i 
 
 
v^Zi 
 
By- 
 NORMAN DUNCAN 
 
 Fleming H.Revell Company 
 Publishers 
 
912731 
 
ContenitS 
 
 BY PROXY . . * 
 
 • • 
 
 9 
 
 THE RIVER . 
 
 . 
 
 • 23 
 
 A GARDEN OF LIES 
 
 . • 
 
 • 34 
 
 THE CELEBRITY IN LOVE . 
 
 49 
 
 AT MIDNIGHT . 
 
 • 
 
 64 
 
 A MEETING BY CHANCE . 
 
 . 82 
 
 RENUNCIATION . 
 
 
 . 94 
 
 IN THE CURRENT 
 
 
 . no 
 
 THE CHORISTER . 
 
 
 123 
 
 ALIENATION . 
 
 
 . 138 
 
 A CHILD'S PRAYER 
 
 
 155 
 
MR. PODDLE'S FINALE 
 HIS MOTHER 
 NEARING THE SEA . 
 THE LAST APPEAL . 
 
IT will be recalled without effort — 
 possibly, indeed, without interest — 
 that the obsequies of the old Senator 
 Boligand were a distinguished success : 
 a fashionable, proper function, ordered 
 by the young widow with exquisite 
 taste, as all the world said, and con- 
 ducted without reproach, as the under- 
 taker and the clergy very heartily 
 agreed. At the Church of the Lifted 
 Cross, the incident of the child, the 
 9 
 
lo T HE. MOTHER 
 
 blond^' lady .and- the mysteriously veiled 
 mail,' who s^t in awe and bewildered 
 amazement where the shadows gave 
 deepest seclusion, escaped notice. Not 
 that the late Senator Boligand was in 
 life aware of the existence 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 
 other his son, born in wedlock ; and 
 the third was the familiar counsellor 
 and intimate of them all. The Senator 
 was for once turned to good account : 
 was made contributor to the sweetness 
 of life, to the comfort of the humble. 
 That was all. And I fancy that the 
 shade of the grim old robber, lurking 
 somewhere in the softly coloured gloom 
 of the chancel, was not altogether 
 averse to the farce in which his earthly 
 tabernacle was engaged. . . . 
 
BY PROXY II 
 
 When Dick Slade died in the big red 
 tenement of Box Street, he died as 
 other men die, complaining of the 
 necessity ; and his son, in the way of 
 all tender children, sorely wept : not 
 because his father was now lost to him, 
 which was beyond his comprehension, 
 but because the man must be put in a 
 grave — a cold place, dark and suffocat- 
 ing, being underground, as the child 
 had been told. 
 
 ^' I don^t want my father,", he woe- 
 fully protested, *' to be planted ! " 
 
 " Planted I " cried the mother, throw- 
 ing up her hands in indignant denial. 
 " Who told you he'd be planted? " 
 
 " Madame Lacara." 
 
 " She's a liar," said the woman, com- 
 posedly, without resentment. *' We'll 
 cut the planting out of this funeral." 
 Her ingenuity, her resourcefulness, her 
 
12 THE MOTHER 
 
 daring, when the happiness of her child 
 was concerned, were usually sufficient 
 to the emergency. " Why, darling ! " 
 she exclaimed. '* Your father will be 
 taken right up into the sky. He won't 
 be put in no grave. He'll go right 
 straight to a place where it's all sun- 
 shine — 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 ; but she had never failed to 
 deceive him to his own contentment, 
 and 'twas not her habit to take faint- 
 hearted 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. 
 
BY PROXY 13 
 
 " 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 I " 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 being 
 dead. 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 I " 
 
 " No I " she scorned. " He don't feel 
 cold. You think he's cold. But he 
 ain't. That's just what you ihinh. 
 
14 THE MOTHER 
 
 He's comfortable. He's glad to be 
 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 be dead. 
 Honest, it don't I 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, thrown 
 into a confusion of pain and alarm. 
 To comfort him, to shield him from 
 agony, to keep the shadow of fear from 
 falling upon him : she desired nothing 
 more ; and she was content to succeed 
 if but for the moment. '* I tell you," 
 she continued, '^ you never will be dead 
 — if you don't want to. Your father 
 wanted to be dead. ' I think, Millie,' 
 says he, ' I'd like to be dead.' * All 
 
BY PROXY 15 
 
 right, Dick/ says I. ' If you want to, I 
 won't stand 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 con- 
 cluded, '' he died. But you don't have 
 to die. You'll never die — not unless 
 you want to." She kissed him. 
 '* Don't you be afraid, dear I " 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 at the — 
 stomach." 
 
 He had turned white. She took 
 him in her arms, to comfort and 
 hearten him — an unfailing device : her 
 kisses, her warm, ample bosom, her 
 
i6 THE MOTHER 
 
 close embrace ; he was by these always 
 consoled. . . . 
 
 Next day, then, in accordance with 
 the woman's device, the boy and his 
 mother 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 sad weather — 
 a cold rain falling, the city gray, all 
 the world black-clad and dripping and 
 sour of countenance. The veiled man 
 said never a word ; he held the boy's 
 hand tight, and strode gloomily on — 
 silent of melancholy, of protest, of 
 ill temper : there was no knowing, 
 for his face was hid. The woman, 
 distinguished by a mass of blinding 
 blonde hair and a complexion sus- 
 ceptible to change by the weather, was 
 dressed in the ultra-fashionable way 
 
BY PROXY 17 
 
 — the small differences of style all 
 accentuated : the whole tawdry and 
 shabby and limp in the rain. The 
 child, a slender boy, delicately white 
 of skin, curly headed, with round, 
 dark eyes, outlooking in wonder and 
 troubled regard, but yet bravely 
 enough, trotted between the woman 
 and the man, a hand in the hand of 
 each. . . . And when they came to 
 the Church of the Lifted Cross ; and 
 when the tiny, flickering lights, and 
 the stained windows, and the shadows 
 overhead, and the throbbing, far-off 
 music had worked their spell upon 
 him, he snuggled close to his mother, 
 wishing himself well away from the 
 sadness and mystery of the place, but 
 glad that its solemn splendour honoured 
 the strange change his father had 
 chosen to undergo. 
 
i8 THE MOTHER 
 
 " 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, being perilously 
 indiscreet, involve them all in humil- 
 iating 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 lights 
 are." 
 
 " Can't we go there ? ' 
 
 " No, no ! " she whispered, quickly. 
 " It isn't the way. We must sit here. 
 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. 
 
BY PROXY 19 
 
 That^s the way it^s always done. 
 Hush, dear ! Please don't talk." 
 
 With prayer and soulful dirges — 
 employing white robes and many 
 lights and the voices of children — the 
 body of Senator Boligand was dealt 
 with, in the vast, dim church, accord- 
 ing to the forms prescribed, and with 
 due regard for the wishes of the young 
 widow. The Senator was an admirable 
 substitute ; Dick Slade's glorious ascen- 
 sion was accomplished. And the heart 
 of the child was comforted by this 
 beauty : for then he knew that his 
 father was by some high magic ad- 
 mitted to the place of which his mother 
 had told him — some place high and 
 blue and ever light as day. The fear 
 of death passed from him. He was 
 glad, for his father's sake, that his 
 father had died ; and he wished that 
 
20 THE MOTHER 
 
 he, too, might some day know the 
 glory to which his father had attained. 
 
 But when the earthly remains of the 
 late distinguished Senator were borne 
 down the aisle in solemn procession, 
 the boy had a momentary return of 
 grief. 
 
 " Is that papa in the box ? " he 
 whimpered. 
 
 His mother put her lips to his ear. 
 "Yes," she gasped. "But don't talk. 
 It isn't allowed." 
 
 The veiled man turned audibly un- 
 easy. " Cuss it I " he fumed. 
 
 " Oh, father ! " the boy sobbed. 
 
 With happy promptitude the veiled 
 man acted. He put a hand over the 
 boy's mouth. "For God's sake, Mil- 
 lie," he whispered to the woman, 
 "let's get out of here! We'll be 
 run in." 
 
BY PROXY 21 
 
 " Hush, dear I " the woman com- 
 manded : for she was much afraid. 
 After that, the child was quiet. 
 
 From the room in the Box Street 
 tenement, meantime, the body of Dick 
 Slade had been taken in a Department 
 wagon to a resting-place befitting in 
 degree. 
 
 "Millie," the veiled man protested, 
 that night, " you didn't ought to fool 
 the boy." 
 
 " It don^t matter, Poddle," said she. 
 " And I don't want him to feel bad." 
 
 "You didn't ought to do it," the 
 man persisted. " It'll make trouble 
 for him." 
 
 " I can't see him hurt," said the 
 woman, doggedly. " I love him so 
 much. Poddle, I just can't ! It hurts 
 me." 
 
22 THE MOTHER 
 
 The boy was now in bed. " Mother," 
 he asked, lifting himself from the pil- 
 low, " when will I die ? " 
 
 " Why, child ! " she ejaculated. 
 
 *' I wish," said the boy, " it was to- 
 morrow." 
 
 ^' There ! " said the woman, in tri- 
 umph, to the man. ^* He ain't afraid 
 of death no more." 
 
 " I told you so, Millie ! " the man 
 exclaimed, at the same instant. 
 
 '* But he ain't afraid to die," she per- 
 sisted. " And that's all I want." 
 
 *'You can't fool him always," the 
 man warned. 
 
 The boy was then four years old. . . . 
 
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 the 
 motley world of the other shore went 
 silently ; the petty noises of life — the 
 creak and pufFand rumble of its labour- 
 ing machinery, — straying upward from 
 the fussy places below, were lost in the 
 space between. 
 
 Within : a bed, a stove, a table — 
 23 
 
24 THE MOTHER 
 
 the gaunt framework of home. But 
 the window overlooked the river ; and 
 the boy was now seven years old, un- 
 knowing, unquestioning, serenely obe- 
 dient to the circumstances of his life : 
 feeling no desire that wandered beyond 
 the familiar presence of his 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 infinite changes. There was 
 shipping below, restless craft upon the 
 water ; and beyond, dwarfed in the 
 distance, was a confusion of streets, of 
 flat, puffing roofs, stretching from the 
 shining river to the far, misty hills, 
 which lay beside the sea, invisible and 
 mysterious. 
 
 But top floor rear was remote from 
 the river and the roofs. From the 
 
THE RIVER 25 
 
 window — and from the love in the 
 room — the boy looked out upon an 
 alien world, heard the distant murmur, 
 monotonously proceeding, night and 
 day : uncomprehending, but unper- 
 turbed. . . . 
 
 In the evening the boy sat with his 
 mother at the window. Together they 
 watched the shadows gather — the hills 
 and the city and the river dissolve : 
 the whole broad world turn to points 
 of light, twinkling, flashing, darting, 
 in the black, voiceless gulf. Nor 
 would she fail to watch the night 
 come, whether in gentle weather or 
 whipping rain : but there would sit, 
 the boy in her arms, held close to her 
 breast, her hand straying restlessly 
 over his small body, intimately caress- 
 ing it. 
 
26 THE MOTHER 
 
 The falling shadows ; the river, flow- 
 ing unfeelingly ; the lights, wandering 
 without rest, aimless, forever astray in 
 the dark : these were a 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 might 
 touch 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, "go out 
 there. '^ 
 
 "Why?" 
 
 " The river takes them." 
 
 He was made uneasy : being con- 
 scious of the deeper meaning — acutely 
 aware of some strange dread stirring in 
 her heart. 
 
THE RIVER 27 
 
 " 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 the 
 river go different ways — when they get 
 out there. It is a dark and lonesome 
 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 so 
 big and empty. I do not like the sea ; 
 it is so big and dark. And black winds 
 are always blowing there; and the 
 lights go different ways. The lights," 
 she muttered, " go different ways ! I 
 am afraid of the dark. And, oh I " she 
 moaned, suddenly crushing him to her 
 breast, rocking him, in an agony of 
 
28 THE MOTHER 
 
 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 from 
 head 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 him 
 close 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 take us to a 
 place where the lights go different 
 ways." 
 
 " We will not go I " 
 
THE RIVER 29 
 
 " The river will take us." 
 
 The boy was puzzled : he lifted his 
 head, to watch the lights drift past, far i 
 below ; and he was much troubled by 
 this mystery. She tried to gather his 
 legs in her lap — to hold him as she 
 used to do, when he was a child at her 
 breast ; but he was now grown too large 
 for that, and she suffered, again, the 
 familiar pain : a perception of alien- 
 ation — of inevitable loss. 
 
 *' When ? " he asked. 
 
 She let his legs fall. "Soon," she 
 sighed. " When you are older ; it 
 won'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. 
 
30 THE MOTHER 
 
 He nestled his head on her shoulder 
 — dismissing the mystery with a quick 
 sigh. " Never mind/' he said, to com- 
 fort her. " You will not be alone. I 
 will be with you.'' 
 
 ^' I wonder I " she mused. 
 
 For a moment more she looked out ; 
 but she did not see the river — but saw 
 the wide sea, wind-tossed and dark, 
 where the great multitude of lights 
 went apart, each upon its mysterious 
 way. 
 
 " Mother," he repeated, reproach- 
 fully, mystified by her hesitation, ^' I 
 will always be with you." 
 
 '' I wonder ! " she mused. 
 
 To this doubt — now clear to him be- 
 yond hope — there was instant response : 
 strangely passionate, but in keeping 
 with his nature, as she knew. For a 
 space he lay rigid on her bosom : then 
 
THE RIVER 31 
 
 struggled from her embrace, brutally 
 wrenching her hands apart, flinging oft 
 her arms. He stood swaying : his 
 hands clenched, his slender body 
 aquiver, as before, his dark eyes blaz- 
 ing reproach. It gave her no alarm, 
 but, rather, exquisite pleasure, to watch 
 his agony. She caught him by the 
 shoulders, and bent close, that by the 
 night-light, coming in at the window, 
 she might look into his eyes : wherein, 
 swiftly, the flare of reproach 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 ex- 
 ult in his woeful apprehension. 
 
 *' Tell me, mother ! " he implored. 
 '^ Tell me 1 " 
 
32 THE MOTHER 
 
 Not yet : for there was no delight to 
 be compared with the proved knowl- 
 edge of his love. 
 
 *' Mother I" he cried. 
 
 " You do not love me," she said, to 
 taunt him. 
 
 '' Oh, don't I " he moaned. 
 
 " No, no I " she persisted. " You 
 don't love your mother any more." 
 
 He was by this reduced to uttermost 
 despair; and he began to beat his 
 breast, in the pitiful way he had. Per- 
 ceiving, then, that she must no longer 
 bait him, she opened her arms. He 
 sprang into them. At once his sobs 
 turned to sighs of infinite relief, which 
 continued, until, of a sudden, he was 
 hugged so tight that he had no breath 
 left but to gasp. 
 
 " And you will always be with me ? " 
 he asked. 
 
THE RIVER 33 
 
 " It is the way of the world," she 
 answered, while she kissed him, ^' that 
 sons chooses for themselves." 
 
 With that he was quite content. . . . 
 
 For a long time they sat silent at the 
 window. The boy dreamed hopefully 
 of the times to come — serenity restored. 
 For the moment the woman was forget- 
 ful of the foreshadowed days, happy 
 that the warm, pulsing little body of 
 her son lay unshrinking in h6r arms : 
 so conscious of his love and life — so 
 wishful for a deeper sense of mother- 
 hood — that she slipped her hand under 
 his jacket and felt about for his heart, 
 and there let her fingers lie, within 
 touch of its steady beating. The lights 
 still twinkled and flashed and aimlessly 
 wandered in the night ; but the spell 
 of the river was lifted. 
 
