A MEETING BY CHANCE
Came, then, into the lives of these two, to work wide and immediate changes, the Rev. John Fithian, a curate of the Church of the Lifted Cross – a tall, free-moving, delicately 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 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, behind the patient agony, often displacing it, a tender smile, benignant, comprehending, infinitely sympathetic, by which the gloomy exterior was lightened and in some surprising way gratefully explained.
By chance, on the first soft spring day of that year, the Rev. John Fithian, returning from the Neighbourhood Settlement, where he had delighted himself with good deeds, done of pure purpose, came near the door of the Box Street tenement, distributing smiles, pennies, impulsive, genuine caresses, to 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 impatient pedestrians with unconcern, colliding 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 chancel of the Church of the Lifted Cross there stood an angel, singing.
The boy looked up, a glance of suspicion, 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, darting far and deep, dwelling briefly, the curate discovered the pathos of the child's life – the unknowing, patient outlook, the vague sense of pain, the bewilderment, the 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.
"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 indigestion," 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, "I'll 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 companionship 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 chatter – not the less amiable for being grave – to which the curate, compelled to his best behavior, listened with attention 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 mystified than entertained; and so did the curate's smile increase in gratification and sympathy that the child was presently 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 answered, "of the sacrifice of our dear Lord and Saviour."
There was no meaning in the words; but the boy held the cross very tenderly, 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 beyond 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? Eh? What you been saying about me? Hear me? Ain't you got no tongue?" She turned to the frightened child. "Richard," she continued, 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 Lifted Cross," the curate continued, with unruffled composure, "and I have been telling the exact truth concerning – "
"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 Lilted Cross. Your son has told me of his father's death – of the funeral, And I have told your son that I distinctly 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 distinguished appearance."
She was completely disarmed.
When, after an agreeable interval, 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."
"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 scrutiny of his very soul.
"You got a good name to keep, ain't you?" she asked.
"Yes," he answered. "And you?"
"It don't matter about me."
"And I may come?"
"Yes," she whispered.
RENUNCIATION
After that the curate came often to the room in the Box Street tenement; but beyond the tenants of top floor rear he did not allow the intimacy to extend – not even to embrace the quaintly love-lorn Mr. Poddle. It was now summer; the window was open to the west wind, blowing in from the sea. Most the curate came at evening, when the breeze was cool and clean, and the lights began to twinkle in the gathering shadows: then to sit at the window, describing unrealities, not conceived 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."
"Not to you?"
"It is very much," he said, gravely, "to me."
"Well?"
He lifted his eyebrows – in amazed comprehension. "I must say, then," he said, bending eagerly towards her, "that I want the boy?"
"The boy," she answered.
For a little while she was silent – vacantly contemplating the bare floor. There had been no revelation. She was not taken unaware. She had watched his purpose form. Long before, she had perceived the issue approaching, 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 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 tragically pausing; now brushing her hand over her eyes – a gesture of weariness and despair. Then she faced him.
"Take him," she said, her voice hoarse. "Take him away from me. 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 his soul," she went on. "You got to 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 between 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!"
"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 depression he was soon reduced to a condition of apprehension and grief wherein self-sacrifice was at one with joyful opportunity. Dark days, these – hours of agony, premonition, fearful expectation. 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 her own desire – 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. "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. "We're very poor, now," she went on, hurriedly. "A man broke into the 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 concluded, 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 delight 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.
"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 continued, "I would have to work. We are very poor. You see, dear, it takes a great deal of money to buy new clothes for you. And, then, dear, you see – "
He waited – somewhat disturbed by the sudden failure of her voice. 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!" he commanded.
"Yes," she said; "but the curate says he wants you to live with him."
"Would you come, too?"
"No," she answered.
He did not yet comprehend. "Would I go – alone?"
"Yes."
"All alone?"
"Alone!"
Quiet fell upon all the world – in the twilighted room, in the tenement, in the falling night without, where no breeze moved. The child 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.
"It would be better," she whispered, "for you."
"Oh, mother," he sobbed, sitting back in her lap, "what would you do without me?"
It was a crucial question – so appealing in unselfish love, so vividly portraying 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.
"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, discovering his wish. "Good-bye. Be a good boy."
He took the curate's hand. They moved to the door – but there turned 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. Perceiving 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.