The Mother Part 6

"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 it lie 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 the boy--wouldn't like it."

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

She withdrew her hand--shrank from him. "Don't!" she said. "I like you, Jim. You know I always did. You was always good to me. I never cared much for d.i.c.k. Him and me teamed up pretty well. That was all.

It was always you, Jim, that I cared for. But, somehow, now, I wish I'd loved d.i.c.k--more than I did. I feel different, now. I wish--oh, I wish--that I'd loved him!"

The man frowned.

"He's dead," she continued. "I can't tell him nothing, now. The chance 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 do for a woman!"

She was smiling--but in an absent way. The man started. There was a light 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, disgusted whisper. "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 d.i.c.k to know that I look at him different since he died. I can't love d.i.c.k. I never could. But I could thank him if he was here. Do you mind what I called the boy? I don't call him Claud now. I call him--Richard. It's all I can do to show d.i.c.k that 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 pa.s.sionate undertone.

"Maybe I _do_ love you. Maybe he'd get to love you, too. But look at him, Jim! See where he lies?"

The man turned towards the bed.

"It's on my side, Jim! Understand? He lies there always till I come in. 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 asleep again, G.o.d bless him! before I can tell him that it is. My G.o.d! Jim, I can't tell you what it means to come in at night and find him lying there. That little body of a man! That clean, white soul! I can't tell you how I feel, Jim. It's something a man can't know. And do you think 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 I didn't love him any more. He's only a child--and he'd think I didn't love him. Where'd he sleep, Jim? Alone? He couldn't do it. Don't you _see_? I can't live with n.o.body, Jim. And I don't want to. I don't care for myself no more. I used to, in them days--when you and me and d.i.c.k and the crowd was all together. But I don't--no more!"

The man stooped, picked a small stocking from the floor, stood staring at 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, hoa.r.s.ely. "Somebody'll tell 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. Maybe it's because he don't see n.o.body. Maybe it's just because I love him so. 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 little under-garments, strewn upon the floor.

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

She raised her hand to stop him. "Don't say that!" she moaned. "There won't be no other woman. There can't be. Seems to me I'll want to kill 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 broke off, "don't talk of _him_--and a woman!"

"It'll come, Millie. He's a man--and there's got to be a woman. And she 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. He was sound asleep again.

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

She withdrew.

"You want to marry me?"

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