[Illustration: Cover]

[Illustration: The Mother

[Frontispiece: The Mother]

[Illustration: Title page]

The Mother

by

Norman Duncan

Fleming H. Revell Company

Publishers

[Illustration: Copyright]

Copyright 1905

by

Fleming H. Revell Company

New York -- Chicago -- Toronto

[Illustration: Dedication]

To

E. H. D. 

[Illustration: Decorations]

The Decorations

In This Book Were

Designed by H. E. Fritz

[Illustration: Decoration]

Contents

 BY PROXY THE RIVER A GARDEN OF LIES THE CELEBRITY IN LOVE AT MIDNIGHT A MEETING BY CHANCE RENUNCIATION IN THE CURRENT THE CHORISTER ALIENATION A CHILD'S PRAYER

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 MR. PODDLE'S FINALE HIS MOTHER NEARING THE SEA THE LAST APPEAL

[Illustration: Headpiece to _By Proxy_]

_BY PROXY_

It will be recalled without effort--possibly, indeed, withoutinterest--that the obsequies of the old Senator Boligand were adistinguished success: a fashionable, proper function, ordered by theyoung widow with exquisite taste, as all the world said, and conductedwithout reproach, as the undertaker and the clergy very heartilyagreed. At the Church of the Lifted Cross, the incident of the child, the blonde lady and the mysteriously veiled man, who sat in awe andbewildered amazement where the shadows gave deepest seclusion, escapednotice. Not that the late Senator Boligand was in life aware of theexistence of the child or the lady or the strange fellow with the veil. Nothing of the sort. The one was the widow of Dick Slade, the otherhis son, born in wedlock; and the third was the familiar counsellor andintimate of them all. The Senator was for once turned to good account:was made contributor to the sweetness of life, to the comfort of thehumble. That was all. And I fancy that the shade of the grim oldrobber, lurking somewhere in the softly coloured gloom of the chancel, was not altogether averse to the farce in which his earthly tabernaclewas engaged. . . . 

When Dick Slade died in the big red tenement of Box Street, he died asother men die, complaining of the necessity; and his son, in the way ofall tender children, sorely wept: not because his father was now lostto him, which was beyond his comprehension, but because the man must beput in a grave--a cold place, dark and suffocating, being underground, as the child had been told. 

"I don't want my father, " he woefully protested, "to be planted!"

"Planted!" cried the mother, throwing up her hands in indignant denial. "Who told you he'd be planted?"

"Madame Lacara. "

"She's a liar, " said the woman, composedly, without resentment. "We'llcut the _planting_ out of _this_ funeral. " Her ingenuity, herresourcefulness, her daring, when the happiness of her child wasconcerned, were usually sufficient to the emergency. "Why, darling!"she exclaimed. "Your father will be taken right up into the sky. Hewon't be put in no grave. He'll go right straight to a place whereit's all sunshine--where it's all blue and high and as bright as day. "She bustled about: keeping an eye alert for the effect of her promises. She was not yet sure how this glorious ascension might be managed; butshe had never failed to deceive him to his own contentment, and 'twasnot her habit to take fainthearted measures. "They been lying to you, dear, " she complained. "Don't you fret about graves. You just wait, "she concluded, significantly, "and see!"

The boy sighed. 

"Poddle and me, " she added, with a wag of the head to convince him, "will show you where your father goes. "

"I wish, " the boy said, wistfully, "that he wasn't dead. "

"Don't you do it!" she flashed. "It don't make no difference to him. It's a good thing. I bet he's glad to be dead. "

The boy shook his head. 

"Yes, he is! Don't you think he isn't. There ain't nothing like beingdead. Everybody's happy--when they're dead. "

"He's so still!" the boy whispered. 

"It feels fine to be still--like that. "

"And he's so cold!"

"No!" she scorned. "He don't feel cold. You think he's cold. But heain't. That's just what you _think_. He's comfortable. He's glad tobe dead. Everybody's glad to be dead. "

The boy shuddered. 

"Don't you do that no more!" said the woman. "It don't hurt to bedead. Honest, it don't! It feels real good to be that way. "

"I--I--I don't think I'd like--to be dead!"

"You don't have to if you don't want to, " the woman replied, throwninto a confusion of pain and alarm. To comfort him, to shield him fromagony, to keep the shadow of fear from falling upon him: she desirednothing more; and she was content to succeed if but for the moment. "Itell you, " she continued, "you never will be dead--if you don't wantto. Your father wanted to be dead. 'I think, Millie, ' says he, 'I'dlike to be dead. ' 'All right, Dick, ' says I. 'If you want to, I won'tstand in your way. But I don't know about the boy. ' 'Oh, ' says he, 'the boy won't stand in my way. ' 'I guess that's right, Dick, ' says I, 'for the boy loves you. ' And so, " she concluded, "he died. But _you_don't have to die. You'll never die--not unless you want to. " Shekissed him. "Don't you be afraid, dear!" she crooned. 

"I'm not--afraid. "

"Well, then, " she asked, puzzled, "what _are_ you?"

"I don't know, " he faltered. "I think it makes me--sick atthe--stomach. "

He had turned white. She took him in her arms, to comfort and heartenhim--an unfailing device: her kisses, her warm, ample bosom, her closeembrace; he was by these always consoled. . . . 

Next day, then, in accordance with the woman's device, the boy and hismother set out with the veiled man for the Church of the Lifted Cross, where the obsequies of Senator Boligand were to take place. It was sadweather--a cold rain falling, the city gray, all the world black-cladand dripping and sour of countenance. The veiled man said never aword; he held the boy's hand tight, and strode gloomily on--silent ofmelancholy, of protest, of ill temper: there was no knowing, for hisface was hid. The woman, distinguished by a mass of blinding blondehair and a complexion susceptible to change by the weather, was dressedin the ultra-fashionable way--the small differences of style allaccentuated: the whole tawdry and shabby and limp in the rain. Thechild, a slender boy, delicately white of skin, curly headed, withround, dark eyes, outlooking in wonder and troubled regard, but yetbravely enough, trotted between the woman and the man, a hand in thehand of each. . . . And when they came to the Church of the Lifted Cross;and when the tiny, flickering lights, and the stained windows, and theshadows overhead, and the throbbing, far-off music had worked theirspell upon him, he snuggled close to his mother, wishing himself wellaway from the sadness and mystery of the place, but glad that itssolemn splendour honoured the strange change his father had chosen toundergo. 

"Have they brought papa yet?" he whispered. 

"Hush!" she answered. "He's come. "

For a moment she was in a panic--lest the child's prattle, beingperilously indiscreet, involve them all in humiliating difficulties. Scandal of this sort would be intolerable to the young Boligand widow. 

"Where is he?"

"Don't talk so loud, dear. He's down in front--where all the lightsare. "

"Can't we go there?'

"No, no!" she whispered, quickly. "It isn't the way. We must sithere. Don't talk, dear; it isn't the way. "

"I'd like to--kiss him. "

"Oh, my!" she exclaimed. "It isn't allowed. We got to sit right here. That's the way it's always done. Hush, dear! Please don't talk. "

With prayer and soulful dirges--employing white robes and many lightsand the voices of children--the body of Senator Boligand was dealtwith, in the vast, dim church, according to the forms prescribed, andwith due regard for the wishes of the young widow. The Senator was anadmirable substitute; Dick Slade's glorious ascension was accomplished. And the heart of the child was comforted by this beauty: for then heknew that his father was by some high magic admitted to the place ofwhich his mother had told him--some place high and blue and ever lightas day. The fear of death passed from him. He was glad, for hisfather's sake, that his father had died; and he wished that he, too, might some day know the glory to which his father had attained. 

But when the earthly remains of the late distinguished Senator wereborne down the aisle in solemn procession, the boy had a momentaryreturn of grief. 

"Is that papa in the box?" he whimpered. 

His mother put her lips to his ear. "Yes, " she gasped. "But don'ttalk. It isn't allowed. "

The veiled man turned audibly uneasy. "Cuss it!" he fumed. 

"Oh, father!" the boy sobbed. 

With happy promptitude the veiled man acted. He put a hand over theboy's mouth. "For God's sake, Millie, " he whispered to the woman, "let's get out of here! We'll be run in. "

"Hush, dear!" the woman commanded: for she was much afraid. 

After that, the child was quiet. 

From the room in the Box Street tenement, meantime, the body of DickSlade had been taken in a Department wagon to a resting-place befittingin degree. 

"Millie, " the veiled man protested, that night, "you didn't ought tofool the boy. "

"It don't matter, Poddle, " said she. "And I don't want him to feelbad. "

"You didn't ought to do it, " the man persisted. "It'll make troublefor him. "

"I can't see him hurt, " said the woman, doggedly. "I love him so much. Poddle, I just can't! It hurts _me_. "

The boy was now in bed. "Mother, " he asked, lifting himself from thepillow, "when will I die?"

"Why, child!" she ejaculated. 

"I wish, " said the boy, "it was to-morrow. "

"There!" said the woman, in triumph, to the man. "He ain't afraid ofdeath no more. "

"I told you so, Millie!" the man exclaimed, at the same instant. 

"But he ain't afraid to die, " she persisted. "And that's all I want. "

"You can't fool him always, " the man warned. 

The boy was then four years old. . . . 

[Illustration: Tailpiece to _By Proxy_]

[Illustration: Headpiece to _The River_]

_THE RIVER_

Top floor rear of the Box Street tenement looked out upon the river. It was lifted high: the activities of the broad stream and of themotley world of the other shore went silently; the petty noises oflife--the creak and puff and rumble of its labouringmachinery, --straying upward from the fussy places below, were lost inthe space between. 

Within: a bed, a stove, a table--the gaunt framework of home. But thewindow overlooked the river; and the boy was now seven years old, unknowing, unquestioning, serenely obedient to the circumstances of hislife: feeling no desire that wandered beyond the familiar presence ofhis mother--her voice and touch and brooding love. 

It was a magic window--a window turned lengthwise, broad, low, small-paned, disclosing wonders without end: a scene of infinitechanges. There was shipping below, restless craft upon the water; andbeyond, dwarfed in the distance, was a confusion of streets, of flat, puffing roofs, stretching from the shining river to the far, mistyhills, which lay beside the sea, invisible and mysterious. 

But top floor rear was remote from the river and the roofs. From thewindow--and from the love in the room--the boy looked out upon an alienworld, heard the distant murmur, monotonously proceeding, night andday: uncomprehending, but unperturbed. . . . 

In the evening the boy sat with his mother at the window. Togetherthey watched the shadows gather--the hills and the city and the riverdissolve: the whole broad world turn to points of light, twinkling, flashing, darting, in the black, voiceless gulf. Nor would she fail towatch the night come, whether in gentle weather or whipping rain: butthere would sit, the boy in her arms, held close to her breast, herhand straying restlessly over his small body, intimately caressing it. 

The falling shadows; the river, flowing unfeelingly; the lights, wandering without rest, aimless, forever astray in the dark: these werea spell upon her. 

"They go to the sea!" she whispered, once. 

"The ships, mother?"

She put his head in the hollow of her shoulder, where her cheek mighttouch his hair: all the time staring out at the lights on the river. 

"All the ships, all the lights on the river, " she said, hoarsely, "goout there. "

"Why?"

"The river takes them. "

He was made uneasy: being conscious of the deeper meaning--acutelyaware of some strange dread stirring in her heart. 

"Maybe, " he protested, "they're glad to go away. "

She shook her head. "One night, " she said, leaning towards the window, seeming now to forget the boy, "I seen the sea. All the lights on theriver go different ways--when they get out there. It is a dark andlonesome place--big and dark and lonesome. "

"Then, " said he, quickly, "you would not like to be there. "

"No, " she answered. "I do not like the sky, " she continued; "it is sobig and empty. I do not like the sea; it is so big and dark. Andblack winds are always blowing there; and the lights go different ways. The lights, " she muttered, "go different ways! I am afraid of thedark. And, oh!" she moaned, suddenly crushing him to her breast, rocking him, in an agony of tenderness, "I am afraid of something else. Oh, I am afraid!"

"Of what?" he gasped. 

"To be alone!" she sobbed. 

He released himself from her arms--sat back on her knee: quivering fromhead to foot, his hands clenched, his lips writhing. "Don't, mother!"he cried. "Don't cry. We will not go to the sea. We _will_ not!"

"We must, " she whispered. 

"Oh, why?"

She kissed him: her hand slipped under his knees; and she drew himclose again--and there held him until he lay quiet in her arms. 

"We are like the lights on the river, " she said. "The river will takeus to a place where the lights go different ways. "

"We will not go!"

"The river will take us. "

The boy was puzzled: he lifted his head, to watch the lights driftpast, far below; and he was much troubled by this mystery. She triedto gather his legs in her lap--to hold him as she used to do, when hewas a child at her breast; but he was now grown too large for that, andshe suffered, again, the familiar pain: a perception of alienation--ofinevitable loss. 

"When?" he asked. 

She let his legs fall. "Soon, " she sighed. "When you are older; itwon't be long, now. When you are a little wiser; it will be very soon. "

"When I am wiser, " he pondered, "we must go. What makes me wiser?"

"The wise. "

"Are you wise?"

"God help me!" she answered. 

He nestled his head on her shoulder--dismissing the mystery with aquick sigh. "Never mind, " he said, to comfort her. "You will not bealone. I will be with you. "

"I wonder!" she mused. 

For a moment more she looked out; but she did not see the river--butsaw the wide sea, wind-tossed and dark, where the great multitude oflights went apart, each upon its mysterious way. 

"Mother, " he repeated, reproachfully, mystified by her hesitation, "Iwill always be with you. "

"I wonder!" she mused. 

