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The Mother, a novel by Norman Duncan |
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13. His Mother |
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_ While he waited for his mother to come--seeking relief from the melancholy and deep mystification of this death--the boy went into the street. The day was well disposed, the crowded world in an amiable mood; he perceived no menace--felt no warning of catastrophe. He wandered far, unobservant, forgetful: the real world out of mind. And it chanced that he lost his way; and he 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 Gross--he was confused and frightened....
"Yes, sir," the boy gasped. It was a big man--a broad-shouldered, lusty fellow, muscular and lithe: good-humoured and dull of face, winning of voice and manner. 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!" the boy answered, horrified. "My mother isn't--here!" "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 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!' 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--without me." "She's what?" "Happier," the boy repeated, "without 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, anyhow, 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 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 better not." "Aw, come on!" 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 Providence had ordered events in answer to his prayer. "Thank you," he said. "You'll have a good time," the acrobat promised. "They say Flannigan's got a good show." They made their way to the Burlesque. Flannigan's Forty Flirts there held the boards. "Girls! Just Girls! Grass Widows and Merry Maids! No Nonsense About 'Em! Just Girls! Girls!" The foul and tawdry aspect of the entrance oppressed the child. He felt some tragic foreboding....
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 gathered 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 shuddered.... Screen and curtain disappeared. 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 blinding blonde hair. It was the boy's mother.
The boy had not moved. He was staring at the woman on the stage. A flush of shame, swiftly departing, had left his face white. Presently he trembled. 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." 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 the boy's face. "Brace up, Dick!" the man whispered. "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 sunlight, 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.
"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. "No, sir." "Aw, Dick! think again," the acrobat 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 extended 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 muttered. Then the boy went his way alone. His shoulders were proudly squared--his head held high....
She had no strength left for tragic behaviour. She sat limp, shedding weak tears, whimpering, tearing at her finger nails. "I'm found out!" 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 can't do what he wouldn't like me to." 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, according to the perverted experience of her life, "but still a man!" "He wouldn't care." "They all care!" Indeed, this was her view; and by 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!" This was the greater tragedy of her situation: that she misunderstood. _ |
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