WITHAL it was a rare mood : 
 nor, being wise, was she given 
 to expressing it in this gloomy 
 fashion. It was her habit, rather, as- 
 siduously to woo him : this with kisses, 
 soft and wet; with fleeting touches; 
 with coquettish glances and the sly dis- 
 play of her charms ; with rambling, fan- 
 tastic tales of her desirability in the 
 regard of men — thus practicing all the 
 familiar fascinations of her kind, ac- 
 34 
 
A GARDEN OF LIES 35 
 
 cording to the enlightenment of the 
 world she knew. He must be per- 
 suaded, she thought, that his mother 
 was beautiful, coveted ; convinced of 
 her wit and gaiety : else he would not 
 love her. Life had taught her no 
 other way. . . . And always at break 
 of day, when he awoke in her arms, 
 she waited, with a pang of anxiety, 
 pitilessly recurring, lest there be some 
 sign that despite her feverish precau- 
 tions the heedless world had in her 
 nightly absence revealed that which 
 she desperately sought to hide from 
 him. . . . 
 
 Thus, by and by, when the lamp was 
 alight — when the shadows were all 
 chased out of the window, driven back 
 to the raw fall night, whence they had 
 crept in — she lapsed abruptly into her 
 
36 THE MOTHER 
 
 natural manner and practices. She 
 spread a newspaper on the table, 
 whistling in a cheery fashion, the while 
 covertly observing the effect of this 
 lively behaviour. With a knowing 
 smile, promising vast gratification, she 
 got him 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 which the 
 presence of the Duchess of Croft and of 
 the distinguished Lord Wychester had 
 given sensational importance, was gro- 
 tesquely 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 in- 
 terest. " She is very fat. Where are 
 you ? " 
 
A GARDEN OF LIES 37 
 
 " And here," she proceeded, " is Lord 
 Wy Chester." 
 
 " Mother," he demanded, " where are 
 you f " 
 
 She was disconcerted ; no promising 
 evasion immediately occurred to her. 
 " Maybe," she began, tentatively, ^* this 
 lady here " 
 
 " Oh, no ! " he cried, looking up with 
 alittle laugh. ** It is not like you, 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 
 not be deceived. 
 
 " Perhaps," she said, " the Duchess 
 told the man not to put me in the pic- 
 ture. I guess that's it. She was awful 
 jealous. You see, dear," she went on, 
 very solemnly, '' Lord Wy Chester took 
 a great fancy to me." 
 
38 THE MOTHER 
 
 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," she added, as 
 though reluctant in her own praise, '' do 
 fancy mine." She brushed his cheek 
 with her lips. '^ Don't you think, dear," 
 she asked, assuming an air of girlish 
 coquetry, thus to compel the compli- 
 ment, ^^ that I'm — rather — pretty? " 
 
 " I think, mother," he answered, 
 positively, *' that you're very, very 
 pretty." 
 
 It made her eyes shine to hear it. 
 '^ Well," she resumed, improvising 
 more confidently, now, *' the Duchess 
 was awful mortified because Lord 
 Wychester danced with me seventeen 
 
A GARDEN OF LIES 39 
 
 times. ^ Lord Wy Chester,' says she, 
 
 * what do you see in that blonde with 
 the diamonds?' 'Duchess,' says he, 
 
 * I bet the blonde don't weigh over a 
 hundred and ten ! ' " 
 
 There was no answering smile ; the 
 boy glanced at the picture of the wise 
 and courtly old Lord Wychester, 
 gravely regarded that of the Duchess 
 of Croft, of whose matronly charms, of 
 whose charities and amiable qualities, 
 all the world knows. 
 
 " What did she say ? " he asked. 
 
 " * Oh, dear me. Lord Wychester I ' 
 says she. * If you're looking for bones,' 
 says she, ' that blonde is a regular glue- 
 factory ! ' " 
 
 He caught his breath. 
 
 " * A regular glue-factory,' " she re- 
 peated, inviting sympathy. '^ That's 
 what she said." 
 
40 THE MOTHER 
 
 "Did you cry?" 
 
 "Not me! "she scorned. "Cry? Not 
 me I Not for no mountain like her I " 
 
 " And what," he asked, " did Lord 
 Wychester do?" 
 
 " ' Back to the side-show, Duchess ! ' 
 says Lord Wychester. ' You're too fat 
 for decent company. My friend the 
 Dook,' says he, 'may be partial to 
 fat ladies and ten-cent freaks ; but my 
 taste runs to slim blondes.' " 
 
 No amusement was excited by Lord 
 Wychester's second sally. In the world 
 she knew, it would have provoked a 
 shout of laughter. The boy's gravity 
 disquieted her. 
 
 " Did you laugh ? " he asked. 
 
 "Everybody," she answered, piti- 
 fully, " give her the laugh." 
 
 He sighed — somewhat wistfully. " I 
 wish," he said, " that you hadn't." 
 
A GARDEN OF LIES 41 
 
 " Why not I " she wondered, in gen- 
 uine surprise. 
 
 " I don't know." 
 
 '' Why, dear ! " she exclaimed, a note 
 of alarm in her voice. ^' It isn't bad 
 manners I Anyhow," she qualified, 
 quick to catch her cue, " I didn't laugh 
 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 with relief 
 that he was not incredulous. 
 
 '' Did the Duchess cry ? " 
 
 *' Oh, my, no ! ' Waiter,' says the 
 Duchess, ' open another bottle of that 
 wine. I feel faint.' " 
 
 '' What did Lord Wy Chester do 
 then?" 
 
 " He paid for the wine." It occurred 
 to her that she might now surely de- 
 
42 THE MOTHER 
 
 light him. ^* Then he wanted to buy a 
 bottle for me," she continued, eagerly, 
 "just to spite the Duchess. * If she can 
 have wine,^ says he, ^ there isn't no good 
 reason why you got to go dry.' But I 
 couldn't see it. * Oh, come on I ' says 
 he. ^ What's the matter with you ? 
 Have a drink.' * No, you don't I ' says 
 I. 'Why not?' says he." She drew 
 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 donH want him to do no 
 drinking when he grows up ! ^ ^^ She 
 paused again — that the effect of the 
 words and of the caress might not be 
 interrupted. '' ^ Come off! ' says Lord 
 Wychester," she went on ; " ' you 
 haven't got no son.' * You wouldn't 
 think to look at me,' says I, ' that I got 
 a son seven years old the twenty-third 
 
A GARDEN OF LIES 43 
 
 of last month.' ' To the tall timber ! ' 
 says he. * You're too young and pretty. 
 I'll give you a thousand dollars for a 
 kiss.' ^ No, you don't 1 ' says I. * Why 
 not ? ' says he. * Because,' says I, ' you 
 don't.' ' I'll give you two thousand,' 
 says he." 
 
 She was interrupted by the boy ; his 
 arms were anxiously stealing round her 
 neck. 
 
 " * Three thousand I ' 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 1 What did you say ? " 
 
 " ' Lord Wychester,' says I, ' I don't 
 
44 THE MOTHER 
 
 give kisses/ says I, ^ because my son 
 doesn't want me to do no such thing ! 
 No, sir ! Not for a million dollars ! ' " 
 She was then made happy by his 
 rapturous affection ; and she now first 
 perceived — in a benighted way — that 
 virtue was more appealing to him than 
 the sum of her physical attractions. 
 Upon this new thought she pondered. 
 She was unable to reduce it to formal 
 terms, to be sure ; but she felt a new 
 delight, a new hope, and was uplifted, 
 though she knew not why. Later — at 
 the crisis of their lives — the perception 
 returned with sufficient strength to il- 
 luminate her way. . . . 
 
 Presently the boy broke in upon her 
 musing. '^ It was blondes Lord Wy- 
 chester liked," he remarked, with 
 pride ; '' wasn't it, mother? " 
 
A GARDEN OF LIES 45 
 
 " Slim blondes," she corrected. 
 
 " Bleached blondes ? " 
 
 She was appalled by the disclosure ; 
 and she was taken unaware : nor did 
 she dare discover the extent, the sig- 
 nificance, of this new sophistication, 
 nor whence it came, lest she be all at 
 once involved in a tangle of explana- 
 tion, from which there could be no sure 
 issue. She sighed ; her head drooped, 
 until it rested on his shoulder, her wet 
 lashes against his cheek — despairing, 
 helpless. 
 
 " What makes you sad? " he asked. 
 
 Then she gathered impetuous cour- 
 age. She must be calm, she knew ; 
 but she must divert him. " See," she 
 began, " what it says about your mother 
 in the paper ! " She ran her finger 
 down a long column of the fulsome 
 description of the great Multon ball — 
 
46 THE MOTHER 
 
 the list of fashionables, the costumes. 
 ** Here it is I * 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 ! ' " she cried, passionately, to the 
 bewilderment of the boy. *' * God help 
 them ! There's honest people every- 
 where.' Are you listening? Here's 
 more about me. 'She does the best 
 she can. Maybe she donH amount to 
 much, 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 much for that. 
 Oh, she loves her son ! She'd rather 
 die than have him feel ashamed of her. 
 There isn't a better woman in the world. 
 
 There isn't a better mother ' '* 
 
 He clapped his hands. 
 
A GARDEN OF LIES 47 
 
 *' Don't you believe it?" she de- 
 manded. " Don't you believe what the 
 paper says?" 
 
 'at's true!" he cried. "It's all 
 true ! " 
 
 " How do 3^ou know," she whispered, 
 intensely, " that it's all true? " 
 
 " l—^usi— 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 
 up her hat and cloak, and kissed him, 
 and ran out, calling back her good- 
 night, again and again, as she clattered 
 down the stairs. ... In the streets 
 of the place to which she hurried, there 
 were flaming lights, the laughter of 
 men and flaunting women, the crash 
 and rumble and clang of night-traffic. 
 
48 THE MOTHER 
 
 the blatant clamour of the pleasures of 
 night ; shuffling, blear-eyed derelicts 
 of passion, creeping beldames, peevish 
 children, youth consuming itself; rags 
 and garish jewels, hunger, greasy con- 
 tent — a confusion of wretchedness, of 
 greed and grim w^ant, of delirious 
 gaiety, of the sins that stalk in dark- 
 ness. . . . Through it all she brushed, 
 unconscious — lifted from it by the 
 magic of this love: dwelling only 
 upon the room that overlooked the 
 river, and upon the child within ; re- 
 membering the light in his eyes and 
 the tenderness of his kiss. 
 
WHILE the boy sat alone, in 
 wistful idleness, thpre came a 
 knock at the door — a pom- 
 pous rat-tat-tat, with a stout tap-tap or 
 two added, once and for all to put the 
 quality of the visitor beyond doubt. 
 The door was then cautiously pushed 
 ajar to admit the head of the personage 
 thus impressively heralded. And a 
 most extraordinary head it was — of fear- 
 some aspect ; nothing but long and in- 
 49 
 
50 THE MOTHER 
 
 timate familiarity could resign the be- 
 holder to the unexpected appearance of 
 it. Long, tawny hair, now sadly un- 
 kempt, fell abundantly from crown to 
 shoulders ; and hair as tawny, as luxu- 
 riantly thick, almost as long, completely 
 covered the face, from every part of 
 which it sprang, growing shaggy and 
 rank at the eyebrows, which served to 
 ambush two sharp little eyes : so that 
 the whole bore a precise resemblance to 
 an ill-natured Skye terrier. It is super- 
 fluous to add that this was at once the 
 face and the fortune of Toto, the Dog- 
 faced Man, known in private life, to as 
 many intimates as a jealous profession 
 can tolerate, as Mr. Poddle : for the pres- 
 ent disabled from public appearance by 
 the quality of the air supplied to the ex- 
 hibits at Hockley's Musee, his lungs 
 being, as he himself expressed it, " not 
 
THE CELEBRITY IN LOVE 51 
 
 gone, by no means, but gittin' rest- 
 less." 
 
 "Mother gone?" asked the Dog- 
 faced Man. 
 
 " She has gone, Mr. Poddle," the boy 
 answered, " to dine with the Mayor." 
 
 " Oh I " Mr. Poddle ejaculated. 
 
 "Why do you say that?" the boy 
 asked, frowning uneasily. "You al- 
 ways say, * Oh I ' " 
 
 "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 to catch 
 and vent his breath ; but whether in 
 melancholy sighs or snorts of indigna- 
 
52 THE MOTHER 
 
 tion it was impossible to determine. 
 Having by these violent means re- 
 stored himself to a state of feeling 
 more nearly normal, he trifled 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 unmis- 
 takable sighs : whereupon — and by 
 this strange occupation the boy was 
 quite fascinated — he drew a little comb, 
 a little brush, a little mirror, from his 
 pocket ; and having set up the mirror 
 in a convenient place, he proceeded to 
 dress his hair, with particular attention 
 to the eyebrows, which, by and by, he 
 tenderly braided into two limp little 
 horns : so that 'twas not long before he 
 looked much less like a frowsy Skye 
 terrier, much more like an owl. 
 
 " The hour, Richard," he sighed, as 
 
THE CELEBRITY IN LOVE 53 
 
 he deftly parted his hair in the middle 
 of his nose, " has came ! " 
 
 With such fond and hopeless feeling 
 were these enigmatical words charged 
 that the boy could do nothing but 
 heave a sympathetic sigh. 
 
 *' You see before you, Richard, what 
 you never seen before. A man in the 
 clutches," Mr. Poddle tragically pur- 
 sued, giving a vicious little twist to his 
 left eyebrow, '* of the tender pas- 
 sion ! " 
 
 " Oh I " the boy muttered. 
 
 ^'^Fame,'" Mr. Poddle continued, 
 improvising a newspaper head-line, to 
 make himself clear, " * No Shield 
 Against the Little God's Darts.' Git 
 me? The high and the low gits the 
 arrows in the same place." 
 
 "Does it— hurt?" 
 
 " Hurt ! " cried Mr. Poddle, furiously. 
 
54 THE MOTHER 
 
 '' It's perfectly excrugiating ! Hurt ? 
 Why '' 
 
 " Mr. Poddle, excuse me," the boy 
 interrupted, " but you are biting your 
 mustache.'^ 
 
 " Thanks," said Mr. Poddle, promptly. 
 " Glad to know it. Can't afford to 
 lose no more hirsute adornment. And 
 I'm give to ravagin' it in moments of 
 excitement, especially sorrow. Always 
 tell me." 
 
 " I will," the boy gravely prom- 
 ised. 
 
 " The Pink-eyed Albino," Mr. Pod- 
 dle continued, now released from the 
 necessity of commanding his feelings, 
 in so far as the protection of his hair 
 was concerned, " was fancy ; the Cir- 
 cassian Beauty was fascination ; the 
 Female Sampson was the hallugination 
 of sky-blue tights ; but the Mexican 
 
THE CELEBRITY IN LOVE 55 
 
 Sword Swallower," he murmured, with 
 a melancholy wag, " is " 
 
 "Mr. Poddle," the boy warned, " you 
 are — at it again." 
 
 " Thanks," said Mr. Poddle, hastily 
 eliminating the danger. '' What I was 
 about to remark," was his lame conclu- 
 sion, "was that the Mexican Sword 
 Swallower is loveJ^ 
 
 " Oh I " 
 
 The Dog-faced Man snapped a sigh in 
 two. " Richard," he insinuated suspi- 
 ciously, " what you sayin', ' Oh I ' for ? " 
 
 " Wasn't the Bearded Lady, love ? " 
 
 " Love ! " laughed Mr. Poddle. " Ha, 
 ha I Far from it I Not so! The 
 Bearded Lady was the snare of ambi- 
 tion. ' Marriage Arranged Between 
 the Young Duke of Blueblood and the 
 Daughter of the Clothes-pin King. 
 Millions of the Higgleses to Repair the 
 
56 THE MOTHER 
 
 Duke's Shattered Fortunes.' Git me? 
 * Wedding of the Bearded Lady and 
 the Dog-faced Man. Sunday After- 
 noon at Hockley's Popular Musee. 
 No Extra Charge for Admission. 
 Fabulous Quantity of Human Hair on 
 Exhibition At the Same Instant. Hir- 
 sute Wonders To Tour the Country at 
 Enormous Expense.' Git me? Same 
 thing. Love ? Ha, ha ! Not so I 
 There's no more love in that,'' Mr. Pod- 
 die concluded, bitterly, "than " 
 
 " Mr. Poddle, you are " 
 
 "Thanks," faltered Mr. Poddle. "As 
 I was about to remark when you — ah — 
 come to the rescue — love is froze out of 
 high life. Us natural phenomenons is 
 the slaves of our inheritages." 
 
