"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 God'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.
Self-blame just then she was very full of; bitterness for not having gone to him in the first instance herself. Tortured herself with the thought that it might now be too late. Wondered if God would forgive her obstinate pride. Still be merciful to her: still let her keep her child.
She bent over the bed and spoke close into the little ear. Made spasmodic but unavailing attempts to control her emotion: could not bring herself to utter the words more than just audibly:
"You'll be quite still, darling, won't you, whilst mother goes to fetch him?"
The face turned upwards. The mother kissed it passionately, tenderly, again and again. The wasted little arms went round her neck and clung there gratefully. Mother was going to fetch Prince Charlie!
From the adjoining room the woman who assisted in the child's nursing came; posted herself by the bedside. Then the mother—staggering as if the unknown gaped before her—left the room. In the hall slipped on the cloak which, she remembered, he had buttoned.
She spent no time in seeking a hat. Swung the hood up from behind over her head. So hurried out of the house.