THE INTERVENTION OF TODDLELUMS.
A Complete Story. By Helen Boddington.
Bang! bang! went the fist of Toddlelums on the window-pane, as the little hand tried to capture a cunning fly which always managed to escape his grasp. Toddlelums was curled up on the window-seat, with such big, big thoughts coursing through his little brain. Not unspoken thoughts. Oh, no! Toddlelums at six always did his thinking out loud. "Ah! you silly, silly, little fly," he said in his cooing voice; "I wonder what you are made of, and where you go to when you die. Ah!" with another bang and a little chuckle. "I nearly caught you that time."
"Toddlelums, what are you doing?" said his mother, from the other end of the room.
Toddlelums rolled off the window-seat, picked himself up, put his hands in the pockets of his knickers, and finally placed himself with his back to the fire. "I was only trying to catch one little fly, mammie."
"Ah! but, my pet, it is rather cruel to kill the poor flies."
"Oh! I wasn't going to kill it, only catch it and make a tiny cage between my two hands"—putting the palms of his hands together—"then I would let it fly away again, right away."
The mother sat there watching her boy and thinking how like his father he was growing. Presently he edged up to her and leant against her knee, and then she put her arm round him, and bent her head so that her cheek touched his brown curls. "Mother's baby," she said softly; "mother's little Toddlelums," and there was a quaver in her voice.
Toddlelums did not notice it, though, for he turned to her with a merry twinkle in his great brown eyes and twined his arms lovingly round her neck. "Let's play, mammie; let's play bears," he cried, trying to drag her out of her chair with fearless hands which were certain of no repulse.
She stood up, laughing. How tall and graceful she was, and how young! Soft golden hair, brown eyes like Toddlelums', only with a sad, sad look in them even when she smiled. Toddlelums thought his mother was beautiful, and Toddlelums was right. A romp was in full swing when a man's step sounded in the hall. In a flash the boy with his rosy face and rumpled hair made a bolt for the door, as a deep voice called, "Toddlelums!"
"It's dad, it's dad!" he shouted, battling with the knob of the door. Then two little feet scampered down the hall, and Toddlelums was raised up high into the air and smothered with kisses. The mother was cognisant of all this, yet she did not attempt to follow. She merely gave little touches to the disordered hair, took up her work, and seated herself once again. Where was the smile now? Where had the tender look gone? Vanished at the sound of a man's voice—and that man her husband!
"Mammie and me were just playing bears," said the son, as he came in perched on his father's shoulder. "Wasn't it fun, mammie?" looking at his mother with a joyous smile.
"Yes, dear," she answered, without looking up; and her husband, glancing at her, noticed that she bit her under lip and a flush suddenly dyed her cheeks.
They had been married seven years, and during that time never one word of love had passed the lips of either. It had been a mariage de convenance, his and her fathers' estates joined, and, as she told him afterwards, she had seen nobody she liked better. It had seemed easy enough at first even without love, but gradually—neither knew exactly how—a coldness sprang up, they drifted apart. There was no actual quarrel, only a few hard, bitter words on both sides, but the barrier grew and grew until there seemed little hope of its being broken down.
At the end of the first year Toddlelums came, and then, if anything, matters became worse, for all the mother's thoughts were centred in her baby, all her love was lavished on him—the father was left to his own devices. As the child grew older, instinct told him to divide his love between father and mother, and then cruel pangs of jealousy visited the mother's breast.
So the years passed, Toddlelums with his sweet baby voice making sunshine in the home where lurked so many shadows. Toddlelums never saw the shadows, though, for mother and father vied with each other in keeping them out of his path.
"Vanished at the sound of a man's voice."—p. 53
During the last few months, almost unknown to herself, something had been stirring in Grace Millroe's heart; some strange feeling hitherto quite foreign to it. Perhaps it was the constant vision of a man's grave, patient face with the sad look on it which seemed of late to have grown sadder. That may or may not be; but, in any case, before she was aware, love, which had lain dormant so long, was awakened. Then at last, when it came upon her with its mighty full force it brought her only sorrow, for, as she cried within herself, "There is so little use in loving when there is no return." And so this day, when her husband came in after her game with Toddlelums, the flush on her cheeks, which he attributed to annoyance at his approach, was in reality caused by the quickened beatings of her heart.
Later, when Toddlelums was fast asleep in his tiny crib and the house was silent, she sat alone in the drawing-room and he in his study, as was invariably the case when there was no visitor before whom to keep up appearances.
She wanted the second volume of the book she was reading, and so presently she rose from her comfortable chair near the fire, slowly crossed the large, old-fashioned hall, and softly opened the study door. How cosy the room looked, with its crimson curtains drawn closely before the great windows, the fire and shaded lamp combined filling it with ruddy light! She stood with the knob of the door in her hand and with her eyes riveted on the figure at the writing-table.