 " But you said the Bearded Lady was 
 love at last ! " 
 
 " ' Duke Said To Be Madly In Love 
 
THE CELEBRITY IN LOVE 57 
 
 With the American Beauty/ " Mr. 
 Poddle composedly replied. 
 
 '* I don't quite — get you ? " 
 
 " Us celebrities has our secrets. 
 High life is hollow. Public must be 
 took 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've 
 gone and broke my own," he burst 
 out ; " for I'm give to understand that 
 the lovely Sword Swallower is got en- 
 tangled with a tattooed man. Not," 
 Mr. Poodle hastily added, *' with a real 
 tattooed man ! Not by no means ! 
 Far from it I He's only half done! 
 Git me ? His legs is finished ; and I'm 
 
58 THE MOTHER 
 
 give to u*Qderstand that the Chinese 
 dragon on his back is gettin' near the 
 end of its tail. There may be a risin' 
 sun on his chest, and a snake drawed 
 out on his waist ; of that I've heard 
 rumors, 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-cooked freak won't be 
 done for a year ! He's bein' worked 
 over on the installment plan. And 
 I'm give to understand that she'll 
 wait ! Oh, wimmen ! " the Dog-faced 
 Man apostrophized. '' Took by shapes 
 and complexions " 
 
 " Mr. Poddle, excuse me," the boy 
 interrupted, diffidently, '' but your eye- 
 brow " 
 
 '' Thanks," Mr. Poddle groaned, his 
 
THE CELEBRITY IN LOVE 59 
 
 frenzy collapsing. " As I was about to 
 say, wimmen is like arithmetic ; there 
 ain't a easy sum in the book." 
 
 " Mr. Poddle I " 
 
 " Thanks/' said Mr. Poddle, in deep 
 disgust. "Am I at it again? O'er- 
 whelming grief! This here love will 
 be the ruin of me. * Bank Cashier De- 
 faulted For a Woman.' I've lost more 
 priceless strands since I 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 
 Hairless Wonder in a month. * Sui- 
 cided For Love.' Same thing exactly. 
 And what's worse," he continued, de- 
 jectedly, " the objeck of my adoration 
 don't look at it right. She takes me for 
 a common audience. No regard for 
 talent. No appreciation for hair in 
 the wrong place. ^ Genius Jilted By A 
 
6o THE MOTHER 
 
 Factory Girl.' And she takes that 
 manufactured article of a 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 
 was dead-headed into the Show ! " 
 
 ^' Excuse me, but " 
 
 " Thanks. God knows, Richard, I 
 ain't in love with her throat and stum- 
 mick. It ain't because the one's un- 
 equalled for resistin' razor-edged steel 
 and the other stands unrivalled in its 
 capacity for holdin' cold metal. It 
 ain't her talent, Richard. No, it ain't 
 her talent. It ain't her beauty. It 
 ain't even her fame. It ain't so much 
 her massive proportions. It's just the 
 
THE CELEBRITY IN LOVE 6i 
 
 way she darns stockings. Just the 
 way she sits up there on the platform 
 darnin' them stockings as if there 
 wasn't no such thing as an admirin' 
 public below. It's just her self. Git 
 me? 'Give Up A Throne To Wed 
 A Butcher's Daughter.' Understand? 
 Why, God bless you, Richard, if she 
 was a Fiji Island Cannibal I'd love her 
 just the same ! " 
 
 '' I think, Mr. Poddle," the boy ven- 
 tured, '' 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 Light- 
 ning Letter- writer for Lovers.' ' Oh, 
 beauteous Sword-Swallower,' I writ, 
 ' pet of the public, pride of the side- 
 show, bright particular star in the con- 
 stellation of natural phenomenons ! 
 One who is not unknown to fame is 
 
62 THE MOTHER 
 
 dazzled by your charms. He dares to 
 lift his stricken eyes, to give vent to the 
 tumultuous beatings of his manly 
 bosom, to send you, in fact, this note. 
 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. Poddle dramatically re- 
 peated, '' right back." 
 
 The pause was so long, so painful, 
 that the boy was moved to inquire con- 
 cerning 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 his cheek, 
 
THE CELEBRITY IN LOVE 63 
 
 changed its course to the eyebrow, and 
 there hung glistening. . . . 
 
 It was apparent that the Dog-faced 
 Man's thoughts must immediately be 
 diverted 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?" he 
 ejaculated. 
 
 *' Won't you ? " the boy begged. 
 
 " I been talkin' so much, Richard," 
 Mr. Poddle stammered, turning hoarse 
 all at once, " that I gone and lost my 
 voice." 
 
 He decamped to his room across the 
 hall without another word. 
 
AT midnight the boy had long 
 been sound asleep in bed. The 
 lamp was turned low. It was 
 very quiet in the room — quiet and 
 shadowy in all the tenement. . . . 
 And the stair creaked ; and footfalls 
 shuffled along the hall — and hesitated at 
 the door of the place where the child lay 
 quietly sleeping ; and there ceased. 
 There was the rumble of a man's voice, 
 deep, insistent, imperfectly restrained. 
 64 
 
AT MIDNIGHT 65 
 
 A woman protested. The door was 
 softly opened ; and the boy's mother 
 stepped in, moving on tiptoe, and swiftly 
 turned to bar entrance with her arm. 
 
 " Hist ! " she whispered, angrily. 
 "Don't speak so loud. You'll wake 
 the boy." 
 
 "Let me in, Millie," the man in- 
 sisted. " Aw, come on, now I " 
 
 " I can't, Jim. You know I can't. 
 Go on home now. Stop that I I wonH 
 marry you. Let go my arnci. You'll 
 wake the boy, I tell you I " 
 
 There was a short scuffle : at the end 
 of which, the woman's arm still barred 
 the door. 
 
 " Here I ain't seen you in three year," 
 the man complained. " And you won't 
 let me in. That ain't right, Millie. 
 It ain't kind to an old friend like me. 
 You didn't used to be that way." 
 
66 THE MOTHER 
 
 " No," the woman whispered, ab- 
 stractedly ; '' there's been a change. I 
 ain'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. '' Some- 
 times I think not. It ain't because I 
 don't want you, Jim," she continued, 
 speaking more softly, now, '^ that I 
 don'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. He 
 stepped in — glanced at the sleeping 
 boy, lying still as death, shaded from 
 the lamp — and turned again to the 
 woman. 
 
 " Don't wake him I " she said. 
 
 They were still standing. The man 
 was short, long-armed, vastly broad at 
 the shoulders, deep-chested : flashy in 
 
AT MIDNIGHT 67 
 
 dress, dull and kind of feature — hand- 
 some enough, withal. He was an 
 acrobat. Even in the dim light, he 
 carried the impression of great mus- 
 cular strength — of grace and agility. 
 For a moment the woman's eyes ran 
 over his stocky body : then, spas- 
 modically clenching her hands, she 
 turned quickly to the boy on the bed ; 
 and she moved back from the man, and 
 thereafter regarded him watchfully. 
 
 *^ Don't make no difference if I do 
 wake him," he complained. *'The boy 
 knows 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 
 
68 THE MOTHER 
 
 what she 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 ! And you 
 can't see nothing in the eyes of a four 
 year old kid. You're too fond of that 
 boy, anyhow," the man continued, in- 
 dignantly. "What's got into you? 
 You ain't forgot that winter night out 
 there in Idaho, have you ? Don't you 
 remember what you said to Dick that 
 night? You said Dick was to blame, 
 Millie, don't you remember ? Remem- 
 ber the doctor coming to the hotel? 
 I'll never forget how you went on. 
 Never heard a woman 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 bad for Dick, though I hadn't 
 
AT MIDNIGHT 69 
 
 much cause to care for what happened 
 to him. Millie, girl, you was a regular 
 wildcat when the doctor told you what 
 was coming. You didn't want no kid, 
 then I " 
 
 '' Don't ! " she gasped. '' I ain't for- 
 got. But I'm changed, Jim — since 
 then." 
 
 He moved a step nearer. 
 
 " I ain't the same as I used to be in 
 them days," she went on, staring at the 
 window, and through the window to 
 the starry night. " And Dick's dead, 
 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 I " 
 
70 THE MOTHER 
 
 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 Dick ; and Dick 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 Dick. Him and me teamed 
 up pretty well. That was all. It was 
 always you, Jim, that I cared for. But, 
 
AT MIDNIGHT 71 
 
 somehow, now, I wish I'd loved Dick — 
 more than I did. I feel different, now. 
 I wish — oh, I wish — that I'd loved 
 him I " 
 
 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 I " 
 
 " He never done much for you." 
 
 " Yes, he did, Jim I " she answered, 
 quickly. " He done all a man can do 
 for a woman I " 
 
 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 
 
72 THE MOTHER 
 
 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 Dick to know that 
 I look at him different since he died. 
 I can't love Dick. 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 
 Dick 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." 
 
AT MIDNIGHT 73 
 
 " He loves me ! " she muttered. 
 " He'll never leave me I " 
 
 " He's got to, Millie. He's got to be 
 a man. You can't keep him.'^ 
 
 " Maybe I canH keep him," she re- 
 plied, in a passionate 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 ! Under- 
 stand? 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, 
 God bless him ! before I can tell him 
 that it is. My God I Jim, I can't tell 
 you what it means to come in at night 
 
74 THE MOTHER 
 
 and find him lying there. That little 
 body of a man I That clean, white 
 soul I 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 f I can't live with no- 
 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 Dick and the crowd was all to- 
 gether. But I don't — no more ! " 
 The man stooped, picked a small 
 
AT MIDNIGHT 75 
 
 stocking from the floor, stood staring 
 at it. 
 
 " I'm changed," the woman re- 
 peated, " since I got the boy." 
 
 ** I don't know what you'll do, Mil- 
 lie, when he grows up." 
 
 She shook her head. 
 
 " And when he finds out ? " 
 
 "That's what I'm afraid of," she 
 whispered, hoarsely. "Somebody '11 
 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 be- 
 cause he don't see nobody. 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 I " 
 
 The man tossed the stocking 
 away. It fell upon a heap of little 
 
76 THE MOTHER 
 
 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 " 
 
AT MIDNIGHT 77 
 
 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 I " 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 irres- 
 olute light in her eyes — the light, too, 
 of fear. 
 
 " Go Vay ! " she gasped. " Leave me 
 alone ! " 
 
 He put his arm about her. 
 
 "Don't!'' she moaned. "You'll 
 wake the boy." 
 
78 THE MOTHER 
 
 " Millie I " he whispered. 
 
 " Let me go, Jim ! " she protested, 
 weakly. " I can't. Oh, leave me 
 alone ! You'll wake the boy. I can't. 
 I'd like to. I — I — I want to marry 
 you; but I " 
 
 " Aw, come on ! " he pleaded, draw- 
 ing her close. And he suddenly found 
 her 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 I " 
 
 " 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 I " 
 
 The boy stirred again — and began to 
 mutter in his sleep. At once the 
 woman commanded herself She stiff- 
 ened — released herself — pushed the 
 
AT MIDNIGHT 79 
 
 man away. She lifted a hand — until 
 the child lay quiet once more. There 
 was meantime breathless silence. Then 
 she pointed imperiously to the door. 
 The man sullenly held his place. She 
 tiptoed to the door — opened it : again 
 imperiously gestured. He would not 
 stir. 
 
 " 111 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 passionate ges- 
 ture. The man moved to the door, 
 muttering that he would come back — 
 and disappeared. She closed the door 
 after him. 
 
8o THE MOTHER 
 
 *' 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 the 
 party." 
 
 '' Oh ! " he yawned. 
 
 " Go to sleep." 
 
 He fell asleep at once. The stair 
 creaked. The tenement was again 
 quiet. . . . 
 
 He was lying in his mother's place in 
 the bed. . . . She looked out upon 
 the river. Somewhere, far below in the 
 darkness, the current still ran swirling 
 to the sea — where the lights go diflPerent 
 ways. . . . The boy was lying in his 
 mother's place. And before she lifted 
 him, she took his warm little hand, 
 and kissed his brow, where the dark 
 
AT MIDNIGHT 8i 
 
 curls lay damp with the sweat of sleep. 
 For a long, long time, she sat watch- 
 ing him through a mist of glad tears. 
 The sight of his face, the outline of his 
 body under the white coverlet, the 
 touch of his warm flesh : all this 
 thrilled her inexpressibly. Had she 
 been devout, she would have thanked 
 God for the gift of a son — and would 
 have found relief . . . When she 
 crept in beside him, she drew him to 
 her, tenderly still closer, until he was 
 all contained in her arms ; and she 
 forgot all else — and fell asleep, un- 
 troubled. 
 
CAME, then, into the lives of these 
 two, to work wide and imme- 
 diate changes, the Rev. John 
 Fithian, a curate of the Church of the 
 Lifted Cross — a tall, free-moving, deli- 
 cately spare figure, clad in spotless black, 
 with a hint of fashion about it, a dull 
 gold crucifix lying suspended upon the 
 breast : pale, long of face, the eye- 
 sockets deep and shadowy ; hollow- 
 cheeked, the bones high and faintly 
 82 
 
A MEETING BY CHANCE 83 
 
 touched with red ; with black, straight, 
 damp hair, brushed back from a smooth 
 brow and falling in the perfection of 
 neatness to the collar — the whole severe 
 and forbidding, indeed, but for saving 
 gray eyes, wherein there lurked, be- 
 hind the patient agony, often displac- 
 ing it, a tender smile, benignant, com- 
 prehending, infinitely sympathetic, by 
 which the gloomy exterior was light- 
 ened and in some surprising way grate- 
 fully explained. 
 
 By chance, on the first soft spring 
 day of that year, the Rev. John Fithian, 
 returning from the Neighbourhood Set- 
 tlement, where he had delighted him- 
 self with good deeds, done of pure 
 purpose, came near the door of the Box 
 Street tenement, distributing smiles, 
 pennies, impulsive, genuine caresses, to 
 
84 THE MOTHER 
 
 the children as he went, tipping their 
 faces, patting their heads, all in the 
 rare, unquestioned way, being not 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 in the yellow sunshine, 
 dodging trucks and idlers and impa- 
 tient pedestrians with unconcern, col- 
 liding and tripping with utmost good 
 nature. The curate was arrested by 
 the voice of a child, singing to the 
 corner accompaniment — low, in the 
 beginning, brooding, tentative, but in 
 a moment rising sure and clear and 
 tender. It was not hard for the Rev. 
 John Fithian to slip a cassock and 
 surplice upon this wistful child, to 
 give him a background of lofty arches 
 and stained windows, to frame the 
 whole in shadows. And, lo ! in the 
 
A MEETING BY CHANCE 85 
 
 chancel of the Church of the Lifted 
 Cross there stood an angel, sing- 
 ing. 
 
 The boy looked up, a glance of sus- 
 picion, of fear ; but he was at once 
 reassured : there was no guile in the 
 smiling gray eyes of the questioner. 
 
 " I am waiting," he answered, '*' for 
 my mother. She will be home soon.'* 
 
 In a swift, penetrating glance, dart- 
 ing 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 wistful melancholy, 
 the hopeful determination. 
 
 " You, too ! " he sighed. 
 
 The expression of kindred was not 
 comprehended ; but the boy was not 
 disquieted by the sigh, by the sudden 
 extinguishment of the beguiling smile. 
 
86 THE MOTHER 
 
 " She has gone," he continued, ^' to 
 the wedding of Sir Arthur Coll and 
 Miss 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 
 says that," he went on, wistfully ; " and 
 I don't know why." 
 
 The curate was a gentleman — acute 
 and courteous. " A touch of indiges- 
 tion," he answered, promptly, laying a 
 white hand on his black waistcoat. 
 '' 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, 
 
A MEETING BY CHANCE 87 
 
 " 1^11 give you some medicine. Mother 
 keeps it for me." 
 
