The Mother Part 15

It would be very hard, then, to fall asleep....

So did the crucifix on the wall work within the child's heart--so did the shadows of the wide, still house impress him, so did the curate's voice and gentle teaching, so did the gloom, the stained windows, the lofty arches, the lights and low, sweet music of the Church of the Lifted Cross favour the subtle change--that he was now moved to pain and sickening disgust by rags and pinched faces and discord and dirt and feverish haste and all manner of harshness and unloveliness, conceiving them poignant as sin....

Mother and son were in the park. It was evening--dusk: a grateful balm abroad in the air. Men and women, returning from church, idled through the spring night.

"But, dear," said his mother, while she patted his hand, "you mustn't _hate_ the wicked!"

He looked up in wonder.

"Oh, my! no," she pursued. "Poor things! They're not so bad--when you know them. Some is real kind."

"I could not _love_ them!"

"Why not?"

"I _could_ not!"

So positive, this--the suggestion so scouted--that she took thought for her own fate.

"Would you love me?" she asked.

"Oh, mother!" he laughed.

"What would you do," she gravely continued, "if I was--a wicked woman?"

He laughed again.

"What would you do," she insisted, "if somebody told you I was bad?"

"Mother," he answered, not yet affected by her earnestness, "you could not be!"

She put her hands on his shoulders. "What would you do?" she repeated.

"Don't!" he pleaded, disquieted.

Again the question--low, intense, demanding answer. He trembled. She was not in play. A sinful woman? For a moment he conceived the possibility--vaguely: in a mere flash of feeling.

"What would you do?"

"I don't know!"

She sighed.

"I think," he whispered, "that I'd--die!"

That night, when the moonlight had climbed to the crucifix on the wall, the boy got out of bed. For a long time he stood in the beam of soft light--staring at the tortured Figure.

"I think I'd better do it!" he determined.

He knelt--lifted his clasped hands--began his childish appeal.

"Dear Jesus," he prayed, "my mother says that I must not hate the wicked. You heard her, didn't you, dear Jesus? It was in the park, to-night, after church--at the bench near the lilac bush. You _must_ have heard her.... Mother says the wicked are kind, and not so bad. I would like very much to love them. She says they're nice--when you know them. I know she's right, of course. But it seems queer. And she says I _ought_ to love them. So I want to do it, if you don't mind.... Maybe, if you would let me be a little wicked for a little while, I could do it. Don't you think, Jesus, dear, that it is a good idea? A little wicked--for just a little while. I wouldn't care very much, if you didn't mind. But if it hurts you very much, I don't want to, if you please.... But I would like to be a little wicked. If I do, please don't forget me. I would not like to be wicked long. Just a little while. Then I would be good again--and love the wicked, as my mother wants me to do. Good-bye. I mean--Amen!"

The child knew nothing about sin.

[Ill.u.s.tration: Tailpiece to _A Child's Prayer_]

[Ill.u.s.tration: Headpiece to _Mr. Poddle's Finale_]

_MR. PODDLE'S FINALE_

Of a yellow, balmy morning, with a languid breeze stirring the curtains in the open windows of the street, a hansom cab, drawn by a lean gray beast, appeared near the curate's door. What with his wild career, the nature of his errand, the extraordinary character of his fare, the driver was all elbows and eyes--a perspiring, gesticulating figure, swaying widely on the high perch.

Within was a lady so monstrously stout that she completely filled the vehicle. Rolls of fat were tucked into every nook, jammed into every corner, calked into every crevice; and, at last, demanding place, they scandalously overflowed the ap.r.o.n. So tight was the fit--so crushed and confined the lady's immensity--that, being quite unable to articulate or stir, but desiring most heartily to do both, she could do little but wheeze, and faintly wave a gigantic hand.

Proceeding thus--while the pa.s.senger gasped, and the driver gesticulated, and the hansom creaked and tottered, and the outraged horse bent to the fearful labour--the equipage presently arrived at the curate's door, and was there drawn up with a jerk.

The Fat Lady was released, a.s.sisted to alight, helped across the pavement; and having waddled up three steps of the flight, and being unable without a respite to lift her ma.s.sive foot for the fourth time, she loudly demanded of the impa.s.sive door the instant appearance of d.i.c.kie Slade: whereupon, the door flew open, and the boy bounded out.

"Madame Lacara!" he cried.

"Quick, child!" the Fat Lady wheezed. "Git your hat. Your mother can't stay no longer--and I can't get up the stairs--and Poddle's dyin'--and _git your hat_!"

In a moment the boy returned. The Fat Lady was standing beside the cab--the exhausted horse contemplating her with no friendly eye.

"Git in!" said she.

"Don't you do it," the driver warned.

"Git in!" the Fat Lady repeated.

"Not if he knows what's good for him," said the driver. "Not first."

The boy hesitated.

"Git in, child!" screamed the Fat Lady.

"Don't you do it," said the driver.