To this doubt--now clear to him beyond hope--there was instantresponse: strangely passionate, but in keeping with his nature, as sheknew. For a space he lay rigid on her bosom: then struggled from herembrace, brutally wrenching her hands apart, flinging off her arms. Hestood swaying: his hands clenched, his slender body aquiver, as before, his dark eyes blazing reproach. It gave her no alarm, but, rather, exquisite pleasure, to watch his agony. She caught him by theshoulders, and bent close, that by the night-light, coming in at thewindow, she might look into his eyes: wherein, swiftly, the flare ofreproach turned to hopeless woe. And she was glad that he suffered:exalted, so that she, too, trembled. 

"Oh, " he pleaded, "say that I will always be with you!"

She would not: but continued to exult in his woeful apprehension. 

"Tell me, mother!" he implored. "Tell me!"

Not yet: for there was no delight to be compared with the provedknowledge of his love. 

"Mother!" he cried. 

"You do not love me, " she said, to taunt him. 

"Oh, don't!" he moaned. 

"No, no!" she persisted. "You don't love your mother any more. "

He was by this reduced to uttermost despair; and he began to beat hisbreast, in the pitiful way he had. Perceiving, then, that she must nolonger bait him, she opened her arms. He sprang into them. At oncehis sobs turned to sighs of infinite relief, which continued, until, ofa sudden, he was hugged so tight that he had no breath left but to gasp. 

"And you will always be with me?" he asked. 

"It is the way of the world, " she answered, while she kissed him, "thatsons chooses for themselves. "

With that he was quite content. . . . 

For a long time they sat silent at the window. The boy dreamedhopefully of the times to come--serenity restored. For the moment thewoman was forgetful of the foreshadowed days, happy that the warm, pulsing little body of her son lay unshrinking in her arms: soconscious of his love and life--so wishful for a deeper sense ofmotherhood--that she slipped her hand under his jacket and felt aboutfor his heart, and there let her fingers lie, within touch of itssteady beating. The lights still twinkled and flashed and aimlesslywandered in the night; but the spell of the river was lifted. 

[Illustration: Headpiece to _A Garden of Lies_]

_A GARDEN OF LIES_

Withal it was a rare mood: nor, being wise, was she given to expressingit in this gloomy fashion. It was her habit, rather, assiduously towoo him: this with kisses, soft and wet; with fleeting touches; withcoquettish glances and the sly display of her charms; with rambling, fantastic tales of her desirability in the regard of men--thuspracticing all the familiar fascinations of her kind, according to theenlightenment of the world she knew. He must be persuaded, shethought, that his mother was beautiful, coveted; convinced of her witand gaiety: else he would not love her. Life had taught her no otherway. . . . And always at break of day, when he awoke in her arms, shewaited, with a pang of anxiety, pitilessly recurring, lest there besome sign that despite her feverish precautions the heedless world hadin her nightly absence revealed that which she desperately sought tohide from him. . . . 

Thus, by and by, when the lamp was alight--when the shadows were allchased out of the window, driven back to the raw fall night, whencethey had crept in--she lapsed abruptly into her natural manner andpractices. She spread a newspaper on the table, whistling in a cheeryfashion, the while covertly observing the effect of this livelybehaviour. With a knowing smile, promising vast gratification, she gothim on her knee; and together, cheek to cheek, her arm about his waist, they bent over the page: whereon some function of the rich, to whichthe presence of the Duchess of Croft and of the distinguished LordWychester had given sensational importance, was grotesquely pictured. 

"Now, mother, " said he, spreading the picture flat, "show me you. "

"This here lady, " she answered, evasively, "is the Duchess of Croft. "

"Is it?" he asked, without interest. "She is very fat. Where are you?"

"And here, " she proceeded, "is Lord Wychester. "

"Mother, " he demanded, "where are _you_?"

She was disconcerted; no promising evasion immediately occurred to her. "Maybe, " she began, tentatively, "this lady here----"

"Oh, no!" he cried, looking up with a little laugh. "It is not likeyou, at all!"

"Well, " she said, "it's probably meant for me. "

He shook his head; and by the manner of this she knew that he would notbe deceived. 

"Perhaps, " she said, "the Duchess told the man not to put me in thepicture. I guess that's it. She was awful jealous. You see, dear, "she went on, very solemnly, "Lord Wychester took a great fancy to me. "

He looked up with interest. 

"To--my shape, " she added. 

"Oh!" said he. 

"And that, " she continued, noting his pleasure, "made the Duchess hot;for _she's_ too fat to have much of a figure. Most men, you know, " sheadded, as though reluctant in her own praise, "do fancy mine. " Shebrushed his cheek with her lips. "Don't you think, dear, " she asked, assuming an air of girlish coquetry, thus to compel the compliment, "that I'm--rather--pretty?"

"I think, mother, " he answered, positively, "that you're very, verypretty. "

It made her eyes shine to hear it. "Well, " she resumed, improvisingmore confidently, now, "the Duchess was awful mortified because LordWychester danced with me seventeen times. 'Lord Wychester, ' says she, 'what _do_ you see in that blonde with the diamonds?' 'Duchess, ' sayshe, 'I bet the blonde don't weigh over a hundred and ten!'"

There was no answering smile; the boy glanced at the picture of thewise and courtly old Lord Wychester, gravely regarded that of theDuchess of Croft, of whose matronly charms, of whose charities andamiable qualities, all the world knows. 

"What did she say?" he asked. 

"'Oh, dear me, Lord Wychester!' says she. 'If you're looking forbones, ' says she, 'that blonde is a regular glue-factory!'"

He caught his breath. 

"'A regular glue-factory, '" she repeated, inviting sympathy. "That'swhat she said. "

"Did you cry?"

"Not me!" she scorned. "Cry? Not me! Not for no mountain like her!"

"And what, " he asked, "did Lord Wychester do?"

"'Back to the side-show, Duchess!' says Lord Wychester. 'You're toofat for decent company. My friend the Dook, ' says he, 'may be partialto fat ladies and ten-cent freaks; but _my_ taste runs to slimblondes. '"

No amusement was excited by Lord Wychester's second sally. In theworld she knew, it would have provoked a shout of laughter. The boy'sgravity disquieted her. 

"Did you laugh?" he asked. 

"Everybody, " she answered, pitifully, "give her the laugh. "

He sighed--somewhat wistfully. "I wish, " he said, "that _you_ hadn't. "

"Why not!" she wondered, in genuine surprise. 

"I don't know. "

"Why, dear!" she exclaimed, a note of alarm in her voice. "It isn'tbad manners! Anyhow, " she qualified, quick to catch her cue, "I didn'tlaugh much. I hardly laughed at all. I don't believe I _did_ laugh. "

"I'm glad, " he said. 

Then, "I'm sure of it, " she ventured, boldly; and she observed withrelief that he was not incredulous. 

"Did the Duchess cry?"

"Oh, my, no! 'Waiter, ' says the Duchess, 'open another bottle of thatwine. I feel faint. '"

"What did Lord Wychester do then?"

"He paid for the wine. " It occurred to her that she might now surelydelight him. "Then he wanted to buy a bottle for me, " she continued, eagerly, "just to spite the Duchess. 'If _she_ can have wine, ' sayshe, 'there isn't no good reason why _you_ got to go dry. ' But Icouldn't see it. 'Oh, come on!' says he. 'What's the matter with you?Have a drink. ' 'No, you don't!' says I. 'Why not?' says he. " Shedrew the boy a little closer, and, in the pause she patted his hand. "'Because, ' says I, " she whispered, tenderly, "'I got a son; and I_don't want him to do no drinking when he grows up_!'" She pausedagain--that the effect of the words and of the caress might not beinterrupted. "'Come off!' says Lord Wychester, " she went on; "'youhaven't got no son. ' 'You wouldn't think to look at me, ' says I, 'thatI got a son seven years old the twenty-third of last month. ' 'To thetall timber!' says he. 'You're too young and pretty. I'll give you athousand dollars for a kiss. ' 'No, you don't!' says I. 'Why not?'says he. 'Because, ' says I, 'you don't. ' 'I'll give you twothousand, ' says he. "

She was interrupted by the boy; his arms were anxiously stealing roundher neck. 

"'Three thousand!' says he. "

"Mother, " the boy whispered, "did you give it to him?"

Again, she drew him to her: as all mothers will, when, in the twilight, they tell tales to their children, and the climax approaches. 

"'Four thousand!' says he. "

"Mother, " the boy implored, "tell me quick! What did you say?"

"'Lord Wychester, ' says I, 'I don't give kisses, ' says I, 'because myson doesn't want me to do no such thing! No, sir! Not for a milliondollars!'"

She was then made happy by his rapturous affection; and she now firstperceived--in a benighted way--that virtue was more appealing to himthan the sum of her physical attractions. Upon this new thought shepondered. She was unable to reduce it to formal terms, to be sure; butshe felt a new delight, a new hope, and was uplifted, though she knewnot why. Later--at the crisis of their lives--the perception returnedwith sufficient strength to illuminate her way. . . . 

Presently the boy broke in upon her musing. "It was blondes LordWychester liked, " he remarked, with pride; "wasn't it, mother?"

"Slim blondes, " she corrected. 

"Bleached blondes?"

She was appalled by the disclosure; and she was taken unaware: nor didshe dare discover the extent, the significance, of this newsophistication, nor whence it came, lest she be all at once involved ina tangle of explanation, from which there could be no sure issue. Shesighed; her head drooped, until it rested on his shoulder, her wetlashes against his cheek--despairing, helpless. 

"What makes you sad?" he asked. 

Then she gathered impetuous courage. She must be calm, she knew; butshe must divert him. "See, " she began, "what it says about your motherin the paper!" She ran her finger down a long column of the fulsomedescription of the great Multon ball--the list of fashionables, thecostumes. "Here it is! 'She was the loveliest woman at the dance. 'That's me. 'All the men said so. What if she is a bleached blonde?Some people says that bleached blondes is no good. It's a lie!'" shecried, passionately, to the bewilderment of the boy. "'God help them!There's honest people everywhere. ' Are you listening? Here's moreabout me. 'She does the best she can. Maybe she _don't_ amount tomuch, maybe she _is_ a bleached blonde; but she does the best she can. She never done no wrong in all her life. She loves her son too muchfor that. Oh, she loves her son! She'd rather die than have him feelashamed of her. There isn't a better woman in the world, There isn't abetter mother----'"

He clapped his hands. 

"Don't you believe it?" she demanded. "Don't you believe what thepaper says?"

"It's true!" he cried. "It's all true!"

"How do you know, " she whispered, intensely, "that it's all true?"

"I--just--_feel_ it!"

They were interrupted by the clock. It struck seven times. . . . 

In great haste and alarm she put him from her knee; and she caught upher hat and cloak, and kissed him, and ran out, calling back hergood-night, again and again, as she clattered down the stairs. . . . Inthe streets of the place to which she hurried, there were flaminglights, the laughter of men and flaunting women, the crash and rumbleand clang of night-traffic, the blatant clamour of the pleasures ofnight; shuffling, blear-eyed derelicts of passion, creeping beldames, peevish children, youth consuming itself; rags and garish jewels, hunger, greasy content--a confusion of wretchedness, of greed and grimwant, of delirious gaiety, of the sins that stalk in darkness. . . . Through it all she brushed, unconscious--lifted from it by the magic ofthis love: dwelling only upon the room that overlooked the river, andupon the child within; remembering the light in his eyes and thetenderness of his kiss. 

[Illustration: Tailpiece to _A Garden of Lies_]

[Illustration: Headpiece to _The Celebrity in Love_]

_THE CELEBRITY IN LOVE_

While the boy sat alone, in wistful idleness, there came a knock at thedoor--a pompous rat-tat-tat, with a stout tap-tap or two added, onceand for all to put the quality of the visitor beyond doubt. The doorwas then cautiously pushed ajar to admit the head of the personage thusimpressively heralded. And a most extraordinary head it was--offearsome aspect; nothing but long and intimate familiarity could resignthe beholder to the unexpected appearance of it. Long, tawny hair, nowsadly unkempt, fell abundantly from crown to shoulders; and hair astawny, as luxuriantly thick, almost as long, completely covered theface, from every part of which it sprang, growing shaggy and rank atthe eyebrows, which served to ambush two sharp little eyes: so that thewhole bore a precise resemblance to an ill-natured Skye terrier. It issuperfluous to add that this was at once the face and the fortune ofToto, the Dog-faced Man, known in private life, to as many intimates asa jealous profession can tolerate, as Mr. Poddle: for the presentdisabled from public appearance by the quality of the air supplied tothe exhibits at Hockley's Musee, his lungs being, as he himselfexpressed it, "not gone, by no means, but gittin' restless. "

"Mother gone?" asked the Dog-faced Man. 

"She has gone, Mr. Poddle, " the boy answered, "to dine with the Mayor. "

"Oh!" Mr. Poddle ejaculated. 

"Why do you say that?" the boy asked, frowning uneasily. "You alwayssay, 'Oh!'"

"Do I? 'Oh!' Like that?"

"Why do you do it?"

"Celebrities, " replied Mr. Poddle, testily, entering at that moment, "is not accountable. Me bein' one, don't ask me no questions. "

"Oh!" said the boy. 

Mr. Poddle sat himself in a chair by the window: and there began tocatch and vent his breath; but whether in melancholy sighs or snorts ofindignation it was impossible to determine. Having by these violentmeans restored himself to a state of feeling more nearly normal, hetrifled for a time with the rings flashing on his thin, white fingers, listlessly brushed the dust from the skirt of his rusty frock coat, heaved a series of unmistakable sighs: whereupon--and by this strangeoccupation the boy was quite fascinated--he drew a little comb, alittle brush, a little mirror, from his pocket; and having set up themirror in a convenient place, he proceeded to dress his hair, withparticular attention to the eyebrows, which, by and by, he tenderlybraided into two limp little horns: so that 'twas not long before helooked much less like a frowsy Skye terrier, much more like an owl. 

