The Mother Part 12

_THE CHORISTER_

The Rev. John Fithian lived alone with a man-servant in a wide-windowed, sombre, red old house, elbowed by tenements, near the Church of the Lifted Cross--once a fas.h.i.+onable quarter: now mean, dejected, incongruously thronged, and fast losing the last appearances of respectability. Sombre without--half-lit, silent, vast within: the whole intolerant of frivolity, inharmony, garishness, ugliness, but yet quite free of gloom and ghostly suggestion. The boy tiptoed over the thick carpets, spoke in whispers, eyed the shadowy corners--sensitive to impressions, forever alert: nevertheless possessing a fine feeling of security and hopefulness; still wistful, often weeping in the night, but not melancholy. Responsive to environment, by nature harmonious with his new surroundings, he presently moved through the lofty old rooms with a manner reflecting their own--the same gravity, serenity, old-fas.h.i.+oned 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 child concerning sin and the Vicarious 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 las.h.i.+ng the windowpanes. 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 malicious beating at the window, glad to be in the glow of the fire: his visions all of ragged men and women cowering 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. "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, mellifluous 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 appeal was immediate and irresistible.

"And they who sin," the curate concluded, "crucify Him again."

"I love that Jesus!" the boy sobbed. "I love Him--almost as much as mother."

"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!"

The boy was never afterwards the same. All that was inharmonious in life--the pain and poverty and unloveliness--became as sin: a continuous crucifixion, hateful, wringing the heart....

Late in the night, when he lay sleepless, sick for his mother's presence, her voice, her kisses, her soothing touch, the boy would rise to sit at the window--there to watch shadowy figures flit through the street-lamp's circle of 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 together in the dusk, an ill-clad man, gray and unkempt, shuffled near.

"Mother," the boy whispered, gripping her hand, "he is looking at us."

She laughed. "Let him look!" said she. "It don't matter."

The man staggered to the bench--heavily sat down: limp and shameless, his head hanging.

"Let us go away!" 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 indignation. "Oh, mother," he complained, putting her hand to his cheek, "how could you!"

She did not answer. The derelict picked himself up, whining in a maudlin way.

"How could you!" the boy repeated.

"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 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 G.o.d's sake, Richard!" she demanded, "what you talking about?"

He did not hear.

"You ain't sick, are you?" she continued.

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 pa.s.sionately. So much concerned was she for his 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 told you not to."