 Thus, presently, the curate found 
 himself top-floor rear, in the room that 
 overlooked the broad river, the roofs 
 of the city beyond, the misty hills : 
 upon which the fading sunshine now 
 fell. And having gratefully swallowed 
 the dose, with a broad, persistent smile, 
 he was given a seat by the window, 
 that the beauty of the day, the com- 
 panionship of the tiny craft on the 
 river, the mystery of the far-off places, 
 might distract and comfort him. From 
 the boy, sitting upright and prim on 
 the extreme edge of a chair, his feet 
 on the rung, his hands on his knees, 
 proceeded a stream of amiable chat- 
 ter — not the less amiable for being 
 grave — to which the curate, compelled 
 to his best behavior, listened with at- 
 
88 THE MOTHER 
 
 tention as amiable, as grave : and this 
 concerned the boats, afloat below, the 
 lights on the river, the child's mother, 
 the simple happenings of his secluded 
 life. So untaught was this courtesy, 
 spontaneous, native — so did it spring 
 from natural wish and perception — 
 that the curate was soon more mys- 
 tified than entertained ; and so did the 
 curate's smile increase in gratification 
 and sympathy that the child was pres- 
 ently off* the chair, lingering half 
 abashed in the curate's neighbourhood, 
 soon seated familiarly upon his knee, 
 toying with the dull gold crucifix. 
 
 "What's this?" he asked. 
 
 " It is the symbol," the curate an- 
 swered, "of the sacrifice of our dear 
 Lord and Saviour." 
 
 There was no meaning in the words ; 
 but the boy held the cross very ten- 
 
A MEETING BY CHANCE 89 
 
 derly, and looked long upon the face 
 of the Man there in torture — and was 
 grieved and awed by the agony. . . . 
 
 In the midst of this, the boy's 
 mother entered. She stopped dead be- 
 yond the threshold — warned by the 
 unexpected presence to be upon her 
 guard. Her look of amazement 
 changed to a scowl of suspicion. The 
 curate put the boy from his knee. He 
 rose — embarrassed. There was a space 
 of ominous silence. 
 
 " What you doing here? " the woman 
 demanded. 
 
 " Trespassing." 
 
 She was puzzled — by the word, the 
 smile, the quiet voice. The whole was 
 a new, nonplussing experience. Her 
 suspicion was aggravated. 
 
 "What you been telling the boy? 
 
90 THE MOTHER 
 
 Eh? What you been saying about 
 me? Hear me? Ain't you got no 
 tongue ? " She turned to the fright- 
 ened child. "Richard," she contin- 
 ued, her voice losing all its quality of 
 anger, " 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 the 
 curate, 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 
 
A MEETING BY CHANCE 91 
 
 Lifted Cross," the curate continued, 
 with unruffled composure, " and 1 
 have been telling the exact truth con- 
 cerning '^ 
 
 " You been lying ! " the woman 
 broke in. " Yes, you have ! " 
 
 ''No — not so," he insisted. "The 
 exact truth concerning the funeral of 
 Dick Slade from the Church of the 
 Lifted Cross. Your son has told me 
 of his father's death — of the funeral. 
 And I have told your son that I dis- 
 tinctly remember the occasion. I have 
 told him, moreover," he added, putting 
 a hand on the boy's shoulder, his eyes 
 faintly twinkling, " that his father was 
 — ah — as I recall him — of most distin- 
 guished appearance." 
 
 She was completely disarmed. 
 
 When, after an agreeable interval, 
 
92 THE MOTHER 
 
 the Rev. John Fithian took his leave, 
 the boy's mother followed him from 
 the room, and closed the door upon 
 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't have to 
 lie. But I got to lie. It makes 
 him happy — and there's things he 
 mustn't know. He must be happy. 
 I can't stand it when he ain't. It 
 hurts me so. But," she added, looking 
 straight into his eyes, gratefully, '' you 
 didn't have to lie. And — it was kind." 
 Her eyes fell. ^^ It was — awful kind." 
 
 " I may come again ? " 
 
 She stared at the floor. " Come 
 again ? " she muttered. ^' I don't 
 know." 
 
A MEETING BY CHANCE 93 
 
 " 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. I 
 thought you was an agent come to 
 take him away because I wasn't fit to 
 keep 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 
 his eyes, long, deep, intensely — a scru- 
 tiny 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. 
 
AFTER that the curate came often 
 to the room in the Box Street 
 tenement ; but beyond the ten- 
 ants of top floor rear he did not allow the 
 intimacy to extend — not even to em- 
 brace 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 even- 
 ing, when the breeze was cool and clean, 
 and the lights began to twinkle in the 
 94 
 
RENUNCIATION 95 
 
 gathering shadows : then to sit at the 
 window, describing unrealities, not con- 
 ceived in the world of the listeners ; 
 and these new and beautiful thoughts, 
 melodiously voiced in the twilight, 
 filled the hours with wonder and strange 
 delight. Sometimes, the boy sang — 
 his mother, 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 to 
 the comfort of Mr. Poddle., who was 
 now ill abed with his restless lungs, 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." 
 
96 THE MOTHER 
 
 " 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, 
 ^Hhat I want the boy?" 
 
 " The boy," she answered. 
 
 For a little while she was silent — 
 vacantly contemplating the bare floor. 
 There had been no revelation. She 
 was not taken unaware. She had 
 watched his purpose form. Long be- 
 fore, she had perceived the issue ap- 
 proaching, and had bravely met it. 
 But it was all now definite and near. 
 She found it hard to command her 
 feeling — bitter to cut the trammels of 
 her love for the child. 
 
 "You got to pay, you know," she 
 
RENUNCIATION 97 
 
 said, looking up. "Boy sopranos is 
 scarce. 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 — and 
 quietly awaited enlightenment. 
 
 "Take him!" she burst out, rising. 
 " My God ! just you take him. That's 
 all 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 tragic- 
 ally pausing ; now brushing her hand 
 over her eyes— a gesture of weari- 
 ness and despair. Then she faced 
 him. 
 
 "Take him," she said, her voice 
 hoarse. "Take him away from me. 
 
98 THE MOTHER 
 
 I ain'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. Make him — 
 like yourself. Before you come," she 
 proceeded, now feverishly pacing the 
 floor, "I never knew that men was 
 good. No man ever looked in my 
 eyes the way you do. I know them — 
 oh, I know them ! And when my boy 
 grows up, I want him to look in the 
 eyes of women the way you look — in 
 mine. Just that ! Only that ! If only, 
 oh, if only my son will 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. I ain't good enough." 
 
 The curate rose. 
 
 " You can't take his voice and leave 
 bis soul," she went on. " You got to 
 
RENUNCIATION 99 
 
 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 ! " she 
 flashed. '' I know the difference be- 
 tween your soul and mine. I know 
 that when his soul is like yours he 
 won't love me no more. But I can't 
 help that. I got to do without him. 
 I got to live my life — and let him live 
 his. It's the way with mothers and 
 sons. God help the mothers ! It's the 
 way of the world. . . . And he'll go 
 with you," she added. " I'll get him 
 so he'll be glad to go. It won't be nice 
 to do — but I can do it. Maybe you 
 think I can't. Maybe you think I 
 love him too much. It ain't that I love 
 him too much. It's because I love him 
 enough ! " 
 
loo THE MOTHER 
 
 " 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 — this skillfully, 
 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 was magnified and 
 touched with the horror of mystery. 
 It was not hard — thus to feign sadness, 
 terror, despair : to hint misfortune, 
 parting, unalterable love. Nor could 
 the boy withstand it ; by this depres- 
 sion he was soon reduced to a condi- 
 tion of apprehension and grief wherein 
 self-sacrifice was at one with joyful 
 opportunity. Dark days, these — hours 
 
R E N U N C I ATI p;N.,.i.os,., . 
 
 of agony, premonition, fearful expecta- 
 tion. And when they had sufficiently 
 wrought upon him, she was ready to 
 proceed. 
 
 One night she took him in her lap, 
 in the old close way, in which he 
 loved 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 not talk." 
 
 He had but expressed h^r own de- 
 sire — to have him lie there : not to talk, 
 but just to feel him lying in her arms. 
 
 " We must," she said. 
 
 Something in her voice — something 
 distinguishable from the recent days 
 as deep and real — aroused the boy. 
 He touched the lashes of her eyes — 
 and found them wet. 
 
 "Why are you crying?" he asked. 
 
lo? THE MOTHER 
 
 '' 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 you 
 what." She paused — and in the 
 pause felt his body grow tense in 
 a familiar way. For a moment the 
 prospect frightened her. She felt, 
 vaguely, that she was playing with 
 that which was infinitely delicate — 
 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 : and was half ashamed. 
 ii We're very poor, now," she went on, 
 hurriedly. " A man broke into the 
 
RENUNCIATION 103 
 
 bank and stole all your mother's gold 
 and diamonds and lovely dresses. 
 She hasn't anything — any more." 
 She had conceived a vast contempt 
 for the lie ; she felt that it was a 
 weak, unpracticed thing — but she 
 knew that it was sufficient : for he 
 had never yet doubted her. *' So I 
 don't know what she'll do," she con- 
 eluded, weakly. ^' She will have to 
 stop having good times, I guess. She 
 will have to go to work." 
 
 He straightened in her lap. " No, 
 no ! " he cried, gladly. " I'll work ! " 
 
 Her impulse was to express her de- 
 light in his manliness, her triumphant 
 consciousness of his love — to kiss him, 
 to hug him until he cried out with 
 pain. But she restrained all this — 
 harshly, pitilessly. She had no mercy 
 upon herself. 
 
I04 THE MOTHER 
 
 " 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," she con- 
 tinued, "I would have to work. We 
 are very poor. You see, dear, it takes 
 a great deal of money to buy new 
 
RENUNCIATION 105 
 
 clothes for you. And, then, dear, you 
 see '^ 
 
 He waited — somewhat disturbed by 
 the sudden failure of her voice. It 
 was 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. And 
 it won't take long for the curate to 
 teach me how to work." 
 
 She would not agree. 
 
 " Tell me I " 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." 
 
io6 THE MOTHER 
 
 "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 sought to get closer 
 within his mother's arms, nearer to her 
 bosom — then stirred no more. The 
 lights were flashing into life on the 
 river — wandering aimlessly : but yet 
 drifting to the sea. . . . Some one 
 stumbled 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. 
 
RENUNCIATION 107 
 
 " It would be better," she whispered, 
 " for you." 
 
 " Oh, mother," he sobbed, sitting back 
 in her lap, " what would you do with- 
 out me?" 
 
 It was a crucial question — so appeal- 
 ing in unselfish love, so vividly protray- 
 ing her impending desolation, that for 
 an instant her resolution departed. 
 What would she do without him? God 
 knew ! But she commanded herself. 
 
 " I would not have to work," she 
 said. 
 
 He turned her face to the light — 
 looked deep in her eyes, searching for 
 the truth. She met his glance without 
 wavering. Then, discerning the effect, 
 deliberately, when his eyes were alight 
 with filial love and concern, at the 
 moment when the sacrifice was most 
 clear and most poignant, she lied. 
 
lo8 THE MOTHER 
 
 " 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. Gently the 
 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, dis- 
 covering his wish. '* Good-bye. Be a 
 good boy." 
 
 He took the curate's hand. They 
 moved to the door — but there turned 
 
RENUNCIATION 109 
 
 and lingered. While the child looked 
 upon his mother, bravely calling a 
 smile to his face, that she might be 
 comforted, there crept into his eyes, 
 against his will, some reproach. Per- 
 ceiving this, she staggered towards him, 
 but halted at the table, which she 
 clutched : and there stood, her head 
 hanging forward, her body swaying. 
 Then she levelled a finger at the 
 curate. 
 
 " Take him away, you damn fool ! '^ 
 she screamed. 
 
s 
 
 EVEN o'clock struck. It made no 
 impression upon her. Eight 
 o'clock — nine o'clock. It was 
 now dark. Ten o'clock. She did not 
 hear. Still at the window, her elbow on 
 the sill, her chin resting in her hand, 
 she kept watch on the river — but did not 
 see the river : but saw the sea, wind- 
 tossed and dark, where the lights go wide 
 apart. Eleven o'clock. Ghostly moon- 
 light filled the room. The tenement, 
 no 
 
IN THE CURRENT III 
 
 restless in the summer heat, now sighed 
 and fell asleep. Twelve o'clock. She 
 had not moved : nor dared she move. 
 
 There was a knock at the door — a 
 quick step behind her. She turned in 
 alarm. 
 
 " Millie ! '' 
 
 She rose. Voice and figure were well 
 known to her. She started forward — 
 but stopped dead. 
 
 " Is it you, Jim? " she faltered. 
 
 "Yes, Millie. It*s me — come back. 
 You don't feel the way you did before, 
 do you, girl ? " He suddenly subdued 
 his voice — as though recollecting a cau- 
 tion. "You ain't going to send me 
 away, are you ? " he asked. 
 
 " Go 'way ! " she complained. " Leave 
 me alone." 
 
 He came nearer. 
 
 " Give me a show, Jim," she begged. 
 
112 THE MOTHER 
 
 *' Go Vay. It ain't fair to come — now. 
 Hear me ? '^ she cried, in protest against 
 his nearer approach, 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 I 
 wake?" 
 
 "Why, Millie!" he exclaimed. 
 '' You'll wake the boy." 
 
 " Boy ! " she laughed. " What boy ? 
 There ain't no boy. Look here ! " she 
 cried, rushing impetuously to the bed, 
 throwing back the coverlet, wildly toss- 
 ing 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 1 " 
 she mocked, with a laugh. " Talk as 
 loud as you like, Jim. You don't need 
 
IN THE CURRENT 113 
 
 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 I " 
 
 He caught her hand. 
 
 " Let go my hand I " she commanded. 
 " Keep off, Jim ! I ain't in no temper 
 to 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. Be- 
 cause," she added, defiantly, " I wasn't 
 fit to bring him up. And he ain't here 
 no more," she sighed, blankly sweep- 
 ing the moonlit room. " I'm all alone 
 — now." 
 
 " Poor girl ! " he muttered. 
 
 She was tempted by this sympathy. 
 
114 THE MOTHER 
 
 ''Go home, Jim," she said. '' It ain't 
 fair 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 want you. 
 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 take 
 you. If ever he looked in my eyes — 
 as if I'd lost him — I'd take you. I've 
 
IN THE CURRENT 115 
 
 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 a mother nothing about such 
 things as that. God ! " she muttered, 
 clasping her 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 I give him up. To make him — 
 more different ! But maybe," she con- 
 tinued, her voice rising with the in- 
 tensity of her feeling, ^' when he grows 
 up, and the time comes — maybe, Jim, 
 when he can't be made no more differ- 
 ent — maybe, when I go to him, man 
 grown — are you listening ? — maybe, 
 when I ask him if he loves me, he'll 
 remember ! Maybe, he'll take me in. 
 
ii6 THE MOTHER 
 
 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 ? I can't ! Don't you under- 
 stand? When the time comes, he 
 might ask me — where you was." 
 
 *' You're crazy, Millie," the man pro- 
 tested. " 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, regard- 
 ing 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 ! " 
 
IN THE CU RRENT 117 
 
 *' You can't keep me off. Yousaidyou 
 loved me. You do love me. You can't 
 help yourself. You got to marry me." 
 
 She retreated. ^^ Leave me alone ! " 
 she screamed. ^' I can't. . Don't you 
 see how it is ? Quit that, now, Jim ! 
 You ain't fair. TaJie your arms away. 
 God help me ! I love you, you great 
 big brute ! You know I do. You 
 ain't fair. . . . Stop I You hurt me." 
 She was now in his arms — but still re- 
 sisting. " Leave me alone," she 
 whimpered. " You hurt me. You ain't 
 fair. You know I love you — and you 
 ain't fair. . . . Oh, God forgive me I 
 Don't do that again, Jim. Stop ! Let 
 me go. For God's sake, stop kissing 
 me ! I like you, Jim. I ain't denying 
 that. But let me go. . . . Please, 
 Jim ! Don't hold me so tight. It 
 ain't fair. . . . Oh, it ain't fair. ..." 
 
ii8 THE MOTHER 
 
 She sank against his broad breast ; 
 and there she lay helpless — bitterly 
 sobbing. 
 
 " Don't cry, Millie ! " he whispered. 
 
 Still she sobbed. 
 