"The hour, Richard, " he sighed, as he deftly parted his hair in themiddle of his nose, "has came!"

With such fond and hopeless feeling were these enigmatical wordscharged that the boy could do nothing but heave a sympathetic sigh. 

"You see before you, Richard, what you never seen before. A man in theclutches, " Mr. Poddle tragically pursued, giving a vicious little twistto his left eyebrow, "of the tender passion!"

"Oh!" the boy muttered. 

"'Fame, '" Mr. Poddle continued, improvising a newspaper head-line, tomake himself clear, "'No Shield Against the Little God's Darts. ' Gitme? The high and the low gits the arrows in the same place. "

"Does it--hurt?"

"Hurt!" cried Mr. Poddle, furiously. "It's perfectly excrugiating!Hurt? Why----"

"Mr. Poddle, excuse me, " the boy interrupted, "but you are biting yourmustache. "

"Thanks, " said Mr. Poddle, promptly. "Glad to know it. Can't affordto lose no more hirsute adornment. And I'm give to ravagin' it inmoments of excitement, especially sorrow. Always tell me. "

"I will, " the boy gravely promised. 

"The Pink-eyed Albino, " Mr. Poddle continued, now released from thenecessity of commanding his feelings, in so far as the protection ofhis hair was concerned, "was fancy; the Circassian Beauty wasfascination; the Female Sampson was the hallugination of sky-bluetights; but the Mexican Sword Swallower, " he murmured, with amelancholy wag, "is----"

"Mr. Poddle, " the boy warned, "you are--at it again. "

"Thanks, " said Mr. Poddle, hastily eliminating the danger. "What I wasabout to remark, " was his lame conclusion, "was that the Mexican SwordSwallower is _love_. "

"Oh!"

The Dog-faced Man snapped a sigh in two. "Richard, " he insinuatedsuspiciously, "what you sayin', 'Oh!' for?"

"Wasn't the Bearded Lady, love?"

"Love!" laughed Mr. Poddle. "Ha, ha! Far from it! Not so! TheBearded Lady was the snare of ambition. 'Marriage Arranged Between theYoung Duke of Blueblood and the Daughter of the Clothes-pin King. Millions of the Higgleses to Repair the Duke's Shattered Fortunes. 'Git me? 'Wedding of the Bearded Lady and the Dog-faced Man. SundayAfternoon at Hockley's Popular Musee. No Extra Charge for Admission. Fabulous Quantity of Human Hair on Exhibition At the Same Instant. Hirsute Wonders To Tour the Country at Enormous Expense. ' Git me?Same thing. Love? Ha, ha! Not so! There's no more love in _that_, "Mr. Poddle concluded, bitterly, "than----"

"Mr. Poddle, you are----"

"Thanks, " faltered Mr. Poddle. "As I was about to remark whenyou--ah--come to the rescue--love is froze out of high life. Usnatural phenomenons is the slaves of our inheritages. "

"But you said the Bearded Lady was love at last!"

"'Duke Said To Be Madly In Love With the American Beauty, '" Mr. Poddlecomposedly replied. 

"I don't quite--get you?"

"Us celebrities has our secrets. High life is hollow. Public must betook into account. 'Sacrificed On His Country's Altar. ' Git me?'Good of the Profession. ' Broken hearts--and all that. "

"Would you have broken the Bearded Lady's heart?"

Mr. Poddle was by this recalled to his own lamentable condition. "I'vegone and broke my own, " he burst out; "for I'm give to understand thatthe lovely Sword Swallower is got entangled with a tattooed man. Not, "Mr. Poodle hastily added, "with a _real_ tattooed man! Not by nomeans! Far from it! _He's only half done!_ Git me? His legs isfinished; and I'm give to understand that the Chinese dragon on hisback is gettin' near the end of its tail. There _may_ be a risin' sunon his chest, and a snake drawed out on his waist; of that I've heardrumors, but I ain't had no reports. Not, " said Mr. Poddle, impressively, "what you might call undenigeable reports. And Richard, "he whispered, in great excitement and contempt, "that there half-cookedfreak won't be done for a year! He's bein' worked over on theinstallment plan. And I'm give to understand that she'll wait! Oh, wimmen!" the Dog-faced Man apostrophized. "Took by shapes andcomplexions----"

"Mr. Poddle, excuse me, " the boy interrupted, diffidently, "but youreyebrow----"

"Thanks, " Mr. Poddle groaned, his frenzy collapsing. "As I was aboutto say, wimmen is like arithmetic; there ain't a easy sum in the book. "

"Mr. Poddle!"

"Thanks, " said Mr. Poddle, in deep disgust. "Am I at it again?O'erwhelming grief! This here love will be the ruin of me. 'BankCashier Defaulted For a Woman. ' I've lost more priceless strands sinceI seen that charming creature than I'll get back in a year. I've bit'em off! I've tore 'em out! If this here goes on I'll be a HairlessWonder in a month. 'Suicided For Love. ' Same thing exactly. Andwhat's worse, " he continued, dejectedly, "the objeck of my adorationdon't look at it right. She takes me for a common audience. No regardfor talent. No appreciation for hair in the wrong place. 'GeniusJilted By A Factory Girl. ' And she takes that manufactured article ofa tattooed man for a regular platform attraction! Don't seem to_know_, Richard, that freaks is born, not made. What's fame, anyhow?"

The boy did not know. 

"Why, cuss me!" the Dog-faced Man exploded, "she treats me as if I wasdead-headed into the Show!"

"Excuse me, but----"

"Thanks. God knows, Richard, I ain't in love with her throat andstummick. It ain't because the one's unequalled for resistin'razor-edged steel and the other stands unrivalled in its capacity forholdin' cold metal. It ain't her talent, Richard. No, it ain't hertalent. It ain't her beauty. It ain't even her fame. It ain't somuch her massive proportions. It's just the way she darns stockings. Just the way she sits up there on the platform darnin' them stockingsas if there wasn't no such thing as an admirin' public below. It'sjust her _self_. Git me? 'Give Up A Throne To Wed A Butcher'sDaughter. ' Understand? Why, God bless you, Richard, if she was a FijiIsland Cannibal I'd love her just the same!"

"I think, Mr. Poddle, " the boy ventured, "that I'd tell her. "

"I did, " Mr. Poddle replied. "Much to my regrets I did. I writ. Worked up a beautiful piece out of 'The Lightning Letter-writer forLovers. ' 'Oh, beauteous Sword-Swallower, ' I writ, 'pet of the public, pride of the sideshow, bright particular star in the constellation ofnatural phenomenons! One who is not unknown to fame is dazzled by yourcharms. He dares to lift his stricken eyes, to give vent to thetumultuous beatings of his manly bosom, to send you, in fact, thisnote. And if you want to know who done it, wear a red rose to-night. 'Well, " Mr. Poddle continued, "she seen me give it to the peanut-boy. And knowin' who it come from, she writ back. She writ, " Mr. Poddledramatically repeated, "right back. "

The pause was so long, so painful, that the boy was moved to inquireconcerning the answer. 

"It stabs me, " said Mr. Poddle. 

"I think I'd like to know, " said the boy. 

"'Are you much give, ' says she, 'to barkin' in your sleep?'"

A very real tear left the eye of Mr. Poddle, ran down the hair of hischeek, changed its course to the eyebrow, and there hung glistening. . . . 

It was apparent that the Dog-faced Man's thoughts must immediately bediverted into more cheerful channels. "Won't you please read to me, Mr. Poddle, " said the boy, "what it says in the paper about my mother?"

The ruse was effective. Mr. Poddle looked up with a start. "Eh?" heejaculated. 

"Won't you?" the boy begged. 

"I been talkin' so much, Richard, " Mr. Poddle stammered, turning hoarseall at once, "that I gone and lost my voice. "

He decamped to his room across the hall without another word. 

[Illustration: Headpiece to _At Midnight_]

_AT MIDNIGHT_

At midnight the boy had long been sound asleep in bed. The lamp wasturned low. It was very quiet in the room--quiet and shadowy in allthe tenement. . . . And the stair creaked; and footfalls shuffled alongthe hall--and hesitated at the door of the place where the child layquietly sleeping; and there ceased. There was the rumble of a man'svoice, deep, insistent, imperfectly restrained. A woman protested. The door was softly opened; and the boy's mother stepped in, moving ontiptoe, and swiftly turned to bar entrance with her arm. 

"Hist!" she whispered, angrily. "Don't speak so loud. You'll wake theboy. "

"Let me in, Millie, " the man insisted. "Aw, come on, now!"

"I can't, Jim. You know I can't. Go on home now. Stop that! I won'tmarry you. Let go my arm. You'll wake the boy, I tell you!"

There was a short scuffle: at the end of which, the woman's arm stillbarred the door. 

"Here I ain't seen you in three year, " the man complained. "And youwon't let me in. That ain't right, Millie. It ain't kind to an oldfriend like me. You didn't used to be that way. "

"No, " the woman whispered, abstractedly; "there's been a change. Iain't the same as I used to be. "

"You ain't changed for the better, Millie. No, you ain't. "

"I don't know, " she mused. "Sometimes I think not. It ain't because Idon't want you, Jim, " she continued, speaking more softly, now, "that Idon't let you in. God knows, I like to meet old friends; but----"

It was sufficient. The man gently took her arm from the way. Hestepped in--glanced at the sleeping boy, lying still as death, shadedfrom the lamp--and turned again to the woman. 

"Don't wake him!" she said. 

They were still standing. The man was short, long-armed, vastly broadat the shoulders, deep-chested: flashy in dress, dull and kind offeature--handsome enough, withal. He was an acrobat. Even in the dimlight, he carried the impression of great muscular strength--of graceand agility. For a moment the woman's eyes ran over his stocky body:then, spasmodically clenching her hands, she turned quickly to the boyon the bed; and she moved back from the man, and thereafter regardedhim watchfully. 

"Don't make no difference if I do wake him, " he complained. "The boyknows me. "

"But he don't like you. "

"Aw, Millie!" said he, in reproach. "Come off!"

"I seen it in his eyes, " she insisted. 

The man softly laughed. 

"Don't you laugh no more!" she flashed. "You can't tell a mother whatshe sees in her own baby's eyes. I tell you, Jim, he don't like you. He never did. "

"That's all fancy, Millie. Why, he ain't seen me in three year! Andyou can't see nothing in the eyes of a four year old kid. You're toofond of that boy, anyhow, " the man continued, indignantly. "What's gotinto you? You ain't forgot that winter night out there in Idaho, haveyou? Don't you remember what you said to Dick that night? You saidDick was to blame, Millie, don't you remember? Remember the doctorcoming to the hotel? I'll never forget how you went on. Never heard awoman swear like you before. Never seen one go on like you went on. And when you hit Dick, Millie, for what you said he'd done, I felt badfor Dick, though I hadn't much cause to care for what happened to him. Millie, girl, you was a regular wildcat when the doctor told you whatwas coming. You didn't want no kid, then!"

"Don't!" she gasped. "I ain't forgot. But I'm changed, Jim--sincethen. "

He moved a step nearer. 

"I ain't the same as I used to be in them days, " she went on, staringat the window, and through the window to the starry night. "And Dick'sdead, now. I don't know, " she faltered; "it's all sort of--different. "

"What's gone and changed you, Millie?"

"I ain't the same!" she repeated. 

"What's changed you?"

"And I ain't been the same, " she whispered, "since I got the boy!"

In the pause, he took her hand. She seemed not to know it--but let itlie close held in his great palm. 

"And you won't have nothing to do with me?" he asked. 

"I can't, " she answered. "I don't think of myself no more. And theboy--wouldn't like it. "

"You always said you would, if it wasn't for Dick; and Dick ain't hereno more. There ain't no harm in loving me now. " He tried to draw herto him. "Aw, come on!" he pleaded. "You know you like me. "

She withdrew her hand--shrank from him. "Don't!" she said. "I likeyou, Jim. You know I always did. You was always good to me. I nevercared much for Dick. Him and me teamed up pretty well. That was all. It was always you, Jim, that I cared for. But, somehow, now, I wishI'd loved Dick--more than I did. I feel different, now. I wish--oh, Iwish--that I'd loved him!"

The man frowned. 

"He's dead, " she continued. "I can't tell him nothing, now. Thechance is gone. But I wish I'd loved him!"

"He never done much for you. "

"Yes, he did, Jim!" she answered, quickly. "He done all a man can dofor a woman!"

She was smiling--but in an absent way. The man started. There was alight in her eyes he had never seen before. 

"He give me, " she said, "the boy!"

"You're crazy about that kid, " the man burst out, a violent, disgustedwhisper. "You're gone out of your mind. "

"No, I ain't, " she replied, doggedly. "I'm different since I got him. That's all. And I'd like Dick to know that I look at him differentsince he died. I can't love Dick. I never could. But I could thankhim if he was here. Do you mind what I called the boy? I don't callhim Claud now. I call him--Richard. It's all I can do to show Dickthat I'm grateful. "

The man caught his breath--in angry impatience. "Millie, " he warned, "the boy'll grow up. "

She put her hands to her eyes. 

"He'll grow up and leave you. What you going to do then?"

"I don't know, " she sighed. "Just--go along. "

"You'll be all alone, Millie. "

"He loves me!" she muttered. "He'll never leave me!"

"He's got to, Millie. He's got to be a man. You can't keep him. "

"Maybe I _can't_ keep him, " she replied, in a passionate undertone. "Maybe I _do_ love you. Maybe he'd get to love you, too. But look athim, Jim! See where he lies?"

The man turned towards the bed. 

