there were all kinds of words,—short ones and long ones. some were very long. this one—we-ell, maybe it wasn’t so long, for when you’re nine you don’t of course mind three-story words, and this one looked like a three-story one. but this one puzzled you the worst ever!
morry spelled it through again, searching for light. but it was a very dark word. rec-om-pense,—if it meant anything money-y, then they’d made a mistake, for of course you don’t spell “pence” with an “s.”
the dictionary was across the room, and you had to stand up to look up things in it,—morry wished it was not so far away and that you could do it sitting down. he sank back wearily on his cushions and wished other things, too: that ellen would come in, but that wasn’t a very big wish, because ellens aren’t any good at looking up words. that dictionaries grew on your side o’ the room,—that wish was a funny one! that dadsy would come home—oh, oh, that dadsy would come home!
with that wish, which was a very big one indeed, came trooping back all morry’s troubles. they stood round his easy-chair and pressed up close against him. he hugged the most intimate ones to his little, thin breast.
it was getting twilight in the great, beautiful room, and twilight was trouble-time. morry had found that out long ago. it’s when it’s too dark to read and too light for ellens to come and light the lamps that you say “come in!” to your troubles. they’re always there waiting.
if dadsy hadn’t gone away to do—that. if he’d just gone on reg’lar business, or on a hurry-trip across the ocean, or something like that. you could count the days and learn pieces to surprise him with when he got back, and keep saying, “won’t it be splendid!” but this time—well, this time it scared you to have dadsy come home. and if you learned a hundred pieces you knew you’d never say ’em to him—now. and you kept saying, “won’t it be puffectly dreadful!”
“won’t you have the lamps lit, master morris?” it was ellen’s voice, but the troubles were all talking at once, and much as ever he could hear it.
“i knew you weren’t asleep because your chair creaked, so i says, ‘i guess we’ll light up,’—it’s enough sight cheerier in the light”; and ellen’s thuddy steps came through the gloom and frightened away the troubles.
“thank you,” morry said, politely. it’s easy enough to remember to be polite when you have so much time. “now i’d like jolly,—you guess he’s got home now, don’t you?”
ellen’s steps sounded a little thuddier as they tramped back down the hall. “it’s a good thing there’s going to be a her here to send that common boy kiting!” she was thinking. yet his patches were all ellen—so far—had seen in jolly to find fault with. though, for that matter, in a house beautiful like this patches were, goodness knew, out of place enough!
“hully gee, ain’t it nice an’ light in here!” presently exclaimed a boy’s voice from the doorway.
“oh, i’m so glad you’ve come, jolly! come right in and take a chair,—take two chairs!” laughed morry, in his excess of welcome. it was always great when jolly came! he and the troubles were not acquainted; they were never in the room at the same time.
morry’s admiration of this small bepatched, befreckled, besmiled being had begun with his legs, which was not strange, they were such puffectly straight, limber, splendid legs and could go—my! legs like that were great!
but it was noticeable that the legs were in some curious manner telescoped up out of sight, once jolly was seated. the phenomenon was of common occurrence,—they were always telescoped then. and nothing had ever been said between the two boys about legs. about arms, yes, and eyes, ears, noses,—never legs. if morry understood the kind little device to save his feelings, an instinctive knowledge that any expression of gratitude would embarrass jolly must have kept back his ready little thank you.
“can you hunt up things?” demanded the small host with rather startling energy. he was commonly a quiet, self-contained host. “because there’s a word—”
but jolly had caught up his cap, untelescoped the kind little legs, and was already at the door. nothing pleased him more than a commission from the little white feller in the soft chair there.
“i’ll go hunt,—where’d i be most likely to find him?”
the little white feller rarely laughed, but now—“you—you jolly boy!” he choked, “you’ll find him under a hay-stack fast aslee— no, no!” suddenly grave and solicitous of the other’s feelings, “in the dictionary, i mean. words, don’t you know?”
“oh, get out!” grinned the jolly boy, in glee at having made the little white feller laugh out like that, reg’lar-built. “hand him over, then, but you’ll have to do the spellin’.”
“rec-om-pense,—p-e-n-s-e,” morry said, slowly, “i found it in a magazine,—there’s the greatest lot o’ words in magazines! look up ‘rec,’ jolly,—i mean, please.”
dictionaries are terrible books. jolly had never dreamed there were so many words in the world,—pages and pages and pages of ’em! the prospect of ever finding one particular word was disheartening, but he plunged in sturdily, determination written on every freckle.
