Part 17 (2/2)

”Keep--till--the--morning!”

Gracie's pleading, her own promise, rang in her ears! Keep till the morning. The irony of it! She staggered against the wall, pa.s.sed her hand across her brow--loath to believe that the author, fond of children, could behave so--asked again--

”You are quite sure you saw him yourself?”

”Oh, yes, ma'am. I know Mr. Masters quite well by sight.” She did--Masters, the blacksmith! She had been to his shop in the High Street, and in response to her ringing of his house bell, he had put his head out of his bedroom window and spoken to her. Not in any very pleasant tone; he was not pleased that his beauty sleep had been broken into.

He was an early-to-bed and early-to-rise old man. He could see no sense in turning out at past eleven o'clock at night for any one. Not even for a sick child or for the finest lady in the land.

As he went grumbling back to his bed the blacksmith muttered that some of them fine ladies seemed to think it was a nonner to be at their beck and call; summat to be proud of, it was, for a poor man like hisself.

None of their airs for him--he wasn't having any, this time. Such was his grumble; weighted with a plethora of adjectives--of a quite unprintable kind.

The mother staggered back into the bedroom, to the child's side.

White-faced, trembling in every limb, supported herself by the bed rail.

Noted the hour: past eleven o'clock. The crucial time the doctor had spoken of was approaching.

Gracie was in a quite rational mood. Her brightly burning eyes were fixed on her mother as she entered the room, and she spoke at once, eagerly--as eagerly as the feeble little lips could frame words--stuttering in her eagerness:

”Has Pr--Prince Charlie come yet, mamma?”

Right down into the depths of despair sank the mother's heart. She took the child's hot hand in her own; gently brushed the curls away from the little forehead with the other. As she did so the hot dryness of that brow was brought to her notice afresh. It was necessary to answer the child; the reply was gently given. Yet the utterance of each word was as a stab to her:

”Not--not yet, darling.”

A little whimpering, plaintive voice uprose from amongst the pillows:

”I want him, mamma--won't he come?”

How was she to gratify the little one's desire: to get Prince Charlie there? The doctor had warned her that at this stage the child's demands were to be granted if possible. If possible. She had sent and he had refused to come. The doctor's words rang in her ears. If Possible.

She thought of the man sitting--as she knew he would be--shaping with his pen, fictional pathetic pictures, intended to draw tears from the tender-hearted. She thought of the real pathos of this child, perhaps dying, to whom he might bring life and hope by his mere immediate presence. And he had returned the message: That It Would Keep.

The child tossed uneasily from side to side. The corners of the arched little mouth went down threateningly. If Possible! Was it possible to bring him--by any means? Was it possible for her to sink her womanhood even deeper? To humble herself to Beg of him to come? Would he come even if she did?

Then the direction came from the little form tossing restlessly from side to side; the weak voice whispered:

”You said he would come, mamma. Won't you fetch him? He will come if you fetch him.”

Would he? Was that the possibility? Was the little one wise in saying that? She remembered that out of the mouths of babes and----Well, she could but try. The mother in her was mighty, stronger than all else: prevailed.

There was no mental balance used in her decision. No conscious weighing of pros and cons. The duty--if aught prompted by love is duty--stood clear before her. Something greater than her own will impelled her decision. She would at once go to him herself.

Glancing at the clock again, she saw that the recorded time was half-past eleven. She would go to him. Go on her knees to him: would not spare herself further. Would beg him, for G.o.d's sake, to be more merciful than he had shown himself in his message. Entreat him not to put off till to-morrow--when it might be too late--that which could be done to-night.

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