 '' Oh, don't cry, girl ! " he repeated, 
 tenderly. " It's all right. I won'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 did 
 not move from them. And while they 
 stood thus, in the moonlight, falling 
 brightly through the window, he 
 stroked her hair, murmuring, the while, 
 
IN THE CURRENT 119 
 
 all the reassuring words at his com- 
 mand. 
 
 ^' 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 fret about him. By 
 this time he's sound asleep." 
 
 She slipped from his embrace. He 
 made no effort to detain her : conceiv- 
 ing her secure in his possession. A 
 moment she stood staring at the floor, 
 lost to her surroundings : then quickly 
 turned to look upon him — 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 ; 
 he ain't asleep." She paused — now 
 woebegone. '' He's wide awake — wait- 
 
I20 THE MOTHER 
 
 ing/^ she went on. " He's waiting 
 — -just like he used to do — for me 
 to come in. . . . He's awake. Oh, 
 sore little heart ! He's lying alone in 
 the dark — waiting. And his mother 
 will not come. . . . Last night, Jim, 
 when I 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's lonesome here in the dark without 
 you. And to-morrow I'll wake, and 
 wait, and wait; but you will not 
 come ! ^ He's awake, Jim. Don't 
 you tell me no different. The pillow's 
 wet with his tears. . o . Lonely child 
 — waiting for me ! Oh, little heart 
 of my baby ! Oh, sore little heart I " 
 
 '^ Millie ! " 
 
 " It ain^t no use no more, Jim. You 
 better go home. I'm all alone. My 
 
IN THE CURRENT 121 
 
 child's not here. But — he's some- 
 where. 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, blinded by 
 tears, her steps uncertain : muttering 
 incoherently of her child, whimpering 
 broken snatches of lullaby songs. 
 When there was no more work left 
 for her hands to do, she staggered to 
 the bureau, and from the lower drawer 
 took a great, flaunting doll, which she 
 had there kept, poor soul I against the 
 time when her arms would be empty, 
 her bosom aching for a familiar weight 
 upon it. And for a time she sat rock- 
 ing the cold counterfeit, crooning, 
 faintly singing, caressing it; but she 
 had known the warmth, the sweet 
 restlessness, the soft, yielding form of 
 
122 THE 
 
 MOTHER 
 
 the living child, and could not be 
 content. Presently, in a surge of dis- 
 gust, she flung the substitute violently 
 from her. 
 
 " It ain't no baby," she moaned, 
 putting her hands to her face. ^' It's 
 only a doll ! " 
 
 She sank limp to the floor. There 
 she lay prone — the moonlight falling 
 softly upon her, but healing her not at 
 all. 
 
THE Rev. John Fithian lived 
 alone with a man-se?vant in a 
 wide-windowed, sombre, red 
 old house, elbowed by tenements, near 
 the Church of the Lifted Cross — 
 once a fashionable quarter : now mean, 
 dejected, incongruously thronged, and 
 fast losing the last appearances ot 
 respectability. Sombre without — half- 
 lit, silent, vast within : the whole 
 intolerant of frivolity, inharmony, 
 123 
 
124 THE MOTHER 
 
 garishness, ugliness, but yet quite 
 free of gloom and ghostly sugges- 
 tion. The boy tiptoed over the thick 
 carpets, spoke in whispers, eyed the 
 shadowy corners — sensitive to impres- 
 sions, forever alert : nevertheless pos- 
 sessing a fine feeling of security and 
 hopefulness ; still wistful, often weep- 
 ing in the night, but not melancholy. 
 Responsive to environment, by nature 
 harmonious with his new surround- 
 ings, he presently moved through the 
 lofty old rooms with a manner reflect- 
 ing their own — the same gravity, se- 
 renity, old-fashioned grace : expressing 
 even their stateliness in a quaint and 
 childish way. Thus was the soil of his 
 heart prepared for the seed of a great 
 change. 
 
 By and by the curate enlightened 
 
THE CHORISTER 125 
 
 the child concerning sin and the Vi- 
 carious Sacrifice. This was when the 
 leaves were falling from the trees in 
 the park — a drear, dark night : the 
 wind sweeping the streets in violent 
 gusts, the rain lashing the window- 
 panes. Night had come unnoticed — 
 swiftly, intensely : in the curate's study 
 a change from gray twilight to firelit 
 shadows. The boy was squatted on 
 the hearth-rug, disquieted by the ma- 
 licious beating at the window, glad to 
 be in the glow of the fire : his visions 
 all of ragged men and women cower- 
 ing from the 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. 
 
126 THE MOTHER 
 
 " I did not know," he said, quickly, 
 " that a man had died for us. What 
 was his name? Why did he do it? 
 My mother 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, mellif- 
 luous voice — while the rain beat upon 
 the windows, crying out the sorrows of 
 the poor — the curate unfolded the 
 poignant story : the terms simple, the 
 recital clear, vivid, complete. . . . 
 And to the heart of this child the ap- 
 peal was immediate and irresistible. 
 
 *' And they who sin," the curate con- 
 cluded, ** crucify Him again." 
 
 *^ I love that Jesus ! " the boy sobbed. 
 "I love Him — almost as much as 
 mother." 
 
THE CHORISTER 127 
 
 ^'Almost?" 
 
 The boy misunderstood. He felt 
 reproved. He flushed — ashamed that 
 the new love had menaced the old. 
 " No," he answered ; *' but I love Him 
 very much." 
 
 *' Not as much ? " 
 
 " Oh, I could not I " 
 
 The boy was never afterwards the 
 same. All that was inharmonious in 
 life — the pain and poverty and unlove- 
 liness — became as sin : a continuous 
 crucifixion, hateful, wringing the 
 heart. . . . 
 
 Late in the night, when he lay sleep- 
 less, sick for his mother's presence, her 
 voice, her kisses, her soothing touch, 
 the boy would rise to sit at the win- 
 dow — there to watch shadowy figures 
 flit through the street-lamp's circle of 
 
1^8 THE MOTHER 
 
 light. Once he fancied that his 
 mother came thus out of the night, that 
 for a moment she paused with upturned 
 glance, then disappeared in woe and 
 haste : returning, halted again ; but 
 came no more. . . . 
 
 At rare intervals the boy's mother 
 came to the curate's door. She would 
 not enter : but timidly waited for her 
 son, and then went with him to the 
 park, relieved to be away from the 
 wide, still house, her spirits and self- 
 confidence reviving with every step. 
 One mellow evening, while they sat to- 
 gether in the dusk, an ill-clad man, 
 gray and unkempt, shuffled near. 
 
 '' Mother," the boy whispered, grip- 
 ping her hand, ^' he is looking at us." 
 
 She laughed. " Let him look ! " said 
 she. '' It don't matter." 
 
THE CHORISTER 129 
 
 The man staggered to the bench — 
 heavily sat down : limp and shameless, 
 his head hanging. 
 
 " Let us go away I " the boy pleaded. 
 
 *'Why, darling?^' his mother asked, 
 puzzled. "What's the matter with 
 you, anyhow ? " She looked at him 
 — realizing some subtle change in him, 
 bewildered by it : searching eagerly for 
 the nature and cause. "You didn'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. The 
 woman laughed. 
 
 " Don't laugh ! " the boy exclaimed 
 — a cry of reproach, not free of indig- 
 nation. " Oh, mother," he complained, 
 putting her hand to his cheek, " how 
 could you ! " 
 
130 THE MOTHER 
 
 She did not answer. The derelict 
 picked himself up, whining in a 
 maudlin way. 
 
 " How could you ! " the boy re- 
 peated. 
 
 '^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 Lifted Cross 
 pierced the blue-black sky. It was 
 tipped with a blazing cross — a great 
 cross, flaming in the night : a symbol 
 of sacrifice, a hope, a protest, raised 
 above the feverish world. To this the 
 boy looked. It transported him far 
 
THE CHORISTER 131 
 
 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 his glance — 
 but saw only the familiar landmark : 
 an illuminated cross, topping a steeple. 
 
 *' For God's sake, Richard ! " she de- 
 manded, '' what you talking about? " 
 
 He did not hear. 
 
 *' You ain't sick, are you ? " she con- 
 tinued. 
 
 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 caught her 
 hand again, and kissed it passionately. 
 So much concerned was she for his 
 
132 THE MOTHER 
 
 physical health that the momentary 
 shrinking escaped her. 
 
 " You're sick," she said. '' I know 
 you are. You're singing too much in 
 the 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 I told you not to." 
 
 " You told me not to eat mucJi,^' he 
 said. "So I don't eat any — to make 
 
 sure." 
 
 She was aware of the significance of 
 this sacrifice — and kissed him quickly 
 in fond approval. Then she turned 
 up his coat-sleeve. "The fool!" she 
 cried. " You got cold. That's what's 
 the matter with you. Here it is No- 
 vember ! And he ain't put your flan- 
 
THE CHORISTER 133 
 
 nels on. That there curate," she con- 
 cluded, in disgust, " don't know noth- 
 ing about raising a boy." 
 
 " I'm quite well, mother.'* 
 
 '* Then what's the matter with you ? " 
 
 " I'm sad I " he whispered. 
 
 She caught him to her breast — 
 blindly misconceiving the meaning of 
 this : in her ignorance concluding that 
 he longed for her, and was sick because 
 of that. . . . And while she held him 
 close, the clock of the Church 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 he was 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. 
 
134 THE MOTHER 
 
 Near Christmas, in a burst of snowy 
 weather, the boy sang his first solo 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 cha- 
 grined by her inexplicable failure to 
 be in harmony — seated herself ob- 
 scurely, where she had but an infre- 
 quent glimpse of his white robe, wist- 
 ful face, dark, curling hair. She had 
 never loved him more proudly — never 
 before realized that his value extended 
 beyond the region of her arms : never 
 before known that the babe, the child, 
 the growing boy, mothered by her, 
 nursed at her breast, her possession, 
 was a gift to the world, sweet and in- 
 spiring. ^^ Angels, ever bright and 
 fair ! " She felt the thrill of his tender 
 
THE CHORISTER 135 
 
 voice ; perceived the impression : the 
 buzz, the subsiding confusion, the spell- 
 bound stillness. ^' Take, oh, take me 
 to your care ! " It was in her heart to 
 strike her breasts — to cry out that this 
 was her son, born of her; her bosom 
 his place. . . . 
 
 When the departing throng had 
 thinned in the aisle, she stepped from 
 the pew, and stood waiting. There 
 passed, then, a lady in rich attire — 
 sweet-faced, of exquisite manner. A 
 bluff, ruddy young man attended her. 
 
 " Did you like the music? '^ he asked 
 — a conventional question : everywhere 
 repeated. 
 
 " Perfectly lovely ! " she replied. 
 " A wonderful voice I And such a 
 pretty child ! " 
 
 '' I wonder," said he, ^^ who the boy 
 can be?'' 
 
136 THE MOTHER 
 
 Acting upon ingenuous impulse, the 
 boy's mother overtook the man, timidly 
 touched his elbow, looked into his eyes, 
 her own bright with proud love. 
 
 '' He is my son,'' she said. 
 
 The lady turned in amazement. In 
 a brief, appraising glance, she compre- 
 hended the whole woman ; the outr6 
 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, flush- 
 ing to his sandy hair : turned his back. 
 
 " How strange I " the lady whispered. 
 
 The woman was left alone in the 
 aisle — not chagrined by the rebuff, be- 
 ing used to this attitude, sensitive no 
 longer : but now knowing, for the first 
 time, that the world into which her 
 
THE CHORISTER 137 
 
 child had gone would not accept her. 
 . . . The church was empty. The 
 organ had ceased. One by one the 
 twinkling lights were going out. The 
 boy came bounding down the aisle. 
 With a glad little cry he leaped into 
 her waiting arms. . . . 
 
THIS night, after a week of impa- 
 tient expectation, they were by 
 the curate's permission to spend 
 together in the Box Street tenement. It 
 was 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 high 
 spirits — the boy chattering, merrily, 
 incoherently, as he trotted at his silent 
 138 
 
ALIENATION 139 
 
 mother's side. Very happy, now, in- 
 deed, they raced up the stair, rioting 
 up flight after flight, to top floor rear, 
 where there was a cheery fire, a kettle 
 bubbling on the stove, a lamp turned 
 low — a feeling of warmth and repose 
 and welcome, which the broad window, 
 noisily shaken by a hearty winter wind 
 from the sea, pleasantly accentuated. 
 
 The gladness of this return, the sud- 
 den, overwhelming realization of a 
 longing that had been agonizing in 
 its intensity, excited the boy beyond 
 bounds. He gave an indubitable 
 whoop of joy, which so startled and 
 amazed the woman that she stared 
 open-mouthed ; tossed his cap in the 
 air, flung his overcoat and gloves on 
 the floor, peeped through the black 
 window-panes, pried into the cupboard, 
 hugged his mother so rapturously, so 
 
140 THE MOTHER 
 
 embarrassingly, that he tumbled her 
 over and was himself involved in the 
 hilarious collapse : whereupon, as a 
 measure of protection while she laid 
 the table, she despatched him across 
 the hall to greet Mr. Poddle, who was 
 ill abed, anxiously awaiting him. 
 
 The Dog-faced Man was all prinked 
 for the occasion — his hirsute adorn- 
 ment neatly brushed and braided, 
 smoothly parted from crown over brow 
 and nose to chin : so that, though, to 
 be sure, his appearance instantly sug- 
 gested a porcupine, his sensitive lips 
 and mild gray eyes were for once 
 allowed to impress the beholder. The 
 air of Hockley's Musee had at last laid 
 him by the heels. No longer, by any 
 license of metaphor, could his lungs be 
 said to be merely restless. He was flat 
 on his back — white, wan, gasping : 
 
ALIENATION 141 
 
 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 eyes overran 
 with the weak tears of the sick, he 
 smiled like a man to whom Nature had 
 not been cruel, while he pressed the 
 small hand so swiftly extended. 
 
 " 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, hoped that 
 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 
 
142 THE MOTHER 
 
 be proper. ' Dignified in Death/ Un- 
 derstand? 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 I '' 
 The Dog-faced Man held up his hand 
 — but swiftly replaced it between the 
 child's warm, sympathetic palms. 
 *' No rings. Understand ? ' Pawned 
 the Family Jewells.' Git me? * Re- 
 duced to Poverty.' Where's my frock 
 coat? Where's my silk hat? ' Ward- 
 robe of a Celebrity Sold For A Song.' 
 Where's them two pair of trousers? 
 * A Tragic Disappearance.' All up the 
 spout. Everything gone. * Not a 
 Stitch to His Name.' Really, Richard, 
 it wouldn't be proper to get well. A 
 natural phenomenon of my standing 
 couldn't — simply couldn't, Richard — 
 
ALIENATION 143 
 
 go back to the profession with a ward- 
 robe consistin* of two pink night-shirts, 
 both the worse for wear. It wouldn't 
 do! *0n 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 the quicker 
 the better." 
 
 To change the distressful drift of the 
 conversation, the boy inquired concern- 
 ing the Mexican Sword Swallower. 
 
 '' Hush ! " implored Mr. Poddle, in a 
 way so poignant that the boy wished 
 he had been more discreet. '' Them 
 massive proportions I Them socks I 
 ' Her Fate a Tattooed Man,' " he pur- 
 sued, in gentle melancholy. '' Don't 
 
144 THE MOTHER 
 
 ask me I ^ Nearing the Fateful Hour.' 
 Poor child ! ' Wedded To A Artificial 
 Freak/ " 
 
 " Is she married ? " 
 
 "No— not yet/' Mr. Poddle ex- 
 plained. " But when the dragon's tail 
 is finished, accordin' to undenigeable 
 report, the deed will be did. ' Shack- 
 led For Life.' Oh, my God! He's 
 borrowed the money to pay the last in- 
 stallment ; and I'm informed that only 
 the scales has to be picked out with 
 red. But why should I mourn ? " he 
 asked. '' ^ Adored From Afar.' Un- 
 derstand? That's what I got to do. 
 ' His Love a Tragedy.' Oh, Richard," 
 Mr. Poddle concluded, in genuine dis- 
 tress, " that's me ! It couldn't be 
 nothing else. Natural phenomens is 
 natural phenomens. ' Paid the Penalty 
 of Genius.' That's me ! " 
 
ALIENATION 145 
 
 The boy^s mother called to him. 
 