“don’t begin at the first page!” cried morry, hastily. “begin at r,—it’s more than half-way through. r-e,—r-e-c,—that way.”
jolly turned over endless pages, trailed laboriously his little, blunt finger up and down endless columns, wet his lips with the red tip of his tongue endless times,—wished ’twas over. he had meant to begin at the beginning and keep on till he got to a w-r-e-c-k,—at number seven they spelled it that way. hadn’t he lost a mark for spelling it without a “w”? but of course if folks preferred the r kind—
“hi!” the blunt finger leaped into space and waved triumphantly. “r-e-c-k,—i got him!”
“not ‘k,’—there isn’t any ‘k.’ go backwards till you drop it, jolly,—you dropped it?”
dictionaries are terrible,—still, leaving a letter off o’ the end isn’t as bad as off o’ the front. jolly retraced his steps patiently.
“i’ve dropped it,” he announced in time.
morry was breathing hard, too. looking up words with other people’s fore-fingers is pretty tough.
“now, the second story,—‘rec’ is the first,” he explained. “you must find ‘rec-om’ now, you know.”
no, jolly did not know, but he went back to the work undaunted. “we’ll tree him,” he said, cheerily, “but i think i could do it easier if i whistled”—
“whistle,” morry said.
with more directions, more hard breathing, more wetting of lips and tireless trailing of small, blunt finger, and then—eureka! there you were! but eureka was not what jolly said.
“bully for us!” he shouted. he felt thrilly with pride of conquest. “it’s easy enough finding things. what’s the matter with dictionaries!”
“now read what it means, jolly,—i mean, please. don’t skip.”
“‘rec-om-pense: an equi-va-lent received or re-turned for anything given, done, or suff-er-ed; comp-ens-a-tion.’”
“that all?—every speck?”
“well, here’s another one that says ‘to make a-mends,’ if you like that one any better. sounds like praying.”
“oh,” sighed morry, “how i’d like to know what equi-valent means!” but he did not ask the other to look it up. he sank back on his pillows and reasoned things out for himself the best way he could. “to make amends” he felt sure meant to make up. to make up for something given or suffered,—perhaps that was what a rec-om-pense was. for something given or suffered—like legs, maybe? limp, no-good-legs that wouldn’t go? could there be a rec-om-pense for those? could anything ever “make up”?
“supposing you hadn’t any legs, jolly,—that would go?” he said, aloud, with disquieting suddenness. jolly started, but nodded comprehendingly. he had not had any legs for a good many minutes; the telescoping process is numbing in the extreme.
“do you think anything could ever rec-om-pense—make up, you know? especially if you suffered? please don’t speak up quick,—think, jolly.”
“i’m a-thinkin’.” not to have ’em that would go,—not go! never to kite after dennis o’toole’s ice-wagon an’ hang on behind,—nor see who’d get to the corner first,—nor stand on your head an’ wave ’em—
“no, sirree!” ejaculated jolly, with unction, “nothin’.”
“would ever make up, you mean?” morry sighed. he had known all the time, of course what the answer would be.
“yep,—nothin’ could.”
“i thought so. that’s all,—i mean, thank you. oh yes, there’s one other thing,—i’ve been saving it up. did you ever hear of a—of a step-mother, jolly? i just thought i’d ask.”
the result was surprising. the telescoped legs came to view jerkily, but with haste. jolly stumbled to his feet.
“i better be a-goin’,” he muttered, thinking of empty chip-baskets, empty water-pails, undone errands,—a switch on two nails behind the kitchen door.
“oh, wait a minute,—did you ever hear of one, jolly?”
“you bet,” gloomily, “i got one.”
“oh!—oh, i didn’t know. then,” rather timidly, “perhaps—i wish you’d tell me what they’re like.”
“like nothin’! nobody likes ’em,” came with more gloom yet from the boy with legs.
“oh!” it was almost a cry from the boy without. this was terrible. this was a great deal terribler than he had expected.
“would one be angry if—if your legs wouldn’t go? would it make her very, do you think?”
still thinking of empty things that ought to have been filled, jolly nodded emphatically.
