By the Light of the Soul | Page 8

"Oh, father, what is it?" said she, and a vague horror chilled her.
"Get up, and slip on something, and go into your mother's room," said her father, in a gasping sort of voice. "I've got to go for the doctor."
Maria put one slim little foot out of bed. "Oh, father," she said, "is mother sick?"
"Yes, she is very sick," replied her father. His voice sounded almost savage. It was as if he were furious with his wife for being ill, furious with Maria, with life, and death itself. In reality he was torn almost to madness with anxiety. "Slip on something so you won't catch