 ''Richard/^ said Mr. Poddle, ab- 
 ruptly, ''I'm awful sick. I can't last 
 much 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 me 
 no 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 who 
 watches over me ? Who comforts me ? 
 Who holds my hand when I git afraid 
 to die? Know who that is, Rich- 
 ard ? " 
 
 " Yes," the boy whispered. 
 
 "Who is it?" 
 
 *' My mother ! " • 
 
 " Yes — your mother," said the Dog- 
 
146 THE MOTHER 
 
 faced Man. He lifted himself on the 
 pillow. "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 from the 
 grave — when the time she dreads has 
 come. Listen to me ! " His voice 
 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 I Don't you forget her. She loves 
 you. You're all she's got. Her poor 
 heart is hungry for you. Don't you 
 forget her. There ain't a better woman 
 nowhere. There ain't a woman more 
 fit for heaven. Don't you go back on 
 her 1 Don't you let no black-and- 
 white curick teach you no differ- 
 ent ! " 
 
 " I'll not forget ! " said the boy. 
 
ALIENATION 147 
 
 Mr. Poddle laid a hand on his head. 
 " God bless you, Richard I " said he. 
 
 The boy kissed him, unafraid of his 
 monstrous countenance — and then fled 
 to his mother. . . . 
 f 
 
 For a long time the Dog-faced Man 
 lay alone, listening to the voices across 
 the hall : himself smiling to know that 
 the woman had her son again ; not sel- 
 fishly reluctant to be thus abandoned. 
 The door was ajar. Joyous sounds 
 drifted in — chatter, soft laughter, the 
 rattle of dishes. . . . Presently, si- 
 lence : broken by the creaking of the 
 rocking-chair, and by low singing. . . . 
 By and by, voices, speaking gravely — 
 in intimate converse : this for a long, 
 long time, while the muttering of the 
 tenement ceased, and quiet fell. . . . 
 A plea and an imploring protest. She 
 
148 THE MOTHER 
 
 was wanting him to go to bed. There 
 followed the familiar indications that 
 the child was being disrobed : shoes 
 striking the floor, yawns, sleepy talk, 
 crooning encouragement. . . . Then 
 a strange silence — puzzling to the 
 listener : not accountable by his recol- 
 lection of similar occasions. 
 
 There was a quick step in the hall. 
 
 " Poddle I '' 
 
 The Dog-faced Man started. There 
 was alarm in the voice — despair, re- 
 sentment. On the threshold stood the 
 woman — distraught : one hand against 
 the door-post, the other on her heart. 
 
 ^^ Poddle, he's '^ 
 
 Mr. Poddle, thrown into a paroxysm 
 of fright by the pause, struggled to his 
 elbow, but fell back, gasping. 
 
 "What's he doin'?" he managed to 
 whisper. 
 
ALIENATION 149 
 
 " Pray in' I " 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 At 
 Leisure.' " 
 
 " Prayin' I " she repeated, entering on 
 tiptoe. *' He's down on his knees — 
 prayin^ I " She began to pace the floor 
 — wringing her hands : a tragic figure. 
 " It's come, Poddle ! " she whimpered, 
 beginning now to bite at her finger- 
 nails. " He's changed. He never seen 
 me pray. I never told him how. Oh, 
 he's — dififerent. And he'll change 
 more. I got to face it. He'll soon be 
 like the people that — that — don't un- 
 derstand us. I couldn't stand it to see 
 that stare in his eyes. It'll kill me, 
 
I50 THE MOTHER 
 
 Poddle ! I knew it would come," she 
 continued, uninterrupted, Mr. Poddle 
 being unable to come to her assistance 
 for lack of breath. " But I didn't 
 think it would be so — awful soon. 
 And I didn't know how much it 
 would hurt. I didn't think about it. 
 I didn't dare. Oh, my baby ! " she 
 sobbed. '' You'll not love your mother 
 any more — when you find her out. 
 You'll be just like — all them people ! " 
 She came to a full stop. '' Poddle," 
 she declared, trembling, her voice ris- 
 ing harshly, " I got to do something. 
 I got to do it — 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.* 
 
ALIENATION 151 
 
 Quick ! " He weakly beckoned her 
 to be off. " Don't — let him ^know — 
 you're different. Go and — pray your- 
 self. Don't — let on you — never done 
 it — before." 
 
 She gave him a glad glance of com- 
 prehension — and disappeared. . . . 
 
 The boy had risen. 
 
 " Oh I " she exclaimed, brightly. 
 " You got through, didn't you, dear ? " 
 
 He was now sitting on the- edge of 
 the bed, his legs dangling — still re- 
 luctant to crawl within. And he was 
 very gravely regarding her, a cloud of 
 anxious wonder in his eyes. 
 
 " Who taught you to," she hesitated, 
 " do it — that way ? " she pursued, mak- 
 ing believe to be but lightly interested. 
 "The curate? Oh, my!" she ex- 
 claimed, immediately changing the 
 
152 THE MOTHER 
 
 thought. ** Your mother's awful 
 sleepy.'* She counterfeited a yawn. 
 *' I never kneel to — do it," she con- 
 tinued. In a sharp glance she saw 
 the wonder clearing from his eyes, the 
 beginnings of a smile appear about his 
 lips ; and she was emboldened to pro- 
 ceed. *' Some kneels," she said, *' and 
 some doesn't. The curate, I suppose, 
 kneels. That's his way. Now, I don't. 
 I was brought 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 at a 
 time. I just love to — do it. In bed, 
 you know. I guess you never seen me 
 kneel, did you ? But I think I will, 
 after this, because you — do it — that 
 way." 
 
 His serenity was quite restored. 
 Glad to learn that his mother knew 
 
ALIENATION 153 
 
 the 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 ; " be- 
 cause that's the way you do it." 
 
 She knelt. '' In God's name ! " she 
 thought, as she inclined her head, 
 ''what can I do? I've lost him. Oh, 
 I've lost him. . . . What'll I do 
 when 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't stand it I 
 I got to do something. ... It won't 
 be long. They'll tell him — some one. 
 And I can't do nothing to help it I 
 But I got to do something. . . . My 
 God I I got to do something. I'll 
 dress better than this. This foulard's 
 a botch." New fashions in dress, in 
 
154 THE MOTHER 
 
 coiffures, multiplied in her mind. She 
 was groping, according to her poor en- 
 lightenment. '' The pompadour ! " she 
 mused, inspired, according to the in- 
 spiration 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 do no good. 
 . . . I've lost him I Good God I 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, 
 I pray good and hard." 
 
THE boy's room was furnished in 
 the manner of the. curate's 
 chamber — which, indeed, was 
 severe and chaste enough : for the curate 
 practiced certain monkish austerities not 
 common to the clergy of this day. It was 
 a white, bare little room, at the top of the 
 house, overlooking the street : a still 
 place, into which, at bedtime, no distrac- 
 tion entered to break the nervous intro- 
 spection, the high, wistful dreaming, 
 155 
 
156 THE MOTHER 
 
 sadly habitual to the child when left 
 alone in the dark. But always, of fine 
 mornings, the sun came joyously to 
 waken him; and often, in the night, when 
 he lay wakeful, the moon peeped in upon 
 the exquisite simplicity, and, discover- 
 ing a lonely child, companionably lin- 
 gered to hearten him. The beam fell 
 over the window-sill, crawled across the 
 floor, climbed the bare wall. 
 
 There was a great white crucifix on 
 the wall, hanging in the broad path of 
 the moonlight. It stared at the boy^s 
 pillow, tenderly appealing : the head 
 thorn-crowned, the body drawn tense, 
 the face uplifted in patient agony. 
 Sometimes it made the boy cry. 
 
 " They who sin,'^ he would repeat, 
 ^' crucify the dear Lord again ! '^ 
 
 It would be very hard, then, to fall 
 asleep. . . . 
 
A CHILD'S PRAYER 157 
 
 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 gen- 
 tle 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 
 
158 THE MOTHER 
 
 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 I " 
 
 ** 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 af- 
 
A CHILD'S PRAYER 159 
 
 fected by her earnestness, " you could 
 not be I " 
 
 She put her hands on his shoulders. 
 "What would you do?'^ she re- 
 peated. 
 
 " 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 possi- 
 bility — vaguely : in a mere flash of 
 feeling. 
 
 "What would you do?" 
 
 " I don't know I " 
 
 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 
 
i6o THE MOTHER 
 
 he stood in the beam of soft light — 
 staring at the tortured Figure. 
 
 " I think I'd better do it ! " he de- 
 termined. 
 
 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 
 
A CHILD'S PRAYER i6i 
 
 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 I " 
 
 The child knew nothing about sin. 
 
OF a yellow, balmy morning, 
 with a languid breeze stirring 
 the curtains in the open win- 
 dows 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 ex- 
 traordinary character of his fare, the 
 driver was all elbows and eyes — a per- 
 spiring, gesticulating figure, swaying 
 widely on the high perch. 
 162 
 
MR. POODLE'S FINALE 163 
 
 Within was a lady so monstrously 
 stout that she completely filled the 
 vehicle. Rolls of fat were tucked into 
 every nook, jammed into every corner, 
 calked into every crevice ; and, at last, 
 demanding place, they scandalously 
 overflowed the apron. So tight was 
 the fit — so crushed and confined the 
 lady's immensity — that, being quite un- 
 able 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 passen- 
 ger gasped, and the driver gesticulated, 
 and the hansom creaked and tottered, 
 and the outraged horse bent to the fear- 
 ful labour — the equipage presently ar- 
 rived at the curate's door, and was there 
 drawn up with a jerk. 
 
 The Fat Lady was released, assisted 
 
i64 THE MOTHER 
 
 to alight, helped across the pavement ; 
 and having waddled up three steps of 
 the flight, and being unable without a 
 respite to lift her massive foot for the 
 fourth time, she loudly demanded of 
 the impassive door the instant appear- 
 ance of Dickie Slade : whereupon, the 
 door flew open, and the boy bounded 
 out. 
 
 " Madame Lacara ! " he cried. 
 
 ^' Quick, child!" the Fat Lady 
 wheezed. ^^ Git your hat. Your mother 
 can't stay no longer — and I can't get 
 up the stairs — and Poddle's dyin' — and 
 git your hat ! " 
 
 In a moment the boy returned. The 
 Fat Lady was standing beside the cab — 
 the exhausted horse contemplating her 
 with no friendly eye. 
 
 '* Git in ! " said she. 
 
 " Don't you do it," the driver warned. 
 
MR. PODDLE'S FINALE 165 
 
 '' 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, exas- 
 perated, '' git in ! " 
 
 " Not first," the driver repeated. 
 " There ain't room for both ; and once 
 she lets her weight down ". 
 
 '' Maybe," the Fat Lady admitted, 
 after giving the matter most careful 
 consideration, '^ it would be better for 
 you to set on me." 
 
 *' Maybe," the boy agreed, much re- 
 lieved, " it would." 
 
 So Madame Lacara entered, and took 
 the boy in her arms ; and off, at last, 
 they went towards the Box Street tene- 
 
i66 THE MOTHER 
 
 ment, swaying, creaking, wheezing, 
 with a troop of joyous urchins in the 
 wake. . . . 
 
 It was early afternoon — with the 
 sunlight lying thick and warm on the 
 window-ledge of Mr. Poddle's room, 
 about to enter, to distribute cheer, to 
 speak its unfailing promises. The sash 
 was lifted high ; a gentle wind, clean 
 and blue, blowing from the sea, over 
 the roofs and the river, came sportively 
 in, with a joyous little rush and swirl 
 — but of a sudden failed : hushed, as 
 though by unexpected encounter with 
 the solemnity within. 
 
 The boy's mother was gone. It was 
 of a Saturday ; she had not dared to 
 linger. When the boy entered, Mr. 
 Poddle lay alone, lifted on the pillows, 
 staring deep into the wide, shining 
 sky : composed and dreamful. The 
 
MR. PODDLE^S FINALE 167 
 
 distress of his deformity, as the pains 
 of dissolution, had been mitigated by 
 the woman's kind and knowing hand : 
 the tawny hair, by nature rank and 
 shaggy, by habit unkempt, now damp 
 with sweat, was everywhere laid smooth 
 upon his face — brushed away from the 
 eyes : no longer permitted to obscure 
 the fast failing sight. 
 
 Beside him, close — drawing closer — 
 the boy seated himself. Very low and 
 broken — husky, halting — was -the Dog- 
 faced Man's voice. The boy must often 
 bend his ear to understand. 
 
 "The hirsute," Mr. Poddle whis- 
 pered, " adornment. All ready for the 
 last appearance. * Natural Phenom- 
 onen Meets the Common Fate.' Celeb- 
 rities," he added, with a little smile 
 " is just clay." 
 
 The boy took his hand. 
 
i68 THE MOTHER 
 
 " She done it," Mr. Poddle explained, 
 faintly indicating the unusual condi- 
 tion of his deforming hair, ^* with a 
 little brush." 
 
 ^' She ? " the boy asked, with signifi- 
 cant emphasis. 
 
 '' No," Mr. Poddle sighed. '' Hush I 
 Not She— just her." 
 
 By this the boy knew that the Mexi- 
 can Sword Swallower had not relented 
 — but that his mother had been 
 kind. 
 
 " She left that there little brush 
 somewheres," Mr. Poddle continued, 
 with an effort to lift his head, but 
 failing to do more than roll his glazed 
 eyes. "There was a little handker- 
 chief 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 
 
MR. PODDLE'S FINALE 169 
 
 way. She said you'd stay with me — 
 to the last. She said, Richard, that 
 maybe you'd keep the hair away from 
 my eyes, and the sweat from rollin' in. 
 For I'm easier that way ; and I 
 want to see," he moaned, " to the 
 last ! " 
 
 The boy pressed his hand. 
 
 '' I'm tired of the hair," Mr. Poddle 
 sighed. " I used to be proud of it ; 
 but I'm tired of it — now. It's been 
 admired, Richard ; it's been applauded. 
 Locks of it has been requested by the 
 Fair ; and the Strong has wished they 
 was me. But, Richard, celebrities sits 
 on a lonely eminence. And I been 
 lonely, God knows ! though I kept a 
 smilin' face. . . . I'm tired of the 
 hair — tired of fame. It all looks dif- 
 ferent — when you git sight of the 
 Common Leveller. 'Tired of His 
 
lyo THE MOTHER 
 
 Talent.' Since I been lyin' here, 
 Richard, sick and alone, I been 
 thinkin' that talent wasn't nothin' 
 much after all. I been wishin', Richard 
 ■ — wishin' ! " 
 
 The Dog-faced Man paused for 
 breath. 
 
 ^^ I been wishinV' he gasped, ^' that 
 I wasn't a phenomonen — but only a 
 man ! " 
 
 The sunlight began to creep towards 
 Mr. Poddle's bed — a broad, yellow 
 beam, stretching into the blue spaces 
 without : lying like a golden pathway 
 before him. 
 
 ^'Richard," said Mr. Poddle, *' I'm 
 goin' to die." 
 
 The boy began to cry. 
 
 " Don't cry ! " Mr. Poddle pleaded. 
 
MR. POODLE'S FINALE 171 
 
 "I ain't afraid. Hear me, Richard? 
 I ain't afraid." 
 
