“Will you hear that, now! An’ the boy that certain! ‘She’s promised,’ he says, an’ he’ll kape on ‘She’s-promising’ for all o’ me, for it’s not tell him I will! He can go to slape in his poor little boots, expectin’ her to kape her promise!”
The woman with the receiver at her ear uttered a low exclamation. She had not forgotten the Promise, but it had not impressed her as anything vital. She had given it merely to comfort Little Silly when he cried. That he would regard it as sacred—that it was sacred—came to her now with the forcible impact of a blow. And, oddly enough, close upon its heels came a remembrance picture—of a tiny child playing with his soldiers on the floor. The sunlight lay over him—she could see it on his little hair and face. She could hear him talking to the “Captain soldier.” She had at the time called it a sermon, with a text, and laughed at the child who preached it. She was not laughing now.
“Lissen, Cappen Sojer, an’ I’ll teach you a p’omise. A p’omise—a p’omise—why, when anybody p’omises, they do it!”
Queer how plainly she could hear Little Silly say that and could see him sitting in the sun! Just the little white dress he had on—tucks in it and a dainty edging of lace! She had recognized Sheelah’s maxims and laughed. Sheelah was stuffing the child with notions.
“If anybody p’omises, they do it.” It seemed to come to her over the wire in a baby’s voice and to strike against her heart. This mother of a little son stood suddenly self-convicted of a crime—the crime of faithlessness. It was not, she realized with a sharp stab of pain, faith in her the little child at the other end of the line was exercising, but faith in the Promise. He would keep on “She-promising” till he fell asleep in his poor little boots—
“Oh!” breathed in acute distress the mother of a little son. For all unexpectedly, suddenly, her house built of cards of carelessness, flippancy, thoughtlessness, had fallen round her. She struggled among the flimsy ruins.
Then came a panic of hurry. She must go home at once, without a moment’s delay. A little son was waiting for her to come and put him to bed. She had promised; he was waiting. They were to have a regular little lark—that she remembered, too, with distinctness. She was almost as uncertain as Murray had been of the meaning of a “lark”; she had used the word, as she had used so many other words to the child, heedlessly. She had even and odd, uncertain little feeling as to what it meant to put a little son to bed, for she had never unlaced or unbuttoned one. She had never wanted to until now. But now—she could hardly wait to get home to do it. Little Silly was growing up—the bare brown space between the puffs of his little trousers and the top rims of his little socks were widening. She must hurry, hurry! What if he grew up before she got there! What if she never had a chance to put a little son to bed! She had lost so many chances; this one that was left had suddenly sprung into prominence and immense value. With the shock of her awakening upon her she felt like one partially paralyzed, but with the need upon her to rise and walk—to run.
She started at once, scarcely allowing herself time to explain to her friend. She would listen to no urgings at all.
“I’ve got to go, Cicely—I’ve promised my little son,” was all she took time to say; and the friend, knowing of the telephone message, supposed it had been a telephone promise.
At the station they told her there was another train at seven-thirty, and she walked about uneasily until it came. Walking about seemed to hurry it along the rails to her.