The Very Small Person Part 13

She was ready at seven o'clock, and sat, a little patient statue, watching the nursery clock. Marie, who had planned to go out and had intended setting the hands of the clock ahead a little, was unwarrantably angry with the Child for sitting there so persistently.

"Come," she said, impatiently; "I've got your night-gown ready. This clock's too slow."

"Truly, is it?" the Child questioned, anxiously. "Slow means it's 'most half-past, doesn't it? Then I ought to be going!"

"Yes,--come along;" but Marie meant to bed, and the Child was already on her way to her father. She hurried back on second thought to explain to Marie.

"I've engaged somebody--there's somebody else going to put me to bed to-night. You needn't wait, Marie," she said, her voice oddly subdued and like some other little girl's voice in her repressed excitement.

He was waiting for her. He had been ready since half-past six o'clock. Without a word--with only an odd little smile that set the Child at ease--he took her hand and went back with her. The door of the other writing-room was ajar, and they caught a glimpse as they went by of a slender, stooping figure. It did not turn.

"This is my room," the Child introduced, gayly. The worst was over now and all the rest was best. "You've never been in my room before, have you? This is where I keep my clothes, and this is my undressing-chair. This is where Marie sits--you're Marie to-night!"

The Child's voice rang out in sudden, sweet laughter. It was such a funny idea! She was not a laughing Child, and the little, rippling sound had the effect of escaping from imprisonment and exulting at its freedom.

"You never unb.u.t.toned a little girl before, did you? I'll have to learn you."

"Teach you," he corrected, gently.

"Marie says learn you. But of course I'll say 'teach' if you like it better," with the ready courtesy of a hostess. "You begin with my feet and go backwards!" Again the escaped laughter. The Child was happy.

Down the hall where the slender figure stooped above the delicately written pages the little laugh travelled again and again. By-and-by another laugh, deep and rich, came hand in hand with it. Then the figure straightened tensely, for this new laugh was rarer even than the Child's. Two years--two years and more since she had heard this one.

"Now it is time to pray me," the Child said, dropping into sudden solemnity. "Marie lets me kneel to her--" hesitating questioningly.

Then: "It's pleasanter to kneel to somebody--"

"Kneel to me," he whispered. His face grew a little white, and his hand, when he caressed lightly the frolic-rumpled little head, was not steady. The stone mask of the man dropped off completely, and underneath was tenderness and pain and love.

"Now I lame me down to sleep--no, I want to say another one to-night, Lord G.o.d, if Thee please. This is a very particular night, because my father is in it. Bless my father, Lord G.o.d, oh, bless my father! This is his day. I've loved him all day, and I'm going to again day after to-morrow. But to-morrow I must love my mother. It would be easier to love them both forever and ever, Amen."

The Child slipped into bed and slept happily, but the man who was father of the Child had new thoughts to think, and it took time. He found he had not thought nearly all of them in his afternoon vigil.

On his way back to his lonely study he walked a little slower past the other lonely study. The stooping of the slender figure newly troubled him.

The plan worked satisfactorily to the Child, though there was always the danger of getting the days mixed. The first mother-day had been as "intimate" and delightful as the first father-one. They followed each other intimately and delightfully in a long succession. Marie found her perfunctory services less and less in requisition, and her dazed comprehension of things was divided equally with her self-gratulation. Life in this new and unexpected condition of affairs was easier to Marie.

"I'm having a beautiful time," the Child one day reported to the Lady, "only sometimes I get a little dizzy trying to remember which is which. My father is which to-day." And it was at that bedtime, after an unusually active day, that the Child fell asleep at her prayer. Her rumpled head sagged more and more on her delicate neck, till it rested sidewise on the supporting knees, and the Child was asleep.

There was a slight stir in the doorway.

"'Sh! don't move--sit perfectly still!" came in a whisper as a slender figure moved forward softly into the room.

"Richard, don't move! The poor little tired thing--do you think you could slip out without moving while I hold up her head--oh, I mean without _joggling?_ Now--oh, mamma's little tired baby! There, there!--'Sh! Now you hold her head and let me sit down--now put her here in my arms, Richard."

