David and I had a tremendous
adventure. It was this, he passed
the night with me. We had often
talked of it as a possible thing,
and at last Mary consented to
our having it.
The adventure
began with David's coming to
me at the unwonted
hour of six P.M., carrying what
looked like a packet of sandwiches,
but proved to be his requisites
for the night done up in a neat
paper parcel. We were both so
excited that, at the moment of
greeting, neither of us could
be apposite to the occasion in
words, so we communicated our
feelings by signs; as thus, David
half sat down in a place where
there was no chair, which is
his favourite preparation for
being emphatic, and is borrowed,
I think, from the frogs, and
we then made the extraordinary
faces which mean, "What a tremendous
adventure!"
We were to do all the important
things precisely as they are
done every evening at his own
home, and so I am in a puzzle
to know how it was such an adventure
to David. But I have now said
enough to show you what an adventure
it was to me.
For a little while we played
with my two medals, and, with
the delicacy of a sleeping companion,
David abstained on this occasion
from asking why one of them was
not a Victoria Cross. He is very
troubled because I never won
the Victoria Cross, for it lowers
his status in the Gardens. He
never says in the Gardens that
I won it, but he fights any boy
of his year who says I didn't.
Their fighting consists of challenging
each other.
At twenty-five
past six I turned on the hot
water in the bath,
and covertly swallowed a small
glass of brandy. I then said, "Half-
past six; time for little boys
to be in bed." I said it in the
matter-of-fact voice of one made
free of the company of parents,
as if I had said it often before,
and would have to say it often
again, and as if there was nothing
particularly delicious to me
in hearing myself say it. I tried
to say it in that way.
And David was deceived. To
my exceeding joy he stamped his
little foot, and was so naughty
that, in gratitude, I gave him
five minutes with a matchbox.
Matches, which he drops on the
floor when lighted, are the greatest
treat you can give David; indeed,
I think his private heaven is
a place with a roaring bonfire.
Then I placed my hand carelessly
on his shoulder, like one a trifle
bored by the dull routine of
putting my little boys to bed,
and conducted him to the night
nursery, which had lately been
my private chamber. There was
an extra bed in it tonight, very
near my own, but differently
shaped, and scarcely less conspicuous
was the new mantel-shelf ornament:
a tumbler of milk, with a biscuit
on top of it, and a chocolate
riding on the biscuit. To enter
the room without seeing the tumbler
at once was impossible. I had
tried it several times, and David
saw and promptly did his frog
business, the while, with an
indescribable emotion, I produced
a night-light from my pocket
and planted it in a saucer on
the wash- stand.
David watched my preparations
with distasteful levity, but
anon made a noble amend by abruptly
offering me his foot as if he
had no longer use for it, and
I knew by intuition that he expected
me to take off his boots. I took
them off with all the coolness
of an old hand, and then I placed
him on my knee and removed his
blouse. This was a delightful
experience, but I think I remained
wonderfully calm until I came
somewhat too suddenly to his
little braces, which agitated
me profoundly.
I cannot proceed in public
with the disrobing of David.
Soon the night
nursery was in darkness, but
for the glimmer
from the night-light, and very
still save when the door creaked
as a man peered in at the little
figure on the bed. However softly
I opened the door, an inch at
a time, his bright eyes turned
to me at once, and he always
made the face which means, "What
a tremendous adventure!"
"Are you never to fall asleep,
David?" I always said.
"When are you coming to bed?" he
always replied, very brave but
in a whisper, as if he feared
the bears and wolves might have
him. When little boys are in
bed there is nothing between
them and bears and wolves but
the night-light.
I returned to my chair to think,
and at last he fell asleep with
his face to the wall, but even
then I stood many times at the
door, listening.
Long after
I had gone to bed a sudden
silence filled the chamber,
and I knew that David had awaked.
I lay motionless, and, after
what seemed a long time of waiting,
a little far-away voice said
in a cautious whisper, "Irene!"
"You are sleeping with me to-night,
you know, David," I said.
"I didn't know," he
replied, a little troubled
but trying
not to be a nuisance.
"You remember you are with
me?" I asked.
After a moment's
hesitation he replied, "I nearly remember," and
presently he added very gratefully,
as if to some angel who had whispered
to him, "I remember now."
I think he
had nigh fallen asleep again
when he stirred
and said, "Is it going on now?"
"What?"
"The adventure."
"Yes, David."
Perhaps this
disturbed him, for by-and-by
I had to inquire, "You
are not frightened, are you?"
"Am I not?" he
answered politely, and I knew
his hand was groping
in the darkness, so I put out
mine and he held on tightly to
one finger.
"I am not frightened now," he
whispered.
"And there
is nothing else you want?"
"Is there not?" he again asked
politely. "Are you sure there's
not?" he added.
"What can it
be, David?"
"I don't take up very much
room," the far-away voice said.
"Why, David," said I, sitting
up, "do you want to come into
my bed?"
"Mother said I wasn't to want
it unless you wanted it first," he
squeaked.
"It is what I have been wanting
all the time," said I, and then
without more ado the little white
figure rose and flung itself
at me. For the rest of the night
he lay on me and across me, and
sometimes his feet were at the
bottom of the bed and sometimes
on the pillow, but he always
retained possession of my finger,
and occasionally he woke me to
say that he was sleeping with
me. I had not a good night. I
lay thinking.
Of this little boy, who, in
the midst of his play while I
undressed him, had suddenly buried
his head on my knees.
Of the woman who had been for
him who could be sufficiently
daring.
Of David's dripping little
form in the bath, and how when
I essayed to catch him he had
slipped from my arms like a trout.
Of how I had stood by the open
door listening to his sweet breathing,
had stood so long that I forgot
his name and called him Timothy.
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