“oh!” the terror grew.
“then one—then she—wouldn’t be—be glad to see anybody, i suppose, whose legs had never been?—wouldn’t want to shake hands or anything, i suppose?—nor be in the same room?”
“nope.” one’s legs may be kind even to the verge of agony, but how unkind one’s tongue may be! jolly’s mind was busy with his own anticipated woes; he did not know he was unkind.
“that’s all,—thank you, i mean,” came wearily, hopelessly, from the pillows. but morry called the other back before he got over the threshold. there was another thing upon which he craved enlightenment. it might possibly help out.
“are they pretty, jolly?” he asked, wistfully.
“are who what?” repeated the boy on the threshold, puzzled. guilt and apprehension dull one’s wits.
“step-ones,—mothers.”
pretty? when they were lean and sharp and shabby! when they kept switches on two nails behind the door,—when they wore ugly clothes pinned together! but jolly’s eye caught the wistfulness on morry’s little, peaked, white face, and a lie was born within him at the sight. in a flash he understood things. pity came to the front and braced itself stalwartly.
“you bet they’re pretty!” jolly exclaimed, with splendid enthusiasm. “prettier’n anythin’! you’d oughter see mine!” (recording angel, make a note of it, when you jot this down, that the little face across the room was intense with wistfulness, and jolly was looking straight that way. and remember legs.)
when ellen came in to put morry to bed she found wet spots on his cushions, but she did not mention them. ellens can be wise. she only handled the limp little figure rather more gently than usual, and said rather more cheery things, perhaps. perhaps that was why the small fellow under her hands decided to appeal in his desperation to her. it was possible—things were always possible—that ellen might know something of—of step-ones. for morry was battling with the pitifully unsatisfactory information jolly had given him before understanding had conceived the kind little lie. it was, of course,—morry put it that way because “of course” sometimes comforts you,—of course just possible that jolly’s step-one might be different. ellen might know of there being another kind.
so, under the skilful, gentle hands, the boy looked up and chanced it. “ellen,” he said—“ellen, are they all that kind,—all of ’em? jolly’s kind, i mean? i thought poss’bly you might know one”—
“heart alive!” breathed ellen, in fear of his sanity. she felt his temples and his wrists and his limp little body. was he going to be sick now, just as his father and she were coming home?—now, of all times! which would be better to give him, quinine, or aconite and belladonna?
“never mind,” sighed morry, hopelessly. ellens—he might have known—were not made to tell you close things like that. they were made to undress you and give you doses and laugh and wheel your chair around. jollys were better than ellens, but they told you pretty hard things sometimes.
in bed he lay and thought out his little puzzles and steeled himself for what was to come. he pondered over the word jolly had looked up in the dictionary for him. it was a puzzly word,—rec-om-pense,—but he thought he understood it now. it meant something that made up to you for something you’d suffered,—“suffered,” that was what it said. and morry had suffered—oh, how! could it be possible there was anything that would make up for little, limp, sorrowful legs that had never been?
with the fickleness of night-thoughts his musings flitted back to step-ones again. he shut his eyes and tried to imagine just the right kind of one,—the kind a boy would be glad to have come home with his dadsy. it looked an easy thing to do, but there were limitations.
“if i’d ever had a real one, it would be easier,” morry thought wistfully. of course, any amount easier! the mothers you read about and the holy ones you saw in pictures were not quite real enough. what you needed was to have had one of your own. then,—morry’s eyes closed in a dizzy little vision of one of his own. one that would have dressed and undressed you instead of an ellen,—that would have moved your chair about and beaten up the cushions,—one that maybe would have loved you, legs and all!
why!—why, that was the kind of a step-one a boy’d like to have come home with his father! that was the very kind! while you’d been lying there thinking you couldn’t imagine one, you’d imagined! and it was easy!
the step-one a boy would like to have come home with his father seemed to materialize out of the dim, soft haze from the shaded night-lamp,—seemed to creep out of the farther shadows and come and stand beside the bed, under the ring of light on the ceiling that made a halo for its head. the room seemed suddenly full of its gracious presence. it came smiling, as a boy would like it to come. and in a reg’lar mother-voice it began to speak. morry lay as if in a wondrous dream and listened.