The transfer was safely made. They faced each other, she with her baby, he standing looking down at them. Their eyes met steadily. The Child's regular breathing alone stirred the silence of the little white room. Then he stooped to kiss the Child's face as she stooped, and their kisses seemed to meet. She did not start away, but smiled instead.

"I want her every day, Richard!" she said.

"_I_ want her every day, Mary!"

"Then there is only one way. Last night she prayed to have things changed round--"

"Yes, Polly?"

"We'll change things round, d.i.c.k."

The Child was smiling in her sleep as if she heard them.

Chapter XI

The Recompense

There were all kinds of words,--short ones and long ones. Some were very long. This one--we-ell, maybe it wasn't so _long_, for when you're nine you don't of course mind three-story words, and this one looked like a three-story one. But this one puzzled you the worst ever!

Morry spelled it through again, searching for light. But it was a very dark word. Rec-om-_pense_,--if it meant anything _money-y_, then they'd made a mistake, for of course you don't spell "pence" with an "s."

The dictionary was across the room, and you had to stand up to look up things in it,--Morry wished it was not so far away and that you could do it sitting down. He sank back wearily on his cushions and wished other things, too: That Ellen would come in, but that wasn't a very big wish, because Ellens aren't any good at looking up words.

That dictionaries grew on your side o' the room,--that wish was a funny one! That Dadsy would come home--oh, oh, that Dadsy would come home!

With that wish, which was a very Big One indeed, came trooping back all Morry's Troubles. They stood round his easy-chair and pressed up close against him. He hugged the most intimate ones to his little, thin breast.

It was getting twilight in the great, beautiful room, and twilight was trouble-time. Morry had found that out long ago. It's when it's too dark to read and too light for Ellens to come and light the lamps that you say "Come in!" to your troubles. They're always there waiting.

If Dadsy hadn't gone away to do--that. If he'd just gone on reg'lar business, or on a hurry-trip across the ocean, or something like that. You could count the days and learn pieces to surprise him with when he got back, and keep saying, "Won't it be splendid!" But this time--well, this time it scared you to have Dadsy come home. And if you learned a hundred pieces you knew you'd never say 'em to him--now. And you kept saying, "Won't it be puffectly dreadful!"

"Won't you have the lamps lit, Master Morris?" It was Ellen's voice, but the Troubles were all talking at once, and much as ever he could hear it.

"I knew you weren't asleep because your chair creaked, so I says, 'I guess we'll light up,'--it's enough sight cheerier in the light"; and Ellen's thuddy steps came through the gloom and frightened away the Troubles.

"Thank you," Morry said, politely. It's easy enough to remember to be polite when you have so much time. "Now I'd like Jolly,--you guess he's got home now, don't you?"

Ellen's steps sounded a little thuddier as they tramped back down the hall. "It's a good thing there's going to be a Her here to send that common boy kiting!" she was thinking. Yet his patches were all Ellen--so far--had seen in Jolly to find fault with. Though, for that matter, in a house beautiful like this patches were, goodness knew, out of place _enough!_

"Hully Gee, ain't it nice an' light in here!" presently exclaimed a boy's voice from the doorway.

"Oh, I'm so glad you've come, Jolly! Come right in and take a chair,--take two chairs!" laughed Morry, in his excess of welcome. It was always great when Jolly came! He and the Troubles were not acquainted; they were never in the room at the same time.

Morry's admiration of this small bepatched, befreckled, besmiled being had begun with his legs, which was not strange, they were such puffectly straight, limber, splendid legs and could _go_--my! Legs like that were great!

But it was noticeable that the legs were in some curious manner telescoped up out of sight, once Jolly was seated. The phenomenon was of common occurrence,--they were always telescoped then. And nothing had ever been said between the two boys about legs. About arms, yes, and eyes, ears, noses,--never legs. If Morry understood the kind little device to save his feelings, an instinctive knowledge that any expression of grat.i.tude would embarra.s.s Jolly must have kept back his ready little thank you.

"Can you hunt up things?" demanded the small host with rather startling energy. He was commonly a quiet, self-contained host.

"Because there's a word--"

But Jolly had caught up his cap, untelescoped the kind little legs, and was already at the door. Nothing pleased him more than a commission from the Little White Feller in the soft chair there.

"I'll go hunt,--where'd I be most likely to find him?"