His arms were folded on the table, his head was buried in them, and, surely, that was a low, despairing moan which came to her across the stillness!
"Ah!" she thought, "if he only loved me, I could make him happy." Then she noticed for the first time that the black hair was streaked with grey. Her lips quivered, she made a step forward; then she drew back, passed out of the room, and softly closed the door after her. In the impulse of the moment she had intended saying some comforting word, and then she thought of his usual cold, passionless look, and refrained.
How could she know that if she had made an advance the man would have gladly, most gladly, responded? A few minutes after he lifted his head, and, had she been there, she would have seen that the face was full of passion, and on it were deeply drawn lines of pain.
In the meanwhile she bent over her little one's cot, and, kissing the tiny face, which was flushed with sleep, she whispered, "Ah, my little Toddlelums! if daddy only loved me as he loves his boy, I would be content to die this minute, even if I had to leave you, my baby, behind."
She stood with her eyes riveted on the figure at the table.
And yet, after all the passionate feeling of the night, when morning came they met—outwardly, at least—with the usual cool indifference in their bearing towards each other. At breakfast Toddlelums was with them in his white pinafore, seated on a high chair which was drawn up very close to the table.
"Mammie," he said, "may nurse take me down to the river to play with Frankie Darrel this afternoon? We want to swim our boats."
"Yes, dear, but you must swim them in the shallow part."
"And don't get too near the edge, old chap. Remember, if you roll in, daddy won't be there to fetch you out, and you'll be gobbled up by the little fishes."
Toddlelums was looking at his father with great, round eyes. "Gobbled up by the little fishes?" he echoed; but his father did not hear, for he was saying in an undertone to his wife, "Tell nurse to be careful; the river is swollen after the rain."
Afternoon came, and off went Toddlelums, carrying in his arms a boat with big, white sails, while the young mother threw kisses to him as she drove away in the carriage.
Ah, little Toddlelums, go your way, sail your small craft! Unconsciously, you will guide it through the deep waters, but the land will be reached at last!
It was evening, and Grace Millroe, entering the hall on her return from her drive, found her husband standing at the foot of the stairs apparently waiting for her, with a look on his face which she had never seen there before. He made no movement, one hand clutched the balustrade with a tight grip, and twice his drawn lips opened to say words which refused to come. She rushed to his side—she clung to his arm, while the fair face, working with some wild, fearful emotion, looked imploringly into his. "Edgar, what is it? What is the matter?"
"Daddy, you do love mammie, don't you?"
"It is——"
"It is Toddlelums. Oh, Edgar! for mercy's sake, don't say it is Toddlelums!" and her hold tightened on his arm.
He turned his head away, for he could not bear to see the agony on her face.
"Yes, Grace, it is Toddlelums. He fell into the water, but—ah! don't look like that—he may live yet, the doctors are doing their best for him."
Together, mother and father ascended the stairs, she faltering on every step, while hard, dry sobs shook her frame. Ah! what a wan, white Toddlelums lay on his little bed, and, but for the faint breathing, the mother must have known herself childless. The doctors were doing their work, while the agonised parents stood watching and waiting. She would have clasped him in her arms—she would have pressed his little cold body to her breast—but first the doctors had their part to do; the mother must wait.
"Edgar," and she turned to him with great, dry eyes, "will my baby die? No, no, it cannot be!" she moaned plaintively. "It would kill me to lose my little Toddlelums."
"Dear," he said, and somehow she felt comfort in knowing that his arms were round her; "if I could, I would give my life for his."
"No, no," she said, and then she sprang to the bedside; for the doctors had moved away, and Toddlelums was calling "Mammie."
"Mother's darling, mother's precious baby!" she cried, twining her arms round him.
"And daddy's too," said the weak little voice, for Toddlelums was a very shadowy Toddlelums still.
"Yes, and daddy's too," she said, as the man bent over his son and held one tiny hand.
"Daddy, you do love mammie, don't you? He said, that horrid Frankie said, that you hated each other"—looking at the two faces. "He said he knew it was true because he heard his mother and father say so. And I told him it was a big, big story, and I fighted him hard—very hard—and then he gave me a push, and I went down, down into the cold water. It isn't true, daddy, is it?" looking at his father with great, earnest eyes; "you do love my mammie?" and he stroked her face tenderly.
The man hesitated, looked across at the woman; then he said, "Yes, darling, I love her more than my life."
A few seconds of silence, a sigh of content from Toddlelums. Then the mother's voice saying, "And I love my little child, but I love his father more."
Eyes meet eyes, hands clasp hands, and the two hearts severed so long are united at last.
Blessed little Toddlelums, with your sweet baby face and your manly little heart!—gallantly you fought your first battle, and the victory is yours. The deep waters encompassed you, and the Valley of the Shadow was very near; but the Captain of the Host has yet a greater battle for you to fight, and that is the Battle of Life.