ellen!"
"Yes, ma'am."
The reply in a frightened, startled voice. The tone betrayed the maid's
fear that she was to hear bad news. The next words were a relief:
"You know where Mr. Masters lives?"
The possibility of a want of knowledge on the part of the servants never
occurred to her. She was not in the least surprised when an affirmative
answer was returned to her:
"Yes, ma'am."
"I want you to get up at once, Ellen--I am sure you will not mind--and
dress yourself quickly. Go to Mr. Masters, give him my compliments, and
ask him--ask him to come here--to be kind enough to come here at once."
"Yes, ma'am. Certainly."
The girl had listened in astonishment, but obediently set about the task
set her. She was fond of children, was Ellen; was thankful too that she
had not, as she had feared at first, been called to hear bad news about
Miss Gracie.
The maid had no thought of grumbling at the late service demanded of
her, although greatly wondering at the message she was to deliver. The
over-wrought, tired woman returned to the sick room and waited.
Presently the little lips--for the hundredth time--shaped the question:
"I want Prince Charlie; won't he come and tell me about the fairy and
Jack?"
The mother's heart was full of thankfulness that she had sent; that she
had humbled herself to do so. She was able to bend over and whisper:
"Yes, darling. Mother has sent for him. He will be here directly."
She was without fear in making the promise; felt so sure he would come.
He was a gentleman, he would understand. He would know how urgent must
be the need which could demand his presence at that late hour--indeed,
to send for him at all. Or would he think--No! The thought was too
horrible! She stifled it.
Waiting, waiting, waiting--weary waiting! At last she heard the maid's
returning steps on the path without; ran to the door and opened it. The
girl spoke reluctantly; what she had to say made the mother turn sick at
heart.
"Said, ma'am, it was too late to come out to-night. He would come round
in the morning."
The mother's mind failed to grasp it: that message. The callous cruelty
of it. It seemed too--too impossible. Had he misunderstood--misjudged
her? Could it be? Had she fallen so low in his estimation? A crimson
flood overspread her face.... After a pause, as if clutching at a straw,
she inquired:
"Did you see him yourself?"
"Yes, ma'am. He seemed to wonder what you could want with him. Said it
would keep, whatever it was, till the morning."
"Keep--till--the--morning!"
Gracie's pleading, her own promise, rang in her ears! Keep till the
morning. The irony of it! She staggered against the wall, passed her
hand across her brow--loath to believe that the author, fond of
children, could behave so--asked again--
"You are quite sure you saw him yourself?"
"Oh, yes, ma'am. I know Mr. Masters quite well by sight." She
did--Masters, the blacksmith! She had been to his shop in the High
Street, and in response to her ringing of his house bell, he had put his
head out of his bedroom window and spoken to her. Not in any very
pleasant tone; he was not pleased that his beauty sleep had been broken
into.
He was an early-to-bed and early-to-rise old man. He could see no sense
in turning out at past eleven o'clock at night for any one. Not even for
a sick child or for the finest lady in the land.
As he went grumbling back to his bed the blacksmith muttered that some
of them fine ladies seemed to think it was a nonner to be at their beck
and call; summat to be proud of, it was, for a poor man like hisself.
None of their airs for him--he wasn't having any, this time. Such was
his grumble; weighted with a plethora of adjectives--of a quite
unprintable kind.
The mother staggered back into the bedroom, to the child's side.
White-faced, trembling in every limb, supported herself by the bed rail.
Noted the hour: past eleven o'clock. The crucial time the doctor had
spoken of was approaching.
Gracie was in a quite rational mood. Her brightly burning eyes were
fixed on her mother as she entered the room, and she spoke at once,
eagerly--as eagerly as the feeble little lips could frame
words--stuttering in her eagerness:
"Has Pr--Prince Charlie come yet, mamma?"
Right down into the depths of despair sank the mother's heart. She took
the child's hot hand in her own; gently brushed the curls away from the
little forehead with the other. As she did so the hot dryness of that
brow was brought to her notice afresh. It was necessary to answer the
child; the reply was gently given. Yet the utterance of each word was as
a stab to her:
"Not--not yet, darling."
A little whimpering, plaintive voice uprose from amongst the pillows:
"I want him, mamma--won't he come?"
How was she to gratify the little one's desire: to get Prince Charlie
there? The doctor had warned her that at this stage the child's demands
were to be granted if possible. If possible. She had sent and he had
refused to come. The doctor's words rang in her ears. If Possible.
She thought of the man sitting--as she knew he would be--shaping with
his pen, fictional pathetic pictures, intended to draw tears from the
tender-hearted. She thought of the real pathos of this child, perhaps
dying, to whom he might bring life and hope by his mere immediate
presence. And he had returned the message: That It Would Keep.
The child tossed uneasily from side to side. The corners of the arched
little mouth went down threateningly. If Possible! Was it possible to
bring him--by any means? Was it possible for her to sink her womanhood
even deeper? To humble herself to Beg of him to come? Would he come even
if she did?
Then the direction came from the little form tossing restlessly from
side to side; the weak voice whispered:
"You said he would come, mamma. Won't you fetch him? He will come if you
fetch him."
Would he? Was that the possibility? Was the little one wise in saying
that? She remembered that out of the mouths of babes and----Well, she
could but try. The mother in her was mighty, stronger than all else:
prevailed.
There was no mental balance used in her decision. No conscious weighing
of pros and cons. The duty--if aught prompted by love is duty--stood
clear before her. Something greater than her own will impelled her
decision. She would at once go to him herself.
Glancing at the clock again, she saw that the recorded time was
half-past eleven. She would go to him. Go on her knees to him: would not
spare herself further. Would beg him, for God's sake, to be more
merciful than he had shown himself in his message. Entreat him not to
put off till to-morrow--when it might be too late--that which could be
done to-night.
Self-blame just then she was very full of; bitterness for not having
gone to him in the first instance herself. Tortured herself with the
thought that it might now be too late. Wondered if God would forgive her
obstinate pride. Still be merciful to her: still let her keep her child.
She bent over the bed and spoke close into the little ear. Made
spasmodic but unavailing attempts to control her emotion: could not
bring herself to utter the words more than just audibly:
"You'll be quite still, darling, won't you, whilst mother goes to fetch
him?"
The face turned upwards. The mother kissed it passionately, tenderly,
again and again. The wasted little arms went round her neck and clung
there gratefully. Mother was going to fetch Prince Charlie!
From the adjoining room the woman who assisted in the child's nursing
came; posted herself by the bedside. Then the mother--staggering as if
the unknown gaped before her--left the room. In the hall slipped on the
cloak which, she remembered, he had buttoned.
She spent no time in seeking a hat. Swung the hood up from behind over
her head. So hurried out of the house.
So, into the night.