"It's on my side, Jim! Understand? He lies there always till I comein. Know why?"

He watched her curiously. 

"He'll wake up, Jim, when I lift him over. That's what he wants. He'll wake up and say, 'Is that you, mother?' And he'll be asleepagain, God bless him! before I can tell him that it is. My God! Jim, I can't tell you what it means to come in at night and find him lyingthere. That little body of a man! That clean, white soul! I can'ttell you how I feel, Jim. It's something a man can't know. And do youthink he'd stand for you? He'd say he would. Oh, he'd say he would!He'd look in my eyes, Jim, and he'd find out what I wanted him to say;and he'd _say_ it. But, Jim, he'd be hurt. Understand? He'd think Ididn't love him any more. He's only a child--and he'd think I didn'tlove him. Where'd he sleep, Jim? Alone? He couldn't do it. Don'tyou _see_? I can't live with nobody, Jim. And I don't want to. Idon't care for myself no more. I used to, in them days--when you andme and Dick and the crowd was all together. But I don't--no more!"

The man stooped, picked a small stocking from the floor, stood staringat it. 

"I'm changed, " the woman repeated, "since I got the boy. "

"I don't know what you'll do, Millie, when he grows up. "

She shook her head. 

"And when he finds out?"

"That's what I'm afraid of, " she whispered, hoarsely. "Somebody'lltell him--some day. He don't know, now. And I don't want him to know. He ain't our kind. Maybe it's because I keep him here alone. Maybeit's because he don't see nobody. Maybe it's just because I love himso. I don't know. But he ain't like us. It would hurt him to know. And I can't hurt him. I can't!"

The man tossed the stocking away. It fell upon a heap of littleunder-garments, strewn upon the floor. 

"You're a fool, Millie, " said he. "I tell you, he'll leave you. He'llleave you cold--when he grows up--and another woman comes along. "

She raised her hand to stop him. "Don't say that!" she moaned. "Therewon't be no other woman. There can't be. Seems to me I'll want tokill the first that comes. A woman? What woman? There won't be none. "

"There's _got_ to be a woman. "

"What woman? There ain't a woman in the world fit to--oh, " she brokeoff, "don't talk of _him_--and a woman!"

"It'll come, Millie. He's a man--and there's got to be a woman. Andshe won't want you. And you'll be too old, then, to----"

The boy stirred. 

"Hist!" she commanded. 

They waited. An arm was tossed--the boy smiled--there was a sigh. Hewas sound asleep again. 

"Millie!" The man approached. She straightened to resist him. "Youlove me, don't you?"

She withdrew. 

"You want to marry me?"

Still she withdrew; but he overtook her, and caught her hand. She wasnow driven to a corner--at bay. Her face was flushed; there was anirresolute light in her eyes--the light, too, of fear. 

"Go 'way!" she gasped. "Leave me alone!"

He put his arm about her. 

"Don't!" she moaned. "You'll wake the boy. "

"Millie!" he whispered. 

"Let me go, Jim!" she protested, weakly. "I can't. Oh, leave mealone! You'll wake the boy. I can't. I'd like to. I--I--I want tomarry you; but I----"

"Aw, come on!" he pleaded, drawing her close. And he suddenly foundher limp in his arms. "You got to marry me!" he whispered, in triumph. "By God! you can't help yourself. I got you! I got you!"

"Oh, let me go!"

"No, I won't, Millie. I'll never let you go. "

"For God's sake, Jim! Jim--oh, don't kiss me!"

The boy stirred again--and began to mutter in his sleep. At once thewoman commanded herself. She stiffened--released herself--pushed theman away. She lifted a hand--until the child lay quiet once more. There was meantime breathless silence. Then she pointed imperiously tothe door. The man sullenly held his place. She tiptoed to thedoor--opened it; again imperiously gestured. He would not stir. 

"I'll go, " he whispered, "if you tell me I can come back. "

The boy awoke--but was yet blinded by sleep; and the room was dim-lit. He rubbed his eyes. The man and the woman stood rigid in the shadow. 

"Is it you, mother?"

There was no resisting her command--her flashing eyes, the passionategesture. The man moved to the door, muttering that he would comeback--and disappeared. She closed the door after him. 

"Yes, dear, " she answered. "It is your mother. "

"Was there a man with you?"

"It was Lord Wychester, " she said, brightly, "seeing me home from theparty. "

"Oh!" he yawned. 

"Go to sleep. "

He fell asleep at once. The stair creaked. The tenement was againquiet. . . . 

He was lying in his mother's place in the bed. . . . She looked out uponthe river. Somewhere, far below in the darkness, the current still ranswirling to the sea--where the lights go different ways. . . . The boywas lying in his mother's place. And before she lifted him, she tookhis warm little hand, and kissed his brow, where the dark curls laydamp with the sweat of sleep. For a long, long time, she sat watchinghim through a mist of glad tears. The sight of his face, the outlineof his body under the white coverlet, the touch of his warm flesh: allthis thrilled her inexpressibly. Had she been devout, she would havethanked God for the gift of a son--and would have found relief. . . . When she crept in beside him, she drew him to her, tenderly stillcloser, until he was all contained in her arms; and she forgot allelse--and fell asleep, untroubled. 

[Illustration: Tailpiece to _At Midnight_]

[Illustration: Headpiece to _A Meeting by Chance_]

_A MEETING BY CHANCE_

Came, then, into the lives of these two, to work wide and immediatechanges, the Rev. John Fithian, a curate of the Church of the LiftedCross--a tall, free-moving, delicately spare figure, clad in spotlessblack, with a hint of fashion about it, a dull gold crucifix lyingsuspended upon the breast: pale, long of face, the eye-sockets deep andshadowy; hollow-cheeked, the bones high and faintly touched with red;with black, straight, damp hair, brushed back from a smooth brow andfalling in the perfection of neatness to the collar--the whole severeand forbidding, indeed, but for saving gray eyes, wherein there lurked, behind the patient agony, often displacing it, a tender smile, benignant, comprehending, infinitely sympathetic, by which the gloomyexterior was lightened and in some surprising way gratefully explained. 

By chance, on the first soft spring day of that year, the Rev. JohnFithian, returning from the Neighbourhood Settlement, where he haddelighted himself with good deeds, done of pure purpose, came near thedoor of the Box Street tenement, distributing smiles, pennies, impulsive, genuine caresses, to the children as he went, tipping theirfaces, patting their heads, all in the rare, unquestioned way, beingnot alien to the manner of the poor. A street piano, at the corner, tinkled an air to which a throng of ragged, lean little girls danced inthe yellow sunshine, dodging trucks and idlers and impatientpedestrians with unconcern, colliding and tripping with utmost goodnature. The curate was arrested by the voice of a child, singing tothe corner accompaniment--low, in the beginning, brooding, tentative, but in a moment rising sure and clear and tender. It was not hard forthe Rev. John Fithian to slip a cassock and surplice upon this wistfulchild, to give him a background of lofty arches and stained windows, toframe the whole in shadows. And, lo! in the chancel of the Church ofthe Lifted Cross there stood an angel, singing. 

The boy looked up, a glance of suspicion, of fear; but he was at oncereassured: there was no guile in the smiling gray eyes of thequestioner. 

"I am waiting, " he answered, "for my mother. She will be home soon. "

In a swift, penetrating glance, darting far and deep, dwelling briefly, the curate discovered the pathos of the child's life--the unknowing, patient outlook, the vague sense of pain, the bewilderment, the wistfulmelancholy, the hopeful determination. 

"You, too!" he sighed. 

The expression of kindred was not comprehended; but the boy was notdisquieted by the sigh, by the sudden extinguishment of the beguilingsmile. 

"She has gone, " he continued, "to the wedding of Sir Arthur Coll andMiss Stillison. She will have a very good time. "

The curate came to himself with a start and a gasp. 

"She's a bridesmaid, " the boy added. 

"Oh!" ejaculated the curate. 

"Why do you say, 'Oh!'" the boy complained, frowning. "Everybody saysthat, " he went on, wistfully; "and I don't know why. "

The curate was a gentleman--acute and courteous. "A touch ofindigestion, " he answered, promptly, laying a white hand on his blackwaistcoat. "Oh! There it is again!"

"Stomach ache?"

"Well, you might call it that. "

The boy was much concerned. "If you come up-stairs, " said he, anxiously, "I'll give you some medicine. Mother keeps it for me. "

Thus, presently, the curate found himself top-floor rear, in the roomthat overlooked the broad river, the roofs of the city beyond, themisty hills: upon which the fading sunshine now fell. And havinggratefully swallowed the dose, with a broad, persistent smile, he wasgiven a seat by the window, that the beauty of the day, thecompanionship of the tiny craft on the river, the mystery of thefar-off places, might distract and comfort him. From the boy, sittingupright and prim on the extreme edge of a chair, his feet on the rung, his hands on his knees, proceeded a stream of amiable chatter--not theless amiable for being grave--to which the curate, compelled to hisbest behavior, listened with attention as amiable, as grave: and thisconcerned the boats, afloat below, the lights on the river, the child'smother, the simple happenings of his secluded life. So untaught wasthis courtesy, spontaneous, native--so did it spring from natural wishand perception--that the curate was soon more mystified thanentertained; and so did the curate's smile increase in gratificationand sympathy that the child was presently off the chair, lingering halfabashed in the curate's neighbourhood, soon seated familiarly upon hisknee, toying with the dull gold crucifix. 

"What's this?" he asked. 

"It is the symbol, " the curate answered, "of the sacrifice of our dearLord and Saviour. "

There was no meaning in the words; but the boy held the cross verytenderly, and looked long upon the face of the Man there intorture--and was grieved and awed by the agony. . . . 

In the midst of this, the boy's mother entered. She stopped deadbeyond the threshold--warned by the unexpected presence to be upon herguard. Her look of amazement changed to a scowl of suspicion. Thecurate put the boy from his knee. He rose--embarrassed. There was aspace of ominous silence. 

"What you doing here?" the woman demanded. 

"Trespassing. "

She was puzzled--by the word, the smile, the quiet voice. The wholewas a new, nonplussing experience. Her suspicion was aggravated. 

"What you been telling the boy? Eh? What you been saying about me?Hear me? Ain't you got no tongue?" She turned to the frightenedchild. "Richard, " she continued, her voice losing all its quality ofanger, "what lies has this man been telling you about your poor mother?"

The boy kept a bewildered silence. 

"What you been lying about?" the woman exclaimed, advancing upon thecurate, her eyes blazing. 

"I have been telling, " he answered, still gravely smiling, "the truth. "

Her anger was halted--but she was not pacified. 

"Telling, " the curate repeated, with a little pause, "the truth. "

"You been talking about _me_, eh?"

"No; it was of your late husband. "

She started. 

"I am a curate of the Church of the Lifted Cross, " the curatecontinued, with unruffled composure, "and I have been telling the exacttruth concerning----"

"You been lying!" the woman broke in. "Yes, you have!"

"No--not so, " he insisted. "The exact truth concerning the funeral ofDick Slade from the Church of the Lilted Cross. Your son has told meof his father's death--of the funeral, And I have told your son that Idistinctly remember the occasion. I have told him, moreover, " headded, putting a hand on the boy's shoulder, his eyes faintlytwinkling, "that his father was--ah--as I recall him--of mostdistinguished appearance. "

She was completely disarmed. 

When, after an agreeable interval, the Rev. John Fithian took hisleave, the boy's mother followed him from the room, and closed the doorupon the boy. "I'm glad, " she faltered, "that you didn't give me away. It was--kind. But I'm sorry you lied--like that. You didn't have to, you know. He's only a child. It's easy to fool him. _You_ wouldn'thave to lie. But I _got_ to lie. It makes him happy--and there'sthings he mustn't know. He _must_ be happy. I can't stand it when heain't. It hurts me so. But, " she added, looking straight into hiseyes, gratefully, "you didn't have to lie. And--it was kind. " Hereyes fell. "It was--awful kind. "

"I may come again?"

She stared at the floor. "Come again?" she muttered. "I don't know. "

"I should very much like to come. "

"What do you want?" she asked, looking up. "It ain't _me_, is it?"

The curate shook his head. 

"Well, what do you want? I thought you was from the Society. Ithought you was an agent come to take him away because I wasn't fit tokeep him. But it ain't that. And it ain't _me_. What is it you want, anyhow?"

"To come again. "

She turned away. He patiently waited. All at once she looked into hiseyes, long, deep, intensely--a scrutiny of his very soul. 

"You got a good name to keep, ain't you?" she asked. 

"Yes, " he answered. "And you?"

"It don't matter about me. "

"And I may come?"

"Yes, " she whispered. 

[Illustration: Headpiece to _Renunciation_]

_RENUNCIATION_

After that the curate came often to the room in the Box Streettenement; but beyond the tenants of top floor rear he did not allow theintimacy to extend--not even to embrace the quaintly love-lorn Mr. Poddle. It was now summer; the window was open to the west wind, blowing in from the sea. Most the curate came at evening, when thebreeze was cool and clean, and the lights began to twinkle in thegathering shadows: then to sit at the window, describing unrealities, not conceived in the world of the listeners; and these new andbeautiful thoughts, melodiously voiced in the twilight, filled thehours with wonder and strange delight. Sometimes, the boy sang--hismother, too, and the curate: a harmony of tender voices, lifted softly. And once, when the songs were all sung, and the boy had slipped away tothe comfort of Mr. Poddle, who was now ill abed with his restlesslungs, the curate turned resolutely to the woman. 

"I want the boy's voice, " he said. 

She gave no sign of agitation. "His voice?" she asked, quietly. "Ain't the boy's _self_ nothing to your church?"

"Not, " he answered, "to the church. "

"Not to you?"

