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The Mother, a novel by Norman Duncan |
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11. A Child's Prayer |
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_ 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 distraction entered to break the nervous introspection, the high, wistful dreaming, 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, discovering a lonely child, companionably lingered 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.... So did the crucifix on the wall work within the child's heart--so did the shadows of the wide, still house impress him, so did the curate's voice and gentle teaching, so did the gloom, the stained windows, the lofty arches, the lights and low, sweet music of the Church of the Lifted Cross favour the subtle change--that he was now moved to pain and sickening disgust by rags and pinched faces and discord and dirt and feverish haste and all manner of harshness and unloveliness, conceiving them poignant as sin....
"But, dear," said his mother, while she patted his hand, "you mustn't hate the wicked!" He looked up in wonder. "Oh, my! no," she pursued. "Poor things! They're not so bad--when you know them. Some is real kind." "I could not love them!" "Why not?" "I could not!" So positive, this--the suggestion so scouted--that she took thought for her own fate. "Would you love me?" she asked. "Oh, mother!" he laughed. "What would you do," she gravely continued, "if I was--a wicked woman?" He laughed again. "What would you do," she insisted, "if somebody told you I was bad?" "Mother," he answered, not yet affected by her earnestness, "you could not be!" She put her hands on his shoulders. "What would you do?" she repeated. "Don't!" he pleaded, disquieted. Again the question--low, intense, demanding answer. He trembled. She was not in play. A sinful woman? For a moment he conceived the possibility--vaguely: in a mere flash of feeling. "What would you do?" "I don't know!" She sighed. "I think," he whispered, "that I'd--die!"
"I think I'd better do it!" he determined. He knelt--lifted his clasped hands--began his childish appeal. "Dear Jesus," he prayed, "my mother says that I must not hate the wicked. You heard her, didn't you, dear Jesus? It was in the park, to-night, after church--at the bench near the lilac bush. You must have heard her.... Mother says the wicked are kind, and not so bad. I would like very much to love them. She says they're nice--when you know them. I know she's right, of course. But it seems queer. And she says I ought to love them. So I want to do it, if you don't mind.... Maybe, if you would let me be a little wicked for a little while, I could do it. Don't you think, Jesus, dear, that it is a good idea? A little wicked--for just a little while. I wouldn't care very much, if you didn't mind. But if it hurts you very much, I don't want to, if you please.... But I would like to be a little wicked. If I do, please don't forget me. I would not like to be wicked long. Just a little while. Then I would be good again--and love the wicked, as my mother wants me to do. Good-bye. I mean--Amen!" The child knew nothing about sin. _ |
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