The Very Small Person Part 8

"You are the Prince," the little Princess cried. "I've been waiting the longest time,--but I knew you'd come," she added, simply. "Have you got your velvet an' gold buckles on? I'm goin' to look in a minute, but I'm waiting to make it spend."

The Prince whistled softly. "No," he said then, "I didn't wear _them_ clo'es to-day. You see, my mother--"

"The Queen," she interrupted, "you mean the Queen?"

"You bet I do! She's a reg'lar-builter! Well, she don't like to have me wearin' out my best clo'es every day," he said, gravely.

"No," eagerly, "nor mine don't. Queen, I mean,--but she isn't a mother, mercy, no! I only wear silk dresses every day, not my velvet ones. This silk one is getting a little faded." She released one hand to smooth the dress wistfully. Then she remembered her painfully practised little speech and launched into it hurriedly.

"Hear, O Prince. Verily, verily, I did not know which color you'd like to find me dressed in--I mean _arrayed_. I beseech thee to excuse--oh, _pardon_, I mean--"

But she got no further. She could endure the delay no longer, and her eyes flew open.

She had known his step; she had known his voice. She knew his face.

It was terribly freckled, and she had not expected freckles on the face of the Prince. But the merry, honest eyes were the Prince's eyes. Her gaze wandered downward to the home-made clothes and bare, brown legs, but without uneasiness. The Prince had explained about his clothes. Suddenly, with a shy, glad little cry, the Princess held out her hands to him.

The royal blood flooded the face of the Prince and filled in all the s.p.a.ces between its little, gold-brown freckles. But the Prince held out his hand to her. His lips formed for words and she thought he was going to say, "Verily, Princess, thou hast found favor--"

"Le' 's go fis.h.i.+n'," the Prince said.

Chapter VIII

The Promise

Murray was not as one without hope, for there was the Promise. The remembrance of it set him now to exulting, in an odd, restrained little way, where a moment ago he had been desponding. He clasped plump, brown little hands around a plump, brown little knee and swayed gently this way and that.

"Maybe she'll begin with my shoes," Murray thought, and held his foot quite still. He could almost feel light fingers unlacing the stubbed little shoe; Sheelah's fingers were rather heavy and not patient with knots. Hers would be patient--there are some things one is certain of.

"When she unb.u.t.tons me," Murray mused on, sitting absolutely motionless, as if she were unb.u.t.toning him now--"when she unb.u.t.tons me I shall hold in my breath--this way," though he could hardly have explained why.

She had never unlaced or unb.u.t.toned him. Always, since he was a little, breathing soul, it had been Sheelah. It had never occurred to him that he loved Sheelah, but he was used to her. All the mothering he had ever experienced had been the Sheelah kind--thorough enough, but lacking something; Murray was conscious that it lacked something.

Perhaps--perhaps to-night he should find out what. For to-night not Sheelah, but his mother, was going to undress him and put him to bed.

She had promised.

It had come about through his unprecedented wail of grief at parting, when she had gone into the nursery to say good-bye, in her light, sweet way. Perhaps it was because she was to be gone all day; perhaps he was a little lonelier than usual. He was always rather a lonely little boy, but there were _worse_ times; perhaps this had been a worse time. Whatever had been the reason that prompted him, he had with disquieting suddenness, before Sheelah could prevent it, flung his arms about the pretty mother and made audible objection to her going.

"Why, Murray!" She had been taken by surprise. "Why, you little silly! I'm coming back to-night; I'm only going for the day! You wouldn't see much more of me if I stayed at home." Which, from its very reasonableness, had quieted him. Of course he would not see much more of her. As suddenly as he had wailed he stopped wailing. Yet she had promised. Something had sent her back to the nursery door to do it.

"Be a good boy and I'll come home before you go to bed! I'll _put_ you to bed," she had promised. "We'll have a regular lark!"

Hence he was out here on the door-step being a good boy. That Sheelah had taken unfair advantage of the Promise and made the being good rather a perilous undertaking, he did not appreciate. He only knew he must walk a narrow path across a long, lonely day.