"It is very much, " he said, gravely, "to me. "

"Well?"

He lifted his eyebrows--in amazed comprehension. "I must say, then, "he said, bending eagerly towards her, "that I want the boy?"

"The boy, " she answered. 

For a little while she was silent--vacantly contemplating the barefloor. There had been no revelation. She was not taken unaware. Shehad watched his purpose form. Long before, she had perceived the issueapproaching, and had bravely met it. But it was all now definite andnear. She found it hard to command her feeling--bitter to cut thetrammels of her love for the child. 

"You got to pay, you know, " she said, looking up. "Boy sopranos isscarce. You can't have him cheap. "

"Of course!" he hastened to say. "The church will pay. "

"Money? It ain't money I want. "

To this there was nothing to say. The curate was in the dark--andquietly awaited enlightenment. 

"Take him!" she burst out, rising. "My God! just you take him. That'sall I want. Understand me? I want to get rid of him. "

He watched her in amazement. For a time she wandered about the room, distraught, quite aimless: now tragically pausing; now brushing herhand over her eyes--a gesture of weariness and despair. Then she facedhim. 

"Take him, " she said, her voice hoarse. "Take him away from me. Iain't fit to have him. Understand? He's got to grow up into a man. And I can't teach him how. Take him. Take him altogether. Makehim--like yourself. Before you come, " she proceeded, now feverishlypacing the floor, "I never knew that men was good. No man ever lookedin my eyes the way you do. I know them--oh, I know them! And when myboy grows up, I want him to look in the eyes of women the way youlook--in mine. Just that! Only that! If only, oh, if only my sonwill look in the eyes of women the way you look in mine! Understand?I _want_ him to. But I can't teach him how. I don't know enough. Iain't good enough. "

The curate rose. 

"You can't take his voice and leave his soul, " she went on. "You gotto take his soul. You got to make it--like your own. "

"Not like mine!"

"Just, " she said, passionately, "like yours. Don't you warn me!" sheflashed. "I know the difference between your soul and mine. I knowthat when his soul is like yours he won't love me no more. But I can'thelp that. I got to do without him. I got to live my life--and lethim live his. It's the way with mothers and sons. God help themothers! It's the way of the world. . . . And he'll go with you, " sheadded. "I'll get him so he'll be glad to go. It won't be nice todo--but I can do it. Maybe you think I can't. Maybe you think I lovehim too much. It ain't that I love him too much. It's because I lovehim _enough_!"

"You offer the boy to me?"

"Will you take him--voice and soul?"

"I will take him, " said the curate, "soul and voice. "

She began at once to practice upon the boy's love for her--thisskillfully, persistently: without pity for herself or him. She sighed, wept, sat gloomy for hours together: nor would she explain her sorrow, but relentlessly left it to deal with his imagination, by which it wasmagnified and touched with the horror of mystery. It was nothard--thus to feign sadness, terror, despair: to hint misfortune, parting, unalterable love. Nor could the boy withstand it; by thisdepression he was soon reduced to a condition of apprehension and griefwherein self-sacrifice was at one with joyful opportunity. Dark days, these--hours of agony, premonition, fearful expectation. And when theyhad sufficiently wrought upon him, she was ready to proceed. 

One night she took him in her lap, in the old close way, in which heloved to be held, and sat rocking, for a time, silently. 

"Let us talk, dear, " she said. 

"I think I'm too sick, " he sighed. "I just want to lie here--and nottalk. "

He had but expressed her own desire--to have him lie there: not totalk, but just to feel him lying in her arms. 

"We must, " she said. 

Something in her voice--something distinguishable from the recent daysas deep and real--aroused the boy. He touched the lashes of hereyes--and found them wet. 

"Why are you crying?" he asked. "Oh, tell me, mother! Tell me _now_!"

She did not answer. 

"I'm sick, " he muttered. "I--I--think I'm very sick. "

"Something has happened, dear, " she said. "I'm going to tell youwhat. " She paused--and in the pause felt his body grow tense in afamiliar way. For a moment the prospect frightened her. She felt, vaguely, that she was playing with that which was infinitelydelicate--which might break in her very hands, and leave her desolate. "You know, dear, " she continued, faltering, "we used to be very rich. But we're not, any more. " It was a poor lie--she realized that: andwas half ashamed. "We're very poor, now, " she went on, hurriedly. "Aman broke into the bank and stole all your mother's gold and diamondsand lovely dresses. She hasn't anything--any more. " She had conceiveda vast contempt for the lie; she felt that it was a weak, unpracticedthing--but she knew that it was sufficient: for he had never yetdoubted her. "So I don't know what she'll do, " she concluded, weakly. "She will have to stop having good times, I guess. She will have to goto work. "

He straightened in her lap. "No, no!" he cried, gladly. "_I'll_ work!"

Her impulse was to express her delight in his manliness, her triumphantconsciousness of his love--to kiss him, to hug him until he cried outwith pain. But she restrained all this--harshly, pitilessly. She hadno mercy upon herself. 

"I'll work!" he repeated. 

"How?" she asked. "You don't know how. "

"Teach me. "

She laughed--an ironical little laugh: designed to humiliate him. "Why, " she exclaimed, "I don't know how to teach you!"

He sighed. 

"But, " she added, significantly, "the curate knows. "

"Then, " said he, taking hope, "the curate will teach me. "

"Yes; but----"

"But what? Tell me quick, mother!"

"Well, " she hesitated, "the curate is so busy. Anyhow, dear, " shecontinued, "I would have to work. We are very poor. You see, dear, ittakes a great deal of money to buy new clothes for you. And, then, dear, you see----"

He waited--somewhat disturbed by the sudden failure of her voice. Itwas all becoming bitter to her, now; she found it hard to continue. 

"You see, " she gasped, "you eat--quite a bit. "

"I'll not eat much, " he promised. "And I'll not want new clothes. Andit won't take long for the curate to teach me how to work. "

She would not agree. 

"Tell me!" he commanded. 

"Yes, " she said; "but the curate says he wants you to live with him. "

"Would you come, too?"

"No, " she answered. 

He did not yet comprehend. "Would I go--alone?"

"Yes. "

"All alone?"

"Alone!"

Quiet fell upon all the world--in the twilighted room, in the tenement, in the falling night without, where no breeze moved. The child soughtto get closer within his mother's arms, nearer to her bosom--thenstirred no more. The lights were flashing into life on theriver--wandering aimlessly: but yet drifting to the sea. . . . Some onestumbled past the door--grumbling maudlin wrath. 

"There is no other way, " the mother said. 

There was no response--a shiver, subsiding at once: no more than that. 

"And I would go to see you--quite often. "

She tried to see his face; but it was hid against her. 

"It would be better, " she whispered, "for you. "

"Oh, mother, " he sobbed, sitting back in her lap, "what would you dowithout me?"

It was a crucial question--so appealing in unselfish love, so vividlyportraying her impending desolation, that for an instant her resolutiondeparted. What would she do without him? God knew! But she commandedherself. 

"I would not have to work, " she said. 

He turned her face to the light--looked deep in her eyes, searching forthe truth. She met his glance without wavering. Then, discerning theeffect, deliberately, when his eyes were alight with filial love andconcern, at the moment when the sacrifice was most clear and mostpoignant, she lied. 

"I would be happier, " she said, "without you. "

A moan escaped him. 

"Will you go with the curate?" she asked. 

"Yes. "

He fell back upon her bosom. . . . 

There was no delay. 'Twas all done in haste. The night came. Gentlythe curate took the child from her arms. 

"Good-bye, " she said. 

"I said I would not cry, mother, " he faltered. "I am not crying. "

"Good-bye, dear. "

"Mother, I am not crying. "

"You are very brave, " she said, discovering his wish. "Good-bye. Be agood boy. "

He took the curate's hand. They moved to the door--but there turnedand lingered. While the child looked upon his mother, bravely callinga smile to his face, that she might be comforted, there crept into hiseyes, against his will, some reproach. Perceiving this, she staggeredtowards him, but halted at the table, which she clutched: and therestood, her head hanging forward, her body swaying. Then she levelled afinger at the curate. 

"Take him away, you damn fool!" she screamed. 

[Illustration: Tailpiece to _Renunciation_]

[Illustration: Headpiece to _In the Current_]

_IN THE CURRENT_

Seven o'clock struck. It made no impression upon her. Eighto'clock--nine o'clock. It was now dark. Ten o'clock. She did nothear. Still at the window, her elbow on the sill, her chin resting inher hand, she kept watch on the river--but did not see the river: butsaw the sea, wind-tossed and dark, where the lights go wide apart. Eleven o'clock. Ghostly moonlight filled the room. The tenement, restless in the summer heat, now sighed and fell asleep. Twelveo'clock. She had not moved: nor dared she move. There was a knock atthe door--a quick step behind her. She turned in alarm. 

"Millie!"

She rose. Voice and figure were well known to her. She startedforward--but stopped dead. 

"Is it you, Jim?" she faltered. 

"Yes, Millie. It's me--come back. You don't feel the way you didbefore, do you, girl?" He suddenly subdued his voice--as thoughrecollecting a caution. "You ain't going to send me away, are you?" heasked. 

"Go 'way!" she complained. "Leave me alone. "

He came nearer. 

"Give me a show, Jim, " she begged. "Go 'way. It ain't fair tocome--now. Hear me?" she cried, in protest against his nearerapproach, her voice rising shrilly. "It ain't fair----"

"Hist!" he interrupted. "You'll wake the----"

She laughed harshly. "Wake what?" she mocked. "Eh, Jim? What'll Iwake?"

"Why, Millie!" he exclaimed. "You'll wake the boy. "

"Boy!" she laughed. "What boy? There ain't no boy. Look here!" shecried, rushing impetuously to the bed, throwing back the coverlet, wildly tossing the pillows to the floor. "What'll I wake? Eh, Jim?Where's the boy I'll wake?" She turned upon him. "What you saying'Hist!' for? Hist!" she mocked, with a laugh. "Talk as loud as youlike, Jim. You don't need to care what you say or how you say it. There ain't nobody here to mind you. For I tell you, " she stormed, "there ain't no boy--no more!"

He caught her hand. 

"Let go my hand!" she commanded. "Keep off, Jim! I ain't in no temperto stand it--to-night. "

He withdrew. "Millie, " he asked, in distress, "the boy ain't----"

"Dead?" she laughed. "No. I give him away. He was different from us. I didn't have no right to keep him. I give him to a parson. Because, "she added, defiantly, "I wasn't fit to bring him up. And he ain't hereno more, " she sighed, blankly sweeping the moonlit room. "I'm allalone--now. "

"Poor girl!" he muttered. 

She was tempted by this sympathy. "Go home, Jim, " she said. "It ain'tfair to stay. I'm all alone, now--and it ain't treating me right. "

"Millie, " he answered, "you ain't treating yourself right. "

She flung out her arms--in dissent and hopelessness. 

"No, you ain't, " he continued. "You've give him up. You're all alone. You can't go on--alone. Millie, girl, " he pleaded, softly, "I wantyou. Come to me!"

She wavered. 

"Come to me!" he repeated, his voice tremulous, his arms extended. "You're all alone. You've lost him. Come to me!"

"Lost him?" she mused. "No--not that. If I'd lost him, Jim, I'd takeyou. If ever he looked in my eyes--as if I'd lost him--I'd take you. I've give him up; but I ain't lost him. Maybe, " she proceeded, eagerly, "when the time comes, he'll not give me up. He loves me, Jim;he'll not forget. I know he's different from us. You can't tell amother nothing about such things as that. God!" she muttered, claspingher hands, "how strangely different he is. And every day he'll change. Every day he'll be--more different. That's what I want. That's why Igive him up. To make him--more different! But maybe, " she continued, her voice rising with the intensity of her feeling, "when he grows up, and the time comes--maybe, Jim, when he can't be made no moredifferent--maybe, when I go to him, man grown--are youlistening?--maybe, when I ask him if he loves me, he'll remember!Maybe, he'll take me in. Lost him?" she asked. "How do you know that?Go to you, Jim? Go to you, now--when he might take me in if I wait? Ican't! Don't you understand? When the time comes, he might askme--where you was. "

"You're crazy, Millie, " the man protested. "You're just plain crazy. "

"Crazy? Maybe, I am. To love and hope! Crazy? Maybe, I am. But, Jim, mothers is all that way. "

"All that way?" he asked, regarding her with a speculative eye. 

"Mothers, " she repeated, "is all that way. "

"Well, " said he, swiftly advancing, "lovers isn't. "

"Keep back!" she cried. 

"No, I won't. "

"You'll make a cat of me. I warn you, Jim!"

"You can't keep me off. You said you loved me. You do love me. Youcan't help yourself. You got to marry me. "

She retreated. "Leave me alone!" she screamed. "I can't. Don't yousee how it is? Quit that, now, Jim! You ain't fair. Take your armsaway. God help me! I love you, you great big brute! You know I do. You ain't fair. . . . Stop! You hurt me. " She was now in his arms--butstill resisting. "Leave me alone, " she whimpered. "You hurt me. Youain't fair. You know I love you--and you ain't fair. . . . Oh, Godforgive me! Don't do that again, Jim. Stop! Let me go. For God'ssake, stop kissing me! I like you, Jim. I ain't denying that. Butlet me go. . . . Please, Jim! Don't hold me so tight. It ain't fair. . . . Oh, it ain't fair. . . . "

She sank against his broad breast; and there she lay helpless--bitterlysobbing. 

"Don't cry, Millie!" he whispered. 

Still she sobbed. 

"Oh, don't cry, girl!" he repeated, tenderly. "It's all right. Iwon't hurt you. You love me, and I love you. That's all right, Millie. What's the matter with you, girl? Lift your face, won't you?"

"No, no!"