 " No, no I " 
 
 " I'm glad to die. * Death the Dog- 
 faced Man's Best Friend.' I'm glad! 
 Lyin' here, I seen the truth. It's only 
 when a man looks back that he finds out 
 what he's missed — only when he looks 
 back, from the end of the path, that he 
 sees the flowers he might have plucked 
 by the way. . . . Lyin' here, I been 
 lookin' back — far back. And my eyes 
 is opened. Now I see — now I know I 
 I have been travellin' a road where the 
 flowers grows thick. But God made 
 me so I couldn't pick 'em. It's love, 
 Richard, that men wants. Just love ! 
 It's love their hearts is thirsty 
 for. . . . And there wasn't no love 
 — for me. I been awful thirsty, 
 
172 THE MOTHER 
 
 Richard ; but there wasn't no water 
 anywhere in all the world — for me. 
 ' Spoiled In the Making.' That's me. 
 ^ God's Bad Break.' Oh, that's me! 
 I'm not a natural phenomonen no 
 more. I'm only a freak of nature. 
 I ain't got no kick comin'. I stand 
 by what God done. Maybe it wasn't 
 no mistake ; maybe He wanted to show 
 all the people in the world what would 
 happen if He was in the habit of gittin^ 
 careless. Anyhow, I guess He's man 
 enough to stand by the job He done. 
 He made me what I am — a freak. 
 I ain't to blame. But, oh, my God I 
 Richard, it hurts — to be that ! " 
 
 The boy brushed the tears from the 
 Dog-faced Man's eyes. 
 
 "No," Mr. Poddle repeated. "I 
 ain't afraid to die. For I been 
 thinkin' — since I been lyin' here, 
 
MR. PODDLE'S FINALE 173 
 
 sick and alone — I been thinkin' that 
 us mistakes has a good deal " 
 
 The boy bent close. 
 
 " Comin' to us ! " 
 
 The sunlight was climbing the bed- 
 post. 
 
 " I been lookin' back," Mr. Poddle 
 repeated. '' Things don't look the same. 
 You gits a bird's-eye view of life — from 
 your deathbed. And it looks — some- 
 how — different." 
 
 There was a little space of silence — 
 while the Dog-faced Man drew long 
 breaths : while his wasted hand wan- 
 dered restlessly over the coverlet. 
 
 " You got the little brush, Richard ? " 
 he asked, his voice changing to a tired 
 sigh. " The adornment has got in the 
 way again." 
 
 The boy brushed back the fallen 
 hair — wiped away the sweat. 
 
174 THE MOTHER 
 
 ''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 per- 
 sisted ; " because I can't — see — very 
 well." 
 
 While the boy humoured the fancy, 
 Mr. Poddle lay musing — his hand still 
 straying over the coverlet : still fever- 
 ishly searching. 
 
 "I used to think, Richard," he 
 whispered, " that it ought to be done — 
 in public." He paused — a flash of 
 alarm in his eyes. " Do you hear me, 
 Richard ? " he asked. 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 *' Sure ? " 
 
MR. PODDLE'S FINALE 175 
 
 '' Oh, yes ! '' 
 
 Mr. Poddle frowned — puzzled, it may 
 be, by the distant sound, the muffled, 
 failing rumble, of his own voice. 
 
 *'I used to think," he repeated, dis- 
 missing the problem, as beyond him, 
 "that I'd like to do it— in public." 
 
 The boy waited. 
 
 " Die," Mr. Poddle explained. 
 
 A man went whistling gaily past the 
 door. The merry air, the buoyant step, 
 were strangely not discordant ; -nor was 
 the sunshine, falling over the foot of 
 the bed. 
 
 '' ' Last Appearance of a Famous 
 FreakI'" Mr. Poddle elucidated, his 
 eyes shining with delight — returning, 
 all at once, to his old manner. " Git 
 me, Richard?" he continued, excitedly. 
 " ' Fitting Finale ! Close of a Curious 
 Career! Mr. Henry Poddle, the emi- 
 
176 THE MOTHER 
 
 nent natural phenomonen, has con- 
 sented to depart this life on the stage 
 of Hockley's Musee, on Sunday next, 
 in the presence of three physicians, a 
 trained nurse, a minister of the gospel 
 and a undertaker. Unparalleled En- 
 tertainment ! The management has 
 been at unprecedented expense to git 
 this unique feature. Death Defied ! A 
 Extraordinary Educational Exhibition ! 
 Note: Mr. Poddle will do his best to 
 oblige his admirers and the patrons of 
 the house by dissolving the mortal tie 
 about the hour of ten o'clock ; but the 
 management cannot guarantee that the 
 exhibition will conclude before mid- 
 night.' " Mr. Poddle made a wry face 
 — with yet a glint of humour about it. 
 '• ' Positively,' " said he, *' 'the last ap- 
 pearance of this eminent freak. No 
 return engagement.' " 
 
MR. PODDLE'S FINALE 177 
 
 Again the buoyant step in the hall, 
 the gaily whistled air — departing : leav- 
 ing an expectant silence. 
 
 "Do it/' Mr. Poddle gasped, worn 
 out, ** in public. But since I been 
 lyin* here," he added, '' lookin' back, I 
 seen the error. The public, Richard, 
 has no feelin'. They'd laugh — if I 
 groaned. I don't like the public — no 
 more. I don't want to die — in public. 
 I want," he concluded, his voice falling 
 to a thin, exhausted whisper, ''only your 
 mother — and you, Richard — and " 
 
 " Did you say— Her ? " 
 
 " The Lovely One I " 
 
 " I'll bring her I " said the boy, im- 
 pulsively. 
 
 '' No, no ! She wouldn't come. I 
 been — in communication — recent. 
 And she writ back. Oh, Richard, she 
 writ back ! My heart's broke I " 
 
178 THE MOTHER 
 
 The boy brushed the handkerchief 
 over the Dog-faced Man's eyes. 
 
 " * Are you muzzled/ says she, * in 
 dog days ? ' " 
 
 " Don't mind her ! " cried the 
 boy. 
 
 " In the eyes of the law, Richard," 
 Mr. Poddle exclaimed, his eyes flash- 
 ing, " I ain't no dog ! " 
 
 The boy kissed his forehead — there 
 was no other comfort to offer : and the 
 caress was sufficient. 
 
 " I wish," Mr. Poddle sighed, " that 
 I knew how God will look at it — to- 
 night I " 
 
 Mr. Poddle, exhausted by speech 
 and emotion, closed his eyes. By and 
 by the boy stealthily withdrew his 
 hand from the weakening clasp. Mr. 
 Poddle gave no sign of knowing it. 
 
MR. PODDLE'S FINALE 179 
 
 The boy slipped away. . . . And de- 
 scending to the third floor of the tene- 
 ment, he came to the room where lived 
 the Mexican Sword Swallower : whom 
 he persuaded to return with him to Mr. 
 Poddle's bedside. 
 
 They paused at the door. The woman 
 drew back. 
 
 " Aw, Dick," she simpered, " I hate 
 to ! " 
 
 " Just this once I " the boy pleaded. 
 ** Just to say it!" 
 
 The reply was a bashful giggle. 
 
 *' You don't have to mean it," the 
 boy argued. " Just say it — that's all I " 
 
 They entered. Mr. Poddle was mut- 
 tering the boy's name — in a vain effort 
 to lift his voice. His hands were both 
 at the coverlet — picking, searching : 
 both restless in the advancing sun- 
 shine. With a sob of self-reproach the 
 
i8o THE MOTHER 
 
 boy ran quickly to the bedside, took 
 one of the wandering hands, pressed it 
 to his lips. And Mr. Poddle sighed, 
 and lay quiet again. 
 
 " Mr. Poddle," the boy whispered, 
 " she's come at last." 
 
 There was no response. 
 
 '* She's come ! " the boy repeated. 
 He gave the hand he held to the 
 woman. Then he put his lips close to 
 the dying man's ear. *' Don't you hear 
 me ? She's come ! " 
 
 Mr. Poddle opened his eyes. " Her 
 — massive — proportions ! " he faltered. 
 
 " Quick I " said the boy. 
 
 " Poddle," the woman lied, " I love 
 you ! " 
 
 Then came the Dog-faced Man's one 
 brief flash of ecstasy — expressed in a 
 wondrous glance of 3037^ and devotion : 
 but a swiftly fading fire. 
 
MR. POODLE'S FINALE i8i 
 
 " She loves me ! " he muttered. 
 
 " I do, Poddle ! " the woman sobbed, 
 willing, now, for the grotesque decep- 
 tion. " Yes, I do ! " 
 
 " ' Beauty,' " Mr. Poddle gasped, 
 " ' and the Beast ! ' " 
 
 They listened intently. He said no 
 more. . . . Soon the sunbeam glori- 
 fied the smiling face. . . . 
 
WHILE he waited for his mother 
 to come — seeking relief from 
 the melancholy and deep mys- 
 tification of this death — the boy went 
 into the street. The day was well dis- 
 posed, the crowded world in an amiable 
 mood ; he perceived no menace — felt 
 no warning of catastrophe. He wan- 
 dered far, unobservant, forgetful : the 
 real world out of mind. And it 
 
 chanced that he lost his way ; and he 
 
 182 
 
HIS MOTHER 183 
 
 came, at last, to that loud, seething 
 place, thronged with unquiet faces, 
 where, even in the sunshine, sin and 
 poverty walked abroad, unashamed. 
 . . . Rush, crash, joyless laughter, 
 swollen flesh, red eyes, shouting, rags, 
 disease : flung into the midst of it — 
 transported from the sweet feeling and 
 quiet gloom of the Church of the 
 Lifted Cross — he was confused and 
 frightened. . . . 
 
 A hand fell heartily on the boy's 
 shoulder. '' Hello, there ! " cried a 
 big voice. " Ain't you Millie Blade's 
 kid?" 
 
 " Yes, sir," the boy gasped. 
 
 It was a big man — a broad-shoul- 
 dered, lusty fellow, muscular and 
 lithe : good-humoured and dull of 
 face, winning of voice and manner. 
 
i84 THE MOTHER 
 
 Countenance and voice were vaguely 
 familiar to the boy. He felt no alarm. 
 
 '' What the devil you doing here ? " 
 the man demanded. '' Looking for 
 Millie ? " 
 
 *' Oh, no 1 " the boy answered, horri- 
 fied. '' My mother isn't — here I " 
 
 " Well, what you doing ? " 
 
 '' I'm lost." 
 
 The man laughed. He clapped the 
 boy on the back. '' Don't you be 
 afraid," said he, sincerely hearty. " I'll 
 take you home. You know me, don't 
 you ? " 
 
 ^' Not your name." 
 
 " Anyhow, you remember me, don't 
 you ? You've seen me before ? " 
 
 " Yes, sir." 
 
 '' Well, my name's Jim Millette. 
 I'm an acrobat. And I know you. 
 Why, sure ! I remember when you 
 
HIS MOTHER 185 
 
 was born. Me and your mother is old 
 friends. Soon as I seen you I knew 
 who you was. ' By gad ! ' says I, ' if 
 that ain't Millie Slade's kid I ' How is 
 she, anyhow ? " 
 
 '' She's very well." 
 
 "Working?'' 
 
 " No," the boy answered, gravely ; 
 " my mother does not work." 
 
 The man whistled. 
 
 " I am living with Mr. Fithian, the 
 curate," said the boy, with a sigh. " So 
 my mother is having — a very good — 
 time." 
 
 " She must be lonely." 
 
 The boy shook his head. " Oh, no ! " 
 said he. " She is much happier — with- 
 out me." 
 
 " She's what f " 
 
 " Happier," the boy repeated, '' with- 
 
i86 THE MOTHER 
 
 out me. If she were not," he added, 
 *' I would not live with the curate." 
 
 The man laughed. It was in pity — 
 not in merriment. ** Well, say," he 
 said, " when you see your mother, you 
 tell her you met Jim Millette on the 
 street. Will you ? You tell her Jim's 
 been — married. She'll understand. 
 And I guess she'll be glad to know it. 
 And, say, I guess she'll wonder who 
 it's to. You tell her it's the little 
 blonde of the Flying Tounsons. She'll 
 know I ain't losing anything, any- 
 how, by standing in with that troupe. 
 Tell her it's all right. You just tell 
 her I said that everything was all 
 right. Will you ? " 
 
 '' Yes, sir." 
 
 "You ain't never been to a show, 
 have you ? " the man continued. " I 
 thought not. Well, say, you come 
 
HIS MOTHER 187 
 
 along with me. It ain't late. We'll 
 see the after-piece at the Burlesque. 
 I'll take you in." 
 
 '' I think," said the boy, " I had bet- 
 ter not." 
 
 " Aw, come on I " the acrobat urged. 
 " I'm awful glad to see you, Dick," he 
 added, putting his arm around the boy, 
 of kind impulse ; '* and I'd like to give 
 you a good time — for Millie's sake." 
 
 The boy was still doubtful. " I had 
 better go home," he said. 
 
 " Oh, now, don't you be afraid of me, 
 Dick. I'll take you home after the 
 show. We got lots of time. Aw, come 
 on!" 
 
 It occurred to the boy that Provi- 
 dence had ordered events in answer to 
 his prayer. 
 
 ^* Thank you," he said. 
 
 " You'll have a good time," the aero- 
 
i88 THE MOTHER 
 
 bat promised. ^' They say Flannigan's 
 got a good show.'^ 
 
 They made their way to the Bur- 
 lesque. Flannigan's Forty Flirts there 
 held the boards. ^' Girls ! Just Girls I 
 Grass Widows and Merry Maids ! No 
 Nonsense About 'Em I Just Girls ! 
 Girls ! " The foul and tawdry aspect 
 of the entrance oppressed the child. 
 He felt some tragic foreboding. . . . 
 
 Within it was dark to the boy's eyes. 
 The air was hot and foul — stagnant, 
 exhausted : the stale exhalation of a 
 multitude of lungs which vice was rot- 
 ting ; tasting of their very putridity. 
 A mist of tobacco smoke filled the 
 place — was still rising in bitter, stifling 
 clouds. There was a nauseating smell 
 of beer and sweat and disinfectants. 
 The boy's foot felt the unspeakable 
 
HIS MOTHER 189 
 
 slime of the floor : he tingled with dis- 
 gust. 
 
 An illustrated song was in listless 
 progress. The light, reflected from the 
 screen, revealed a throng of repulsive 
 faces, stretching, row upon row, into 
 the darkness of the rear, into the 
 shadows of the roof — sickly and 
 pimpled and bloated flesh : vicious 
 faces, hopeless, vacuous, diseased. And 
 these were the faces that leered and 
 writhed in the boy's dreams of hell. 
 Here, present and tangible, were gath- 
 ered all his terrors. He was in the 
 very midst of sin. 
 
 The song was ended. The footlights 
 flashed high. There was a burst of 
 blatant music — a blare : unfeeling and 
 discordant. It grated agonizingly. The 
 boy's sensitive ear rebelled. He shud- 
 dered. . . . Screen and curtain disap- 
 
I90 THE MOTHER 
 
 peared. In the brilliant light beyond, 
 a group of brazen women began to 
 cavort and sing. Their voices were 
 harsh and out of tune. At once the 
 faces in the shadow started into eager 
 interest — the eyes flashing, with some 
 strangely evil passion, unknown to the 
 child, but acutely felt. . . . There was 
 a shrill shout of welcome — raised by the 
 women, without feeling. Down the 
 stage, her person exposed, bare-armed, 
 throwing shameless glances, courting 
 the sensual stare, grinning as though 
 in joyous sympathy with the evil of 
 the place, came a woman with blind- 
 ing blonde hair. 
 
 It was the boy^s mother. 
 
 " Millie ! '* the acrobat ejaculated. 
 The boy had not moved. He was 
 staring at the woman on the stage. A 
 
HIS MOTHER 191 
 
 flush of shame, swiftly departing, had 
 left his face white. Presently he trem- 
 bled. His lips twitched — his head 
 drooped. The man laid a comforting 
 hand on his knee. A tear splashed 
 upon it. 
 
 " I didn't know she was here, Dick ! " 
 the acrobat whispered. " It's a shame. 
 But I didn't know. And I — I'm — 
 sorry ! " 
 
 The boy looked up. He called a 
 smile to his face. It was a brave 
 pretense. But his face was still wan. 
 
 '' I think I'd like to go home," he 
 answered, weakly. " It's — time — for 
 tea." 
 
 " Don't feel bad, Dick ! It's all right. 
 She's all right." 
 
 " If you please," said the boy, still 
 resolutely pretending ignorance, " I 
 think I'd like to go — now." 
 
192 THE MOTHER 
 
 The acrobat waited for a blast of 
 harsh music to subside. The boy's 
 mother began to sing — a voice trivially 
 engaged : raised beyond its strength. A 
 spasm of distress contorted theboy's face. 
 