There were certain things--one especial certain thing--he wanted to know, but instinct warned him not to interrupt Sheelah till her work was done, or she might call it not being good. So he waited, and while he waited he found out the special thing. An unexpected providence sent enlightenment his way, to sit down beside him on the door-step. Its other name was Daisy.

"Hullo, Murray! Is it you?" Daisy, being of the right s.e.x, asked needless questions sometimes.

"Yes," answered Murray, politely.

"Well, le's play. I can stay half a hour. Le's tag."

"I can't play," rejoined Murray, caution restraining his natural desires. "I'm being good."

[Ill.u.s.tration: I can't play ... I'm being good]

"Oh, my!" shrilled the girl child derisively. "Can't you be good tagging? Come on."

"No; because you might--_I_ might get no-fairing, and then Sheelah'd come out and say I was bad. Le's sit here and talk; it's safer to.

What's a lark, Daisy? I was going to ask Sheelah."

"A--lark? Why, it's a bird, of course!"

"I don't mean the bird kind, but the kind you have when your mother puts you--when something splendid happens. That kind, I mean."

Daisy pondered. Her acquaintance with larks was limited, unless it meant--

"Do you mean a good time?" she asked. "We have larks over to my house when we go to bed--"

"That's it! That's the kind!" shouted delighted Murray. "I'm going to have one when I go to bed. Do you have _reg'lar_ ones, Daisy?" with a secret little hope that she didn't. "_I'm_ going to have a reg'lar one."

"Huh!--chase all 'round the room an' turn somersaults an' be highway robberers? An' take the hair-pins out o' your mother's hair an'

_hide_ in it--what?"

Murray gasped a little at the picture of that kind of a lark. It was difficult to imagine himself chasing 'round the room or being a highwayman; and as for somersaults--he glanced uneasily over his shoulder, as if Sheelah might be looking and read "somersaults"

through the back of his head. For once he had almost turned one and Sheelah had found him in the middle of it and said pointed things. In Sheelah's code of etiquette there were no somersaults in the "s"

column.

"It's a reg'lar lark to hide in your mother's hair," was going on the girl child's voice. "Yes, sir, that's the reg'larest kind!"

Murray gasped again, harder. For that kind took away his breath altogether and made him feel a little dizzy, as if he were--were _doing it now_--hiding in his mother's hair! It was soft, beautiful, gold-colored hair, and there was a great deal of it--oh, plenty to hide in! He shut his eyes and felt it all about him and soft against his face, and smelled the faint fragrance of it. The dizziness was sweet.

Yes, that must be the reg'larest kind of a lark, but Murray did not deceive himself, once the dream was over. He knew _that_ kind was not waiting for him at the end of this long day. But a lark was waiting, anyway--a plain lark. It might have been the bird kind in his little heart now, singing for joy at the prospect.

Impatience seized upon Murray. He wanted this little neighbor's half-hour to be up, so that he could go in and watch the clock. He wanted Sheelah to come out here, for that would mean it was ten o'clock; she always came at ten. He wanted it to be noon, to be afternoon, to be _night!_ The most beautiful time in his rather monotonous little life was down there at the foot of the day, and he was creeping towards it on the lagging hours. He was like a little traveller on a dreary plain, with the first ecstatic glimpse of a hill ahead.

Murray in his childish way had been in love a long time, but he had never got very near his dear lady. He had watched her a little way off and wondered at the gracious beauty of her, and loved her eyes and her lips and her soft, gold-colored hair. He had never--oh, never--been near enough to be unlaced and unb.u.t.toned and put to bed by the lady that he loved. She had come in sometimes in a wondrous dress to say good night, but often, stopping at the mirror on the way across to him, she had seen a beautiful vision and forgotten to say it. And Murray had not wondered, for he had seen the vision, too.

[Ill.u.s.tration: Murray had ... seen the vision, too]

"Your mamma's gone away, hasn't she? I saw her."

Daisy was still there! Murray pulled himself out of his dreaming, to be polite.

"Yes; but she's coming back to-night. She promised."