"Why not, Millie?"

"I don't know, " she whispered. "I think I'm--ashamed. "

There was no longer need to hold her fast. His arms relaxed. She didnot move from them. And while they stood thus, in the moonlight, falling brightly through the window, he stroked her hair, murmuring, the while, all the reassuring words at his command. 

"The boy's gone, " he said, at last. "You'd be all alone without me. He ain't here. But he's well looked after, Millie. Don't you fretabout 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 atthe floor, lost to her surroundings: then quickly turned to look uponhim--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; heain'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 comein. . . . He's awake. Oh, sore little heart! He's lying alone in thedark--waiting. And his mother will not come. . . . Last night, Jim, whenI 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'slonesome here in the dark without you. And to-morrow I'll wake, andwait, and wait; but you will not come!' He's awake, Jim. Don't youtell me no different. The pillow's wet with his tears. . . . Lonelychild--waiting for me! Oh, little heart of my baby! Oh, sore littleheart!"

"Millie!"

"It ain't no use no more, Jim. You better go home. I'm all alone. Mychild'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, blindedby tears, her steps uncertain: muttering incoherently of her child, whimpering broken snatches of lullaby songs. When there was no morework left for her hands to do, she staggered to the bureau, and fromthe lower drawer took a great, flaunting doll, which she had therekept, poor soul! against the time when her arms would be empty, herbosom aching for a familiar weight upon it. And for a time she satrocking 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 violentlyfrom her. 

"It ain't no baby, " she moaned, putting her hands to her face. "It'sonly a doll!"

She sank limp to the floor. There she lay prone--the moonlight fallingsoftly 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 awide-windowed, sombre, red old house, elbowed by tenements, near theChurch of the Lifted Cross--once a fashionable quarter: now mean, dejected, incongruously thronged, and fast losing the last appearancesof respectability. Sombre without--half-lit, silent, vast within: thewhole intolerant of frivolity, inharmony, garishness, ugliness, but yetquite free of gloom and ghostly suggestion. The boy tiptoed over thethick carpets, spoke in whispers, eyed the shadowy corners--sensitiveto impressions, forever alert: nevertheless possessing a fine feelingof security and hopefulness; still wistful, often weeping in the night, but not melancholy. Responsive to environment, by nature harmoniouswith his new surroundings, he presently moved through the lofty oldrooms with a manner reflecting their own--the same gravity, serenity, old-fashioned grace: expressing even their stateliness in a quaint andchildish way. Thus was the soil of his heart prepared for the seed ofa great change. 

By and by the curate enlightened the child concerning sin and theVicarious Sacrifice. This was when the leaves were falling from thetrees in the park--a drear, dark night: the wind sweeping the streetsin violent gusts, the rain lashing the windowpanes. Night had comeunnoticed--swiftly, intensely: in the curate's study a change from graytwilight to firelit shadows. The boy was squatted on the hearth-rug, disquieted by the malicious beating at the window, glad to be in theglow of the fire: his visions all of ragged men and women cowering fromthe 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? Mymother 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 beatupon the windows, crying out the sorrows of the poor--the curateunfolded the poignant story: the terms simple, the recital clear, vivid, complete. . . . And to the heart of this child the appeal wasimmediate 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 asmother. "

"Almost?"

The boy misunderstood. He felt reproved. He flushed--ashamed that thenew love had menaced the old. "No, " he answered; "but I love Him verymuch. "

"Not as much?"

"Oh, I could not!"

The boy was never afterwards the same. All that was inharmonious inlife--the pain and poverty and unloveliness--became as sin: acontinuous crucifixion, hateful, wringing the heart. . . . 

Late in the night, when he lay sleepless, sick for his mother'spresence, her voice, her kisses, her soothing touch, the boy would riseto sit at the window--there to watch shadowy figures flit through thestreet-lamp's circle of light. Once he fancied that his mother camethus out of the night, that for a moment she paused with upturnedglance, then disappeared in woe and haste: returning, halted again; butcame no more. . . . 

At rare intervals the boy's mother came to the curate's door. Shewould not enter: but timidly waited for her son, and then went with himto the park, relieved to be away from the wide, still house, herspirits and self-confidence reviving with every step. One mellowevening, while they sat together in the dusk, an ill-clad man, gray andunkempt, 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 withyou, anyhow?" She looked at him--realizing some subtle change in him, bewildered by it: searching eagerly for the nature and cause. "Youdidn'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. Thewoman laughed. 

"Don't laugh!" the boy exclaimed--a cry of reproach, not free ofindignation. "Oh, mother, " he complained, putting her hand to hischeek, "how could you!"

She did not answer. The derelict picked himself up, whining in amaudlin 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 LiftedCross pierced the blue-black sky. It was tipped with a blazingcross--a great cross, flaming in the night: a symbol of sacrifice, ahope, a protest, raised above the feverish world. To this the boylooked. 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 hisglance--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 caughther hand again, and kissed it passionately. So much concerned was shefor his physical health that the momentary shrinking escaped her. 

"You're sick, " she said. "I know you are. You're singing too much inthe 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 makesure. "

She was aware of the significance of this sacrifice--and kissed himquickly in fond approval. Then she turned up his coat-sleeve. "Thefool!" 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 therecurate, " she concluded, in disgust, "don't know nothing about raising aboy. "

"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 ofthis: in her ignorance concluding that he longed for her, and was sickbecause of that. . . . And while she held him close, the clock of theChurch 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 hewas 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 firstsolo 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 herinexplicable failure to be in harmony--seated herself obscurely, whereshe had but an infrequent glimpse of his white robe, wistful face, dark, curling hair. She had never loved him more proudly--never beforerealized that his value extended beyond the region of her arms: neverbefore known that the babe, the child, the growing boy, mothered byher, nursed at her breast, her possession, was a gift to the world, sweet and inspiring. "Angels, ever bright and fair!" She felt thethrill of his tender voice; perceived the impression: the buzz, thesubsiding confusion, the spell-bound stillness. "Take, oh, take me toyour care!" It was in her heart to strike her breasts--to cry out thatthis was her son, born of her; her bosom his place. . . . 

When the departing throng had thinned in the aisle, she stepped fromthe pew, and stood waiting. There passed, then, a lady in richattire--sweet-faced, of exquisite manner. A bluff, ruddy young manattended her. 

"Did you like the music?" he asked--a conventional question: everywhererepeated. 

"Perfectly lovely!" she replied. "A wonderful voice! And such apretty 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 withproud love. 

"He is my son, " she said. 

The lady turned in amazement. In a brief, appraising glance, shecomprehended 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 tohis 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, forthe first time, that the world into which her child had gone would notaccept her. . . . The church was empty. The organ had ceased. One byone the twinkling lights were going out. The boy came bounding downthe 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 thecurate's permission to spend together in the Box Street tenement. Itwas 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 highspirits--the boy chattering, merrily, incoherently, as he trotted athis silent mother's side. Very happy, now, indeed, they raced up thestair, rioting up flight after flight, to top floor rear, where therewas a cheery fire, a kettle bubbling on the stove, a lamp turned low--afeeling of warmth and repose and welcome, which the broad window, noisily shaken by a hearty winter wind from the sea, pleasantlyaccentuated. 

The gladness of this return, the sudden, overwhelming realization of alonging that had been agonizing in its intensity, excited the boybeyond bounds. He gave an indubitable whoop of joy, which so startledand amazed the woman that she stared open-mouthed; tossed his cap inthe air, flung his overcoat and gloves on the floor, peeped through theblack window-panes, pried into the cupboard, hugged his mother sorapturously, so embarrassingly, that he tumbled her over and washimself involved in the hilarious collapse: whereupon, as a measure ofprotection while she laid the table, she despatched him across the hallto greet Mr. Poddle, who was ill abed, anxiously awaiting him. 

The Dog-faced Man was all prinked for the occasion--his hirsuteadornment neatly brushed and braided, smoothly parted from crown overbrow and nose to chin: so that, though, to be sure, his appearanceinstantly suggested a porcupine, his sensitive lips and mild gray eyeswere for once allowed to impress the beholder. The air of Hockley'sMusee had at last laid him by the heels. No longer, by any license ofmetaphor, could his lungs be said to be merely restless. He was flaton 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 eyesoverran with the weak tears of the sick, he smiled like a man to whomNature had not been cruel, while he pressed the small hand so swiftlyextended. 

"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, hopedthat 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 hishand--but swiftly replaced it between the child's warm, sympatheticpalms. "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 oftrousers? 'A Tragic Disappearance. ' All up the spout. Everythinggone. 'Not a Stitch to His Name. ' Really, Richard, it wouldn't beproper to get well. A natural phenomenon of my standingcouldn't--simply _couldn't_, Richard--go back to the profession with awardrobe 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 thequicker the better. "

To change the distressful drift of the conversation, the boy inquiredconcerning the Mexican Sword Swallower. 

"Hush!" implored Mr. Poddle, in a way so poignant that the boy wishedhe had been more discreet. "Them massive proportions! Them socks!'Her Fate a Tattooed Man, '" he pursued, in gentle melancholy. "Don'task me! 'Nearing the Fateful Hour. ' Poor child!' Wedded To AArtificial Freak. '"

"Is she married?"

"No--not yet, " Mr. Poddle explained. "But when the dragon's tail isfinished, accordin' to undenigeable report, the deed will be did. 'Shackled For Life. ' Oh, my God! He's borrowed the money to pay thelast installment; and I'm informed that only the scales has to bepicked out with red. But why should I mourn?" he asked. "'Adored FromAfar. ' 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 lastmuch 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 meno 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 whowatches over me? Who comforts me? Who holds my hand when I git afraidto 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 thepillow. "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 fromthe grave--when the time she dreads has come. Listen to me!" Hisvoice 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'sgot. Her poor heart is hungry for you. Don't you forget her. Thereain'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 curickteach 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 thenfled to his mother. . . . 

For a long time the Dog-faced Man lay alone, listening to the voicesacross the hall: himself smiling to know that the woman had her sonagain; not selfishly reluctant to be thus abandoned. The door wasajar. Joyous sounds drifted in--chatter, soft laughter, the rattle ofdishes. . . . Presently, silence: broken by the creaking of therocking-chair, and by low singing. . . . By and by, voices, speakinggravely--in intimate converse: this for a long, long time, while themuttering of the tenement ceased, and quiet fell. . . . A plea and animploring protest. She was wanting him to go to bed. There followedthe familiar indications that the child was being disrobed: shoesstriking the floor, yawns, sleepy talk, crooning encouragement. . . . Then a strange silence--puzzling to the listener: not accountable byhis 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 handagainst the door-post, the other on her heart. 

"Poddle, he's----"

Mr. Poddle, thrown into a paroxysm of fright by the pause, struggled tohis 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 AtLeisure. '"

"Prayin'!" she repeated, entering on tiptoe. "He's down on hisknees--_prayin'_!" She began to pace the floor--wringing her hands: atragic figure. "It's come, Poddle!" she whimpered, beginning now tobite 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. Igot to face it. He'll soon be like the people that--that--don'tunderstand 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 forlack of breath. "But I didn't think it would be so--awful soon. And Ididn't know how much it would hurt. I didn't _think_ about it. Ididn't dare. Oh, my baby!" she sobbed. "You'll not love your motherany more--when you find her out. You'll be just like--all thempeople!" She came to a full stop. "Poddle, " she declared, trembling, her voice rising harshly, "I got to do something. I got to doit--_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 himknow--you're different. Go and--pray yourself. Don't--let onyou--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--stillreluctant to crawl within. And he was very gravely regarding her, acloud 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 awfulsleepy. " She counterfeited a yawn. "I never kneel to--do it, " shecontinued. In a sharp glance she saw the wonder clearing from hiseyes, the beginnings of a smile appear about his lips; and she wasemboldened to proceed. "Some kneels, " she said, "and some doesn't. The curate, I suppose, kneels. That's his way. Now, _I_ don't. I wasbrought 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 ata time. I just _love_ to--do it. In bed, you know. I guess you neverseen me kneel, did you? But I think I will, after this, becauseyou--do it--that way. "

His serenity was quite restored. Glad to learn that his mother knewthe 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 dowhen 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'tstand it! I got to _do_ something. . . . It won't be long. They'll tellhim--some one. And I can't do nothing to help it! But I _got_ to dosomething. . . . My God! I got to do something. I'll dress better thanthis. This foulard's a botch. " New fashions in dress, in coiffures, multiplied in her mind. She was groping, according to her poorenlightenment. "The pompadour!" she mused, inspired, according to theinspiration 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 dono 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, Ipray good and hard. "

[Illustration: Tailpiece to _Alienation_]

[Illustration: Headpiece to _A Child's Prayer_]

_A CHILD'S PRAYER_

The boy's room was furnished in the manner of the curate'schamber--which, indeed, was severe and chaste enough: for the curatepracticed certain monkish austerities not common to the clergy of thisday. It was a white, bare little room, at the top of the house, overlooking the street: a still place, into which, at bedtime, nodistraction entered to break the nervous introspection, the high, wistful dreaming, sadly habitual to the child when left alone in thedark. But always, of fine mornings, the sun came joyously to wakenhim; and often, in the night, when he lay wakeful, the moon peeped inupon the exquisite simplicity, and, discovering a lonely child, companionably lingered to hearten him. The beam fell over thewindow-sill, crawled across the floor, climbed the bare wall. 