 '' Brace up, Dick ! " the man whis- 
 pered. " Don't take it so hard." 
 
 ^' If you please," the boy protested, 
 *' I'll be late for tea if I don't go 
 
 now." 
 
 The acrobat took his hand — guided 
 him, stumbling, up the aisle : led him 
 into the fresh air, the cool, clean sun- 
 light, of the street. . . . There had 
 been sudden confusion on the stage. 
 The curtain had fallen with a rush. 
 But it was now lifted, again, and the 
 dismal entertainment was once more 
 in noisy course. 
 
 It was now late in the afternoon. 
 
HIS MOTHER 193 
 
 The pavement was thronged. Dazed 
 by agony, blinded by the bright light 
 of day, the boy was roughly jostled. 
 The acrobat drew him into an eddy of 
 the stream. There the child offered 
 his hand — and looked up with a 
 dogged little smile. 
 
 " Good-bye," he said. " Thank you." 
 
 The acrobat caught the hand in a 
 warm clasp. *' You don't know your 
 way home, do you ? " he asked. 
 
 "No, sir." 
 
 " Where you going ? " 
 
 The boy looked away. There was a 
 long interval. Into the shuffle and 
 chatter of the passing crowd crept the 
 muffled blare of the orchestra. The 
 acrobat still held the boy's hand tight 
 — still anxiously watched him, his face 
 overcast. 
 
 "Box Street?" he asked. 
 
194 THE MOTHER 
 
 ^' No, sir/^ 
 
 " Aw, Dick ! think again," the acro- 
 bat pleaded. " Come, now ! Ain't 
 you going 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 way was 
 then known to him. Again he ex- 
 tended his hand — again smiled. 
 
 "Thank you," he said. "Good- 
 bye." 
 
 The acrobat was loath to let the 
 little hand go. But there was nothing 
 else to do. He dropped it, at last, with 
 a quick-drawn sigh. 
 
 " It'll come out all right," he mut- 
 tered. 
 
 Then the boy went his way alone. 
 
HIS MOTHER 195 
 
 His shoulders were proudly squared — 
 his head held high. . . . 
 
 Meantime, they had revived Millie 
 Slade. She was in the common dress- 
 ing-room — a littered, infamous, foul, 
 place, situated below stage. Behind 
 her the gas flared and screamed. Still 
 in her panderous disguise, within hear- 
 ing of the rasping music and the 
 tramp of the dance, within hearing 
 of the coarse applause, this tender 
 mother sat alone, unconscious of evil 
 — uncontaminated, herself kept holy 
 by her motherhood, lifted by her love 
 from the touch of sin. To her all the 
 world was a temple, undefiled, where- 
 in she worshipped, wherein the child 
 was a Presence, purifying every 
 place. 
 
 She had no strength left for tragic 
 
196 THE MOTHER 
 
 behaviour. She sat limp, shedding 
 weak tears, whimpering, tearing at her 
 finger nails. 
 
 *' I'm found out I " she moaned. 
 " Oh, my God ! He'll never love me 
 no more ! " 
 
 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. I 
 just don't want it. I canH do what he 
 wouldn't like me to." 
 
HIS MOTHER 197 
 
 The glass was put aside. And Aggie 
 sat beside the mother, and drew her 
 head 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'll think me a skinny thing. If I'd 
 only got here in time, if I'd only 
 looked right, he might have loved me 
 still. But he won't love me no more — 
 after to-day ! " 
 
 '^Hush, Millie! He's only a kid. 
 He don't know nothing about — such 
 things." 
 
 ^' Only a kid," said the mother, ac- 
 cording to the perverted experience of 
 her life, *' but still a man I " 
 
 " He wouldn't care." 
 
 " They all care ! " 
 
 Indeed, this was her view ; and by 
 
198 THE MOTHER 
 
 her knowledge of the world she 
 spoke. 
 
 '' Not him," said Aggie. 
 
 The mother was infinitely distressed. 
 " Oh," she moaned, '' if I'd only had 
 time to pad 1 " 
 
 This was the greater tragedy of her 
 situation : that she misunderstood. 
 
IT was Sunday evening. Evil- 
 weather threatened. The broad 
 window of top floor rear looked 
 out upon a lowering sky — everywhere 
 gray and thick : turning black beyond 
 the distant hills. An hour ago the De- 
 partment wagon had rattled away with 
 the body of Mr. Poddle ; and with the 
 cheerfully blasphemous directions, the 
 tramp of feet, the jocular comment, as 
 
 the box was carried down the narrow 
 199 
 
2CX) THE MOTHER 
 
 stair, the last distraction had departed. 
 The boy's mother was left undisturbed 
 to prepare for the crucial moments in 
 the park. 
 
 She was now nervously engaged be- 
 fore her looking-glass. All the tools 
 of her trade lay at hand. A momen- 
 tous problem confronted her. The 
 child must be won back. He must 
 be convinced of her worth. Therefore 
 she must be beautiful. He thought 
 her pretty. She would be pretty. But 
 how impress him? By what appeal? 
 The pathetic? the tenderly winsome? 
 the gay ? She would be gay. Marvel- 
 lous lies occurred to her — a multitude 
 of them : there was no end to her fer- 
 tility in deception. And she would 
 excite his jealousy. Upon that feel- 
 ing she would play. She would blow 
 hot ; she would blow cold. She would 
 
NEARING THE SEA 201 
 
 reduce him to agony — the most poign- 
 ant agony he had ever suffered. Then 
 she would win him. 
 
 To this end, acting according to the 
 enlightenment of her kind, she plied her 
 pencil and puffs ; and when, at last, she 
 stood before the mirror, new gowned, 
 beautiful after the conventions of her 
 kind, blind to the ghastliness of it, ig- 
 norant of the secret of her strength, 
 she had a triumphant consciousness of 
 power. 
 
 " He^U love me," she thought, with 
 a snap of the teeth. *' He's got to I " 
 
 Jim Millette knocked — and pushed 
 the door ajar, and diffidently intruded 
 his head. 
 
 " Hello, Jim ! " she cried. " Come 
 in!" 
 
 The man would not enter. " I can't, 
 
202 THE MOTHER 
 
 Millie," he faltered. '* I just got a 
 minute." 
 
 *' Oh, come on in I " said she, con- 
 temptuously. ^' Come in and tell me 
 about it. 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 pro- 
 tested. 
 
 " 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 my 
 shoes ! 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 there 
 
NEARING THE SEA 203 
 
 for?" she cried. ''Hear me? Aw, 
 you pup I " she snarled. '' You're 
 afraid to come in ! " 
 
 "Don't go on, Millie," he warned 
 her. '' Don't you go on like that. 
 Maybe I mil come in. And if I do, 
 my girl, it won't be me that'll be 
 lickin' shoes. It might be you ! " 
 
 " Me ! " she scorned. " You ain't 
 got no hold on me no more. Come 
 in and try it ! " 
 
 The man hesitated. 
 
 " Come on ! " she taunted. 
 
 " I ain't coming in, Millie," he an- 
 swered. '' I didn't come up to come 
 in. 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'd 
 knowed you was with the Forty Flirts, 
 
204 THE MOTHER 
 
 I wouldn't have took the boy there. 
 And I come up to tell you so." 
 
 Overcome by a sudden and agonizing 
 recollection of the scene, she put her 
 hands to her face. 
 
 '^ And I come up to tell you some- 
 thing else," the acrobat continued, 
 speaking gently. ^' I tell you, Millie, 
 you better look out. If you ain't care- 
 ful, 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. It was 
 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. 
 
NEARING THE SEA 205 
 
 " Then/^ said he, his voice soft, 
 grave, '* take care ! '' 
 
 ''Want him back?" she repeated, 
 beginning, now, by habit, to tear at 
 her nails. " I got to have him back ! 
 He's mine, ain't he? Didn't I bear 
 him ? Didn't I nurse him ? Wasn't it 
 me that — that — made him? He's my 
 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 
 her compassionately. 
 
 " 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's half 
 mine and half Dick's. The curate 
 ain't got no share. And now Dick's 
 
2o6 THE MOTHER 
 
 dead — and he's all mine I The curate 
 ain't got nothing to do with 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 coming around here — getting a 
 boy he didn't have no pain to bear or 
 trouble to raise ? I tell you I got that 
 boy. He's mine— and I want him ! " 
 
 *^ But you give the boy to the curate, 
 Millie I " 
 
 "No, I didn't!" she lied. "He 
 took the boy. He come sneaking 
 around here making trouble. / didn't 
 give him no boy. And I want him 
 back," she screamed, in a gust of pas- 
 sion. " I want my boy back 1 " 
 
 A rumble of thunder — failing, far off 
 — came from the sea. 
 
 " Millie," the acrobat persisted, " you 
 said you wasn't fit to bring him up." 
 
NEARING THE SEA 207 
 
 " I ain't," she snapped. " But I 
 don't care. He's mine — and I'll have 
 him." 
 
 The man shrugged his shoulders. 
 
 " Jim," the woman said, now quiet, 
 laying her hands on the acrobat's 
 shoulders, looking steadily into his 
 eyes, ''that boy's mine. I want him — 
 I want him — back. But I don't want 
 him if he don't love me. And if I can't 
 have him — if I can't have him " 
 
 " Millie I " 
 
 "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 hur- 
 riedly, ^^wonH you want me? I've 
 took up with the little Tounson blonde. 
 But she wouldn't care. You know 
 
2o8 THE MOTHER 
 
 how it goes, Millie. It's only for busi- 
 ness. 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 me that 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'll come — 
 again. You'll need me then — and 
 that's why I'll come. I don't want 
 him to go back on you. I want him 
 to love you still. It's because of the 
 way you love him that I love you — in 
 the way I do. It ain't easy for me to 
 say this. It ain't easy for me to want 
 to give you up. But you're that kind 
 of a woman, Millie. You're that kind 
 
NEARING THE SEA 209 
 
 — since you got the boy. I want to 
 give you up. You'd be better off 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 you to have him 
 — to love him — to be loved by him. 
 If he comes back, you'll not see me 
 again. I've lived a life that makes me 
 — not fit — to be with no child like 
 him. But so help me God-I " the man 
 passionately declared, *' I hope he don't 
 turn you down ! " 
 
 " You're all right, Jim I " 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." 
 
2IO THE MOTHER 
 
 " Not fool him ? It's so easy, Jim ! " 
 " Ah, Millie," he said, with a hope- 
 less gesture, " you're blind. You don't 
 know your own child. You're blind — 
 you're just blind ! " 
 
 " What you mean, Jim ? " she de- 
 manded. 
 
 '' You don't know what he loves you 
 for." 
 
 ^' What does he love me for ? " 
 The man was at the door. ^* Be- 
 cause," he answered, turning, '' you're 
 his mother ! " 
 
 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 a time she posed 
 and grimaced before the mirror. When 
 she was perfect in the part, she sat in 
 the rocking-chair at the broad window, 
 
NEARING THE SEA 211 
 
 there to rehearse the deceptions it was 
 in her mind to practice. But while she 
 watched the threatening shadows 
 gather, the lights on the river flash into 
 life and go drifting aimlessly away, her 
 mind strayed from this purpose, her 
 willful heart throbbed with sweeter feel- 
 ing — his childish voice, the depths of 
 his eyes, the grateful weight of his head 
 upon her bosom. Why had he loved 
 her ? Because she was his mother ! A 
 forgotten perception returned to illu- 
 minate her way — a perception, never 
 before reduced to formal terms, that her 
 virtue, her motherly tenderness, were 
 infinitely 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 the 
 
212 THE MOTHER 
 
 painted 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 ? Because she 
 was his mother ! She would be his 
 mother — nothing more: just his 
 mother. She would go to him with 
 that appeal. She would not seek to 
 win him. She would but tell him that 
 she was his mother. She would be his 
 mother — true and tender and holy. 
 He would not resist her plea. . . . 
 This determined, she acted resolutely 
 and in haste : she stripped off the 
 gown, flung it on the floor, kicked the 
 silken heap under the bed ; she washed 
 
 1/^ 
 
 
NEARING THE SEA 213 
 
 the paint from her face, modestly laid 
 her hair, robed herself anew. And 
 when again, with these new, seeing 
 eyes, she looked into the glass, she 
 found that she was young, unspoiled — 
 still lovely ; a sweetly wistful woman, 
 whom he resembled. Moreover, there 
 came to transform her, suddenly, glo- 
 riously, a revelation : that of the spirit- 
 ual significance of her motherhood. 
 
 " Thank God ! '' she thought, uplifted 
 by this vision. '' Oh, thank God ! I'm 
 like them other people. Fm fit to 
 bring him up I " 
 
 It thundered ominously. 
 
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. The 
 night was close and hot. There was no 
 breath of air stirring in the park. 
 From time to time the lightning flashed. 
 In fast lessening intervals came the 
 thunder. Presently she caught ear of 
 his step on the pavement — still distant : 
 approaching, not from the church, but 
 214 
 
THE LAST APPEAL 215 
 
 from the direction of the curate's 
 home. 
 
 '' And he's not running ! " she 
 thought, quick to take alarm. 
 
 They were inexplicable — these lag- 
 ging feet. He had never before daw- 
 dled 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 
 she kissed him, '' is glad — to feel you — 
 lying here." 
 
 He lay quiet against her — his face 
 on her bosom. She was thrilled by 
 this sweet pressure. 
 
 " Have you been happy ? " she asked. 
 
 " No." 
 
2i6 THE MOTHER 
 
 " Nor I, dear I " 
 
 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 in the 
 sky. She felt him tremble. 
 
 '' Hold me tight I " he said. 
 
 She drew him to her — glad to have 
 him ask her to : having no disquieting 
 question. 
 
 " Tighter ! " he implored. 
 
 She rocked him. " Hush, dear I '* 
 she crooned. ^' You're safe — with your 
 mother. What frightens you ? " 
 
 '' The cross ! " he sobbed. 
 
 God knows ! 'twas a pity that his 
 childish heart misinterpreted the mes- 
 sage of the cross — changing his loving 
 
THE LAST APPEAL 217 
 
 purpose into sin. But the misinterpre- 
 tation was not forever to endure. . . . 
 
 The wind began to stir the leaves 
 — tentative gusts : swirling eagerly 
 through the park. There was a flash 
 — an instant clap of thunder, breaking 
 overhead, rumbling angrily away. Two 
 men ran past. Great drops 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 whim- 
 pered. " 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 I '^ 
 he said. 
 
 " Not yet I '' 
 
2i8 THE MOTHER 
 
 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 curate 
 says I know best. I went straight 
 to him — yesterday — and told him. And 
 he said I w^as wiser than he. . . . And 
 I said good-bye. Don't send me back. 
 For, oh, I want to go home — with 
 you ! '^ 
 
 She opened her arms. At that mo- 
 ment a brilliant flash of lightning illu- 
 minated the world. For the first time 
 the child caught sight of her face— the 
 sweet, real face of his mother : now 
 radiant, touched by the finger of the 
 Good God Himself. 
 
THE LAST APPEAL 219 
 
 " Is it you ? '^ he whispered. 
 
 ." I am your mother/' 
 
 He leaped into her arms — found her 
 wet eyes with his lips. " Mother I " he 
 cried. 
 
 " My son I " she said. 
 
 He turned again to the flaming cross 
 — a little smile of defiance upon his 
 lips. But the defiance passed swiftly : 
 for it was then revealed to him that 
 his mother was good ; and he knew 
 that what the cross signified would 
 continue with him, wherever he went, 
 that goodness and peace might abide 
 within his heart. Hand in hand, 
 while the thunder still rolled and the 
 rain came driving with the wind, they 
 hurried away towards the Box Street 
 tenement. . . . 
 
 Let them go I Why not ? Let them 
 
220 THE MOTHER 
 
 depart into their world I It needs them. 
 They will glorify it. Nor will they suf- 
 fer loss. Let them go I Love flourishes 
 in the garden of the world we know. 
 Virtue is forever in bloom. Let them 
 go to their place I Why should we wish 
 to deprive the unsightly wilderness of 
 its flowers ? Let the tenderness of this 
 mother and son continue to grace itl 
 
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