“are you the dear little boy whose legs won’t go?” he gasped a little, for he hadn’t thought of there being a “dear.” he had to swallow twice before he could answer. then:—
“oh yes’m, thank you,” he managed to say. “they’re under the bedclothes.”
“then i’ve come to the right place. do you know—guess!—who i am?”
“are—are you a step-one?” breathing hard.
“why, you’ve guessed the first time!” the gracious one laughed.
“not—not the one, i s’pose?” it frightened him to say it. but the gracious one laughed again.
“the one, yes, you dear little boy whose legs won’t go! i thought i heard you calling me, so i came. and i’ve brought you something.”
to think of that!
“guess, you dear little boy! what would you like it to be?”
oh, if he only dared! he swallowed to get up courage. then he ventured timidly.
“a rec-om-pense.” it was out.
“oh, you guesser—you little guesser! you’ve guessed the second time!”
was that what it was like? something you couldn’t see at all, just feel,—that folded you in like a warm shawl,—that brushed your forehead, your cheek, your mouth,—that made you dizzy with happiness? you lay folded up in it and knew that it made up. never mind about the sorrowful, limp legs under the bedclothes. they seemed so far away that you almost forgot about them. they might have been somebody else’s, while you lay in the warm, sweet rec-om-pense.
“will—will it last?” he breathed.
“always, morry.”
the gracious step-one knew his name!
“then jolly didn’t know this kind,—we never s’posed there was a kind like this! real ones must be like this.”
and while he lay in the warm shawl, in the soft haze of the night-lamp, he seemed to fall asleep, and, before he knew, it was morning. ellen had come.
“up with you, master morris! there’s great doings to-day. have you forgot who’s coming?”
ellens are stupid.
“she’s come.” but ellen did not hear, and went on getting the bath ready. if she had heard, it would only have meant quinine or aconite and belladonna to drive away feverishness. for ellens are very watchful.
“they’ll be here most as soon as i can get you up ’n’ dressed. i’m going to wheel you to the front winder—”
“no!” morry cried, sharply; “i mean, thank you, no. i’d rather be by the back window where—where i can watch for jolly.” homely, freckled, familiar jolly,—he needed something freckled and homely and familiar. the old dread had come back in the wake of the beautiful dream,—for it had been a dream. ellen had waked him up.
a boy would like to have his father come home in the sunshine, and the sun was shining. they would come walking up the path to the front-door through it,—with it warm and welcoming on their faces. but it would only be dadsy and a step-one,—jolly’s kind, most likely. jolly’s kind was pretty,—she might be pretty. but she would not come smiling and creeping out of the dark with a halo over her head. that kind came in dreams.
jolly’s whistle was comforting to hear. morry leaned out of his cushions to wave his hand. jolly was going to school; when he came whistling back, she would be here. it would be all over.
morry leaned back again and closed his eyes. he had a way of closing them when he did the hardest thinking,—and this was the very hardest. sometimes he forgot to open them, and dropped asleep. even in the morning one can be pretty tired.
“is this the dear little boy?”
he heard distinctly, but he did not open his eyes. he had learned that opening your eyes drives beautiful things away.
the dream had come back. if he kept perfectly still and didn’t breathe, it might all begin again. he might feel—
he felt it. it folded him in like a warm shawl,—it brushed his forehead, his cheek, his lips,—it made him dizzy with happiness. he lay among his cushions, folded up in it. oh, it made up,—it made up, just as it had in the other dream!
“you dear little boy whose legs won’t go!”—he did not catch anything but the first four words; he must have breathed and lost the rest. but the tone was all there. he wanted to ask her if she had brought the rec-om-pense, but it was such a risk to speak. he thought if he kept on lying quite still he should find out. perhaps in a minute—
“you think he will let me love him, morris? say you think he will!”
morris was dadsy’s other name. things were getting very strange.
“because i must! perhaps it will make up a very little if i fold him all up in my love.”
“fold him up”—that was what the warm shawl had done, and the name of the warm shawl had been rec-om-pense. was there another name to it?
morry opened his eyes and gazed up wonderingly into the face of the step-one.—it was a real one’s face, and the other name was written on it.
“why, it’s love!” breathed morry. he felt a little dizzy, but he wanted to laugh, he was so happy. he wanted to tell her—he must.
“it makes up—oh yes, it makes up!” he cried, softly.