There was a great white crucifix on the wall, hanging in the broad pathof the moonlight. It stared at the boy's pillow, tenderly appealing:the head thorn-crowned, the body drawn tense, the face uplifted inpatient 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 didthe shadows of the wide, still house impress him, so did the curate'svoice and gentle teaching, so did the gloom, the stained windows, thelofty arches, the lights and low, sweet music of the Church of theLifted Cross favour the subtle change--that he was now moved to painand sickening disgust by rags and pinched faces and discord and dirtand 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 balmabroad in the air. Men and women, returning from church, idled throughthe 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 youknow 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 forher 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 couldnot 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. Shewas not in play. A sinful woman? For a moment he conceived thepossibility--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 softlight--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 thewicked. 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. Iwould like very much to love them. She says they're nice--when youknow them. I know she's right, of course. But it seems queer. Andshe says I _ought_ to love them. So I want to do it, if you don'tmind. . . . Maybe, if you would let me be a little wicked for a littlewhile, I could do it. Don't you think, Jesus, dear, that it is a goodidea? A little wicked--for just a little while. I wouldn't care verymuch, if you didn't mind. But if it hurts you very much, I don't wantto, if you please. . . . But I would like to be a little wicked. If Ido, please don't forget me. I would not like to be wicked long. Justa little while. Then I would be good again--and love the wicked, as mymother 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 curtainsin the open windows of the street, a hansom cab, drawn by a lean graybeast, appeared near the curate's door. What with his wild career, thenature of his errand, the extraordinary character of his fare, thedriver 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 thevehicle. Rolls of fat were tucked into every nook, jammed into everycorner, calked into every crevice; and, at last, demanding place, theyscandalously overflowed the apron. So tight was the fit--so crushedand confined the lady's immensity--that, being quite unable toarticulate or stir, but desiring most heartily to do both, she could dolittle but wheeze, and faintly wave a gigantic hand. 

Proceeding thus--while the passenger gasped, and the drivergesticulated, and the hansom creaked and tottered, and the outragedhorse bent to the fearful labour--the equipage presently arrived at thecurate's door, and was there drawn up with a jerk. 

The Fat Lady was released, assisted to alight, helped across thepavement; and having waddled up three steps of the flight, and beingunable without a respite to lift her massive foot for the fourth time, she loudly demanded of the impassive door the instant appearance ofDickie 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 mothercan't stay no longer--and I can't get up the stairs--and Poddle'sdyin'--and _git your hat_!"

In a moment the boy returned. The Fat Lady was standing beside thecab--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 onceshe lets her weight down----"

"Maybe, " the Fat Lady admitted, after giving the matter most carefulconsideration, "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, atlast, 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 thewindow-ledge of Mr. Poddle's room, about to enter, to distribute cheer, to speak its unfailing promises. The sash was lifted high; a gentlewind, clean and blue, blowing from the sea, over the roofs and theriver, came sportively in, with a joyous little rush and swirl--but ofa sudden failed: hushed, as though by unexpected encounter with thesolemnity within. 

The boy's mother was gone. It was of a Saturday; she had not dared tolinger. When the boy entered, Mr. Poddle lay alone, lifted on thepillows, staring deep into the wide, shining sky: composed anddreamful. The distress of his deformity, as the pains of dissolution, had been mitigated by the woman's kind and knowing hand: the tawnyhair, 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 lowand broken--husky, halting--was the Dog-faced Man's voice. The boymust often bend his ear to understand. 

"The hirsute, " Mr. Poddle whispered, "adornment. All ready for thelast 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 unusualcondition 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 notrelented--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 hisglazed 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 staywith me--to the last. She said, Richard, that maybe you'd keep thehair away from my eyes, and the sweat from rollin' in. For I'm easierthat 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 beenapplauded. Locks of it has been requested by the Fair; and the Stronghas wished they was me. But, Richard, celebrities sits on a lonelyeminence. And I _been_ lonely, God knows! though I kept a smilin'face. . . . I'm tired of the hair--tired of fame. It all looksdifferent--when you git sight of the Common Leveller. 'Tired of HisTalent. ' Since I been lyin' here, Richard, sick and alone, I beenthinkin' 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 aman!"

The sunlight began to creep towards Mr. Poddle's bed--a broad, yellowbeam, stretching into the blue spaces without: lying like a goldenpathway 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 hefinds out what he's missed--only when he looks back, from the end ofthe 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. NowI see--now I know! I have been travellin' a road where the flowersgrows 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 thirstyfor. . . . 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'sme! 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'tno mistake; maybe He wanted to show all the people in the world whatwould happen if He was in the habit of gittin' careless. Anyhow, Iguess He's man enough to stand by the job He done. He made me what Iam--a freak. I ain't to blame. But, oh, my God! Richard, ithurts--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 beenthinkin'--since I been lyin' here, sick and alone--I been thinkin' thatus 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 thesame. You gits a bird's-eye view of life--from your deathbed. And itlooks--somehow--different. "

There was a little space of silence--while the Dog-faced Man drew longbreaths: while his wasted hand wandered restlessly over the coverlet. 

"You got the little brush, Richard?" he asked, his voice changing to atired 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--verywell. "

While the boy humoured the fancy, Mr. Poddle lay musing--his hand stillstraying over the coverlet: still feverishly searching. 

"I used to think, Richard, " he whispered, "that it ought to be done--inpublic. " 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, themuffled, 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 buoyantstep, were strangely not discordant; nor was the sunshine, falling overthe foot of the bed. 

"'Last Appearance of a Famous Freak!'" Mr. Poddle elucidated, his eyesshining with delight--returning, all at once, to his old manner. "Gitme, Richard?" he continued, excitedly. "'Fitting Finale! Close of aCurious Career! Mr. Henry Poddle, the eminent natural phenomonen, hasconsented to depart this life on the stage of Hockley's Musee, onSunday next, in the presence of three physicians, a trained nurse, aminister of the gospel and a undertaker. Unparalleled Entertainment!The management has been at unprecedented expense to git this uniquefeature. Death Defied! A Extraordinary Educational Exhibition! Note:Mr. Poddle will do his best to oblige his admirers and the patrons ofthe house by dissolving the mortal tie about the hour of ten o'clock;but the management cannot guarantee that the exhibition will concludebefore midnight. '" Mr. Poddle made a wry face--with yet a glint ofhumour about it. "'Positively, '" said he, "'the last appearance ofthis 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 beenlyin' 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 thepublic--no more. I don't want to die--in public. I want, " heconcluded, his voice falling to a thin, exhausted whisper, "only yourmother--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. Andshe 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 eyesflashing, "I ain't no dog!"

The boy kissed his forehead--there was no other comfort to offer: andthe caress was sufficient. 

"I wish, " Mr. Poddle sighed, "that I knew how God will look atit--to-night!"

Mr. Poddle, exhausted by speech and emotion, closed his eyes. By andby the boy stealthily withdrew his hand from the weakening clasp. Mr. Poddle gave no sign of knowing it. The boy slipped away. . . . Anddescending to the third floor of the tenement, he came to the roomwhere lived the Mexican Sword Swallower: whom he persuaded to returnwith 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'sall!"

They entered. Mr. Poddle was muttering the boy's name--in a vaineffort to lift his voice. His hands were both at thecoverlet--picking, searching: both restless in the advancing sunshine. With a sob of self-reproach the boy ran quickly to the bedside, tookone of the wandering hands, pressed it to his lips. And Mr. Poddlesighed, 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 ina 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 grotesquedeception. "Yes, I do!"

"'Beauty, '" Mr. Poddle gasped, "'and the Beast!'"

They listened intently. He said no more. . . . Soon the sunbeamglorified 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 themelancholy and deep mystification of this death--the boy went into thestreet. The day was well disposed, the crowded world in an amiablemood; he perceived no menace--felt no warning of catastrophe. Hewandered far, unobservant, forgetful: the real world out of mind. Andit chanced that he lost his way; and he came, at last, to that loud, seething place, thronged with unquiet faces, where, even in thesunshine, 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 andquiet gloom of the Church of the Lifted Gross--he was confused andfrightened. . . . 

A hand fell heartily on the boy's shoulder. "Hello, there!" cried abig 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 noalarm. 

"What the devil you doing here?" the man demanded. "Looking forMillie?"

"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 beafraid, " 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 oldfriends. Soon as I seen you I knew who you was. 'By gad!' says I, 'ifthat 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 muchhappier--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, " hesaid, "when you see your mother, you tell her you met Jim Millette onthe street. Will you? You tell her Jim's been--married. She'llunderstand. And I guess she'll be glad to know it. And, say, I guessshe'll wonder who it's to. You tell her it's the little blonde of theFlying Tounsons. She'll know I ain't losing anything, anyhow, bystanding in with that troupe. Tell her it's all right. You just tellher I said that everything was all right. Will you?"

"Yes, sir. "

"You ain't never been to a show, have you?" the man continued. "Ithought not. Well, say, you come along with me. It ain't late. We'llsee 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 theboy, of kind impulse; "and I'd like to give you a good time--forMillie'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 afterthe show. We got lots of time. Aw, come on!"

It occurred to the boy that Providence had ordered events in answer tohis prayer. 

"Thank you, " he said. 

"You'll have a good time, " the acrobat promised. "They say Flannigan'sgot a good show. "

They made their way to the Burlesque. Flannigan's Forty Flirts thereheld the boards. "Girls! Just Girls! Grass Widows and Merry Maids!No Nonsense About 'Em! Just Girls! Girls!" The foul and tawdryaspect of the entrance oppressed the child. He felt some tragicforeboding. . . . 

Within it was dark to the boy's eyes. The air was hot andfoul--stagnant, exhausted: the stale exhalation of a multitude of lungswhich vice was rotting; tasting of their very putridity. A mist oftobacco smoke filled the place--was still rising in bitter, stiflingclouds. There was a nauseating smell of beer and sweat anddisinfectants. The boy's foot felt the unspeakable slime of the floor:he tingled with disgust. 

An illustrated song was in listless progress. The light, reflectedfrom the screen, revealed a throng of repulsive faces, stretching, rowupon row, into the darkness of the rear, into the shadows of theroof--sickly and pimpled and bloated flesh: vicious faces, hopeless, vacuous, diseased. And these were the faces that leered and writhed inthe boy's dreams of hell. Here, present and tangible, were gatheredall his terrors. He was in the very midst of sin. 

The song was ended. The footlights flashed high. There was a burst ofblatant music--a blare: unfeeling and discordant. It gratedagonizingly. The boy's sensitive ear rebelled. He shuddered. . . . Screen and curtain disappeared. In the brilliant light beyond, a groupof brazen women began to cavort and sing. Their voices were harsh andout of tune. At once the faces in the shadow started into eagerinterest--the eyes flashing, with some strangely evil passion, unknownto the child, but acutely felt. . . . There was a shrill shout ofwelcome--raised by the women, without feeling. Down the stage, herperson exposed, bare-armed, throwing shameless glances, courting thesensual stare, grinning as though in joyous sympathy with the evil ofthe 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. Aflush of shame, swiftly departing, had left his face white. Presentlyhe trembled. His lips twitched--his head drooped. The man laid acomforting hand on his knee. A tear splashed upon it. 

"I didn't know she was here, Dick!" the acrobat whispered. "It's ashame. But I didn't know. And I--I'm--sorry!"

The boy looked up. He called a smile to his face. It was a bravepretense. But his face was still wan. 

"I think I'd like to go home, " he answered, weakly. "It's--time--fortea. "

"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'smother began to sing--a voice trivially engaged: raised beyond itsstrength. 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 gonow. "

The acrobat took his hand--guided him, stumbling, up the aisle: led himinto the fresh air, the cool, clean sunlight, of the street. . . . Therehad been sudden confusion on the stage. The curtain had fallen with arush. But it was now lifted, again, and the dismal entertainment wasonce more in noisy course. 

It was now late in the afternoon. The pavement was thronged. Dazed byagony, blinded by the bright light of day, the boy was roughly jostled. The acrobat drew him into an eddy of the stream. There the childoffered 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 wayhome, do you?" he asked. 

"No, sir. "

"Where you going?"

The boy looked away. There was a long interval. Into the shuffle andchatter of the passing crowd crept the muffled blare of the orchestra. The acrobat still held the boy's hand tight--still anxiously watchedhim, his face overcast. 

"Box Street?" he asked. 

"No, sir. "

"Aw, Dick! think again, " the acrobat pleaded. "Come, now! Ain't yougoing to Box Street?"

"No, sir, " the boy answered, low. "I'm going to the curate's house, near the Church of the Lifted Cross. "

They were soon within sight of the trees in the park. The boy's waywas then known to him. Again he extended his hand--again smiled. 

"Thank you, " he said. "Good-bye. "

The acrobat was loath to let the little hand go. But there was nothingelse to do. He dropped it, at last, with a quick-drawn sigh. 

"It'll come out all right, " he muttered. 

Then the boy went his way alone. His shoulders were proudlysquared--his head held high. . . . 

Meantime, they had revived Millie Slade. She was in the commondressing-room--a littered, infamous, foul, place, situated below stage. Behind her the gas flared and screamed. Still in her panderousdisguise, within hearing of the rasping music and the tramp of thedance, within hearing of the coarse applause, this tender mother satalone, unconscious of evil--uncontaminated, herself kept holy by hermotherhood, lifted by her love from the touch of sin. To her all theworld was a temple, undefiled, wherein she worshipped, wherein thechild was a Presence, purifying every place. 

She had no strength left for tragic behaviour. She sat limp, sheddingweak tears, whimpering, tearing at her finger nails. 

"I'm found out!" she moaned. "Oh, my God! He'll never love me nomore!"

A woman entered in haste. 

"You got it, Aggie?" the mother asked. 

"Yes, dear. Now, you just drink this, and you'll feel better. "

"I don't want it--now. "

"Aw, now, you drink it! Poor dear! It'll do you lots of good. "

"He wouldn't want me to. "

"Aw, he won't know. And you need it, dear. _Do_ drink it!"

"No, Aggie, " said the mother. "It don't matter that he don't know. Ijust don't want it. I _can't_ do what he wouldn't like me to. "

The glass was put aside. And Aggie sat beside the mother, and drew herhead to a sympathetic breast. 

"Don't cry!" she whispered. "Oh, Millie, don't cry!"

"Oh, " the woman whimpered, "he'll think me an ugly thing, Aggie. He'llthink me a skinny thing. If I'd only got here in time, if I'd onlylooked right, he might have loved me still. But he won't love me nomore--after to-day!"

"Hush, Millie! He's only a kid. He don't know nothing about--suchthings. "

"Only a kid, " said the mother, according to the perverted experience ofher life, "but still a man!"

"He wouldn't care. "

"They _all_ care!"

Indeed, this was her view; and by her knowledge of the world she spoke. 

"Not him, " said Aggie. 

The mother was infinitely distressed. "Oh, " she moaned, "if I'd onlyhad time to pad!"

This was the greater tragedy of her situation: that she misunderstood. 

[Illustration: Tailpiece to _The Mother_]

[Illustration: Headpiece to _Nearing the Sea_]

_NEARING THE SEA_

It was Sunday evening. Evil-weather threatened. The broad window oftop floor rear looked out upon a lowering sky--everywhere gray andthick: turning black beyond the distant hills. An hour ago theDepartment wagon had rattled away with the body of Mr. Poddle; and withthe cheerfully blasphemous directions, the tramp of feet, the jocularcomment, as the box was carried down the narrow stair, the lastdistraction had departed. The boy's mother was left undisturbed toprepare for the crucial moments in the park. 

She was now nervously engaged before her looking-glass. All the toolsof her trade lay at hand. A momentous problem confronted her. Thechild must be won back. He must be convinced of her worth. Thereforeshe must be beautiful. He thought her pretty. She would be pretty. But how impress him? By what appeal? The pathetic? the tenderlywinsome? the gay? She would be gay. Marvellous lies occurred toher--a multitude of them: there was no end to her fertility indeception. And she would excite his jealousy. Upon that feeling shewould play. She would blow hot; she would blow cold. She would reducehim to agony--the most poignant agony he had ever suffered. Then shewould win him. 

To this end, acting according to the enlightenment of her kind, sheplied her pencil and puffs; and when, at last, she stood before themirror, new gowned, beautiful after the conventions of her kind, blindto the ghastliness of it, ignorant of the secret of her strength, shehad a triumphant consciousness of power. 

"He'll love me, " she thought, with a snap of the teeth. "He's got to!"

Jim Millette knocked--and pushed the door ajar, and diffidentlyintruded his head. 

"Hello, Jim!" she cried. "Come in!"

The man would not enter. "I can't, Millie, " he faltered. "I just gota minute. "

"Oh, come on in!" said she, contemptuously. "Come in and tell me aboutit. What did you do it for, Jim? You got good and even, didn't you?Eh, Jim?" she taunted. "You got even!"

"It wasn't that, Millie, " he protested. 

"Oh, wasn't it?" she shrilled. 

"No, it wasn't, Millie. I didn't have no grudge against you. "

"Then what was it? Come in and tell me!" she laughed. "You dassn't, Jim! You're afraid! come in, " she flashed, "and I'll make you lick myshoes! And when you're crawling on the floor, Jim, like a slimy dog, I'll kick you out. Hear me, you pup? What you take my child in therefor?" she cried. "Hear me? Aw, you pup!" she snarled. "You're afraidto come in!"

"Don't go on, Millie, " he warned her. "Don't you go on like that. Maybe I _will_ come in. And if I do, my girl, it won't be me that'llbe lickin' shoes. It might be _you_!"

"Me!" she scorned. "You ain't got no hold on me no more. Come in andtry it!"

The man hesitated. 

"Come on!" she taunted. 

"I ain't coming in, Millie, " he answered. "I didn't come up to comein. I just come up to tell you I was sorry. "

She laughed. 

"I didn't know you was there, Millie, " the man continued. "If I'dknowed you was with the Forty Flirts, I wouldn't have took the boythere. And I come up to tell you so. "

Overcome by a sudden and agonizing recollection of the scene, she puther hands to her face. 

"And I come up to tell you something else, " the acrobat continued, speaking gently. "I tell you, Millie, you better look out. If youain't careful, you'll lose him for good. He took it hard, Millie. Hard! It broke the little fellow all up. It hurt him--awful!"

She began to walk the floor. In the room the light was failing. Itwas growing dark--an angry portent--over the roofs of the opposite city. 

"Do you want him back?" the man asked. 

"Want him back!" she cried. 

"Then, " said he, his voice soft, grave, "take care!"

"Want him back?" she repeated, beginning, now, by habit, to tear at hernails. "I got to have him back! He's mine, ain't he? Didn't I bearhim? Didn't I nurse him? Wasn't it me that--that--_made_ him? He'smy kid, I tell you--_mine_! And I want him back! Oh, I want him so!"

The man entered; but the woman seemed not to know it. He regarded hercompassionately. 

"That there curate ain't got no right to him, " she complained. "_He_didn't have nothing to do with the boy. It was only me and Dick. What's he sneaking around here for--taking Dick's boy away? The boy'shalf mine and half Dick's. The curate ain't got no share. And nowDick's dead--and he's _all_ mine! The curate ain't got nothing to dowith it. We don't want no curate here. I raised that boy for myself. I didn't do it to give him to no curate. What right's he got comingaround here--getting a boy he didn't have no pain to bear or trouble toraise? I tell you _I_ got that boy. He's mine--and I want him!"

"But you give the boy to the curate, Millie!"

"No, I didn't!" she lied. "He took the boy. He come sneaking aroundhere making trouble. _I_ didn't give him no boy. And I want himback, " she screamed, in a gust of passion. "I want my boy back!"

A rumble of thunder--failing, far off--came from the sea. 

"Millie, " the acrobat persisted, "you said you wasn't fit to bring himup. "

"I ain't, " she snapped. "But I don't care. He's mine--and I'll havehim. "

The man shrugged his shoulders. 

"Jim, " the woman said, now quiet, laying her hands on the acrobat'sshoulders, looking steadily into his eyes, "that boy's mine. I wanthim--I want him--back. But I don't want him if he don't love me. Andif I can't have him--if I can't have him----"

"Millie!"

"I'll be all alone, Jim--and I'll want----"

He caught her hands. "Me?" he asked. "Will you want me?"

"I don't know. "

"Millie, " he said, speaking hurriedly, "_won't_ you want me? I've tookup with the little Tounson blonde. But _she_ wouldn't care. You knowhow it goes, Millie. It's only for business. She and me team up. That's all. She wouldn't care. And if you want me--if you want me, Millie, straight and regular, for better or for worse--if you want methat way, Millie----"

"Don't, Jim!"

He let her hands fall--and drew away. "I love you too much, " he said, "to butt in now. But if the boy goes back on you, Millie, I'llcome--again. You'll need me then--and that's why I'll come. I don'twant him to go back on you. I want him to love you still. It'sbecause of the way you love him that I love you--in the way I do. Itain't easy for me to say this. It ain't easy for me to want to giveyou up. But you're that kind of a woman, Millie. You're thatkind--since you got the boy. I want to give you up. You'd be betteroff with him. You're--you're--_holier_--when you're with that child. You'd break your poor heart without that boy of yours. And I want youto have him--to love him--to be loved by him. If he comes back, you'llnot see me again. I've lived a life that makes me--not fit--to be withno child like him. But so help me God!" the man passionately declared, "I hope he don't turn you down!"

"You're all right, Jim!" she sobbed. "You're all right!"

"I'm going now, " he said, quietly. "But I got one more thing to say. Don't fool that boy!"

She looked up. 

"Don't fool him, " the man repeated. "You'll lose him if you do. "

"Not fool him? It's so easy, Jim!"

"Ah, Millie, " he said, with a hopeless gesture, "you're blind. Youdon't know your own child. You're blind--you're just blind!"

"What you mean, Jim?" she demanded. 

"You don't know what he loves you for. "

"What does he love me for?"

The man was at the door. "Because, " he answered, turning, "you're hismother!"

It was not yet nine o'clock. The boy would still be in the church. She must not yet set out for the park. So she lighted the lamp. For atime she posed and grimaced before the mirror. When she was perfect inthe part, she sat in the rocking-chair at the broad window, there torehearse the deceptions it was in her mind to practice. But while shewatched the threatening shadows gather, the lights on the river flashinto life and go drifting aimlessly away, her mind strayed from thispurpose, her willful heart throbbed with sweeter feeling--his childishvoice, the depths of his eyes, the grateful weight of his head upon herbosom. Why had he loved her? Because she was his mother! A forgottenperception returned to illuminate her way--a perception, never beforereduced to formal terms, that her virtue, her motherly tenderness, wereinfinitely more appealing to him than the sum of her other attractions. 

She started from the chair--her breast heaving with despairing alarm. Again she stood before the mirror--staring with new-opened eyes at thepainted face, the gaudy gown: and by these things she was now horrified. 

"He won't love me!" she thought. "Not this way. He--he--couldn't!"

It struck the hour. 

"Nine o'clock!" she cried. "I got to _do_ something!"

She looked helplessly about the room. Why had he loved her? Becauseshe was his mother! She would be his mother--nothing more: just hismother. She would go to him with that appeal. She would not seek towin him. She would but tell him that she was his mother. She would behis mother--true and tender and holy. He would not resist her plea. . . . This determined, she acted resolutely and in haste: she stripped offthe gown, flung it on the floor, kicked the silken heap under the bed;she washed the paint from her face, modestly laid her hair, robedherself anew. And when again, with these new, seeing eyes, she lookedinto the glass, she found that she was young, unspoiled--still lovely:a sweetly wistful woman, whom he resembled. Moreover, there came totransform her, suddenly, gloriously, a revelation: that of thespiritual significance of her motherhood. 

"Thank God!" she thought, uplifted by this vision. "Oh, thank God!I'm like them other people. I'm fit to bring him up!"

It thundered ominously. 

[Illustration: Tailpiece to _Nearing the Sea_]

[Illustration: Headpiece to _The Last Appeal_]

_THE LAST APPEAL_

She sat waiting for him at the bench by the lilac bush. He was late, she thought--strangely late. She wondered why. It was dark. Thenight was close and hot. There was no breath of air stirring in thepark. From time to time the lightning flashed. In fast lesseningintervals came the thunder. Presently she caught ear of his step onthe pavement--still distant: approaching, not from the church, but fromthe direction of the curate's home. 

"And he's not running!" she thought, quick to take alarm. 

They were inexplicable--these lagging feet. He had never beforedawdled on the way. Her alarm increased. She waited anxiously--until, with eyes downcast, he stood before her. 

"Richard!" she tenderly said. 

"I'm here, mother, " he answered; but he did not look at her. 

She put her arms around him. "Your mother, " she whispered, while shekissed him, "is glad--to feel you--lying here. "

He lay quiet against her--his face on her bosom. She was thrilled bythis sweet pressure. 

"Have you been happy?" she asked. 

"No. "

"Nor I, dear!"

He turned his face--not to her: to the flaming cross above the church. She had invited a question. But he made no response. 

"Nor I, " she repeated. 

Still he gazed at the cross. It was shining in a black cloud--high inthe sky. She felt him tremble. 

"Hold me tight!" he said. 

She drew him to her--glad to have him ask her to: having no disquietingquestion. 

"Tighter!" he implored. 

She rocked him. "Hush, dear!" she crooned. "You're safe--with yourmother. What frightens you?"

"The cross!" he sobbed. 

God knows! 'twas a pity that his childish heart misinterpreted themessage of the cross--changing his loving purpose into sin. But themisinterpretation was not forever to endure. . . . 

The wind began to stir the leaves--tentative gusts: swirling eagerlythrough the park. There was a flash--an instant clap of thunder, breaking overhead, rumbling angrily away. Two men ran past. Greatdrops of rain splashed on the pavement. 

"Let us go home, " the boy said. 

"Not yet!" she protested. "Oh, not yet!"

He escaped from her arms. 

"Don't go, Richard!" she whimpered. "Please don't, dear! Not yet. I--I'm--oh, I'm not ready to say good-night. Not yet!"

He took her hand. "Come, mother!" he said. 

"Not yet!"

He dropped her hand--sprang away from her with a startled little cry. "Oh, mother, " he moaned, "don't you want me?"

"Home?" she asked, blankly. "Home--with me?"

"Oh, yes, mother! Let me go home. Quick I Let us go. . . . The curatesays I know best. I went straight to him--yesterday--and told him. And he said I was wiser than he. . . . And I said good-bye. Don't sendme back. For, oh, I want to go home--with you!"

She opened her arms. At that moment a brilliant flash of lightningilluminated the world. For the first time the child caught sight ofher face--the sweet, real face of his mother: now radiant, touched bythe finger of the Good God Himself. 

"Is it you?" he whispered. 

"I am your mother. "

He leaped into her arms--found her wet eyes with his lips. "Mother!"he cried. 

"My son!" she said. 

He turned again to the flaming cross--a little smile of defiance uponhis lips. But the defiance passed swiftly: for it was then revealed tohim that his mother was good; and he knew that what the cross signifiedwould continue with him, wherever he went, that goodness and peacemight abide within his heart. Hand in hand, while the thunder stillrolled and the rain came driving with the wind, they hurried awaytowards the Box Street tenement. . . . 

Let them go! Why not? Let them depart into their world! It needsthem. They will glorify it. Nor will they suffer loss. Let them go!Love flourishes in the garden of the world we know. Virtue is foreverin bloom. Let them go to their place! Why should we wish to deprivethe unsightly wilderness of its flowers? Let the tenderness of thismother and son continue to grace it!

[Illustration: Tailpiece to _The Last Appeal_]

THE END