“And will mother be there too?”
How little the poor child knew what poignant anguish he inflicted upon his father by asking this innocent and perfectly natural question! Gaunt would have given worlds, had he possessed them, for the priceless privilege of saying farewell to his idolised wife; but he knew it could not be—it was impossible. And the child had still to be thought of, still to be cheered and encouraged and strengthened to meet death with a smiling face—nothing must be allowed to interfere with that; so, choking back his anguish as best he could, the father answered:
“Well—no, dear boy; I scarcely think she will be there quite so early as ourselves. But she will not be long in following us. When she finds that we are gone she will be anxious to come, too; and she will not delay for one unnecessary moment, you may depend upon it.”
“Oh, father!” exclaimed the poor little fellow in sudden distress, “let us not go without mother; it will be so lonely for her to be down here all by herself. Let us wait for her and all go together; it will be ever so much nicer. I don’t want to go without her, father. I would rather not go without mother, if you please.” And the poor little fellow began to cry piteously.
Here was a catastrophe! The fabric of joyous anticipation which the father had been painfully building up within his child’s breast had collapsed completely, and in a moment, when he found that they were “going without mother!” Gaunt argued and reasoned with the little fellow for a full half-hour, taxing his ingenuity to its utmost extent to recover the advantage he had lost, but it was all unavailing; to this poor child it seemed that heaven itself could not be heaven “without mother.” His father was fast giving way to despair when a brilliant idea shot through the childish brain.
“Father,” he exclaimed suddenly, looking up with renewed hope, “cannot God make the Malays not kill us?”
“Certainly He can, if He chooses,” was the ready answer.
“Then let us ask Him,” was the triumphant rejoinder. “I am quite sure He will let us wait and go all together if we tell Him we would rather.”
What could the father do but acquiesce in a request founded upon such perfect trust in the love and mercy of the Almighty? Indeed, it was no sooner made than he wondered how it was that he had been so utterly faithless as never to have thought of it himself. So he forthwith offered up, audibly, just such a petition as the child had suggested, taking care to clothe it in language which the little fellow could fully comprehend; and, though it must be admitted that the prayer was begun more to satisfy the child than from any feeling or belief that it would be answered, yet, as Gaunt proceeded, with all the earnestness of which he was capable, hope revived in his heart, and his conscience began to rebuke him for his practical infidelity.
The prayer concluded, Percy expressed himself as perfectly happy and satisfied; but it distressed his father not a little to find that the child’s thoughts now persistently turned in a direction precisely opposite to that in which he wished them to incline; over and over and over again did Gaunt strive to rekindle the little fellow’s enthusiasm about heaven, but it would not do; life, not death, was what the child was now looking forward to; and all his father’s most earnest exhortations failed to elicit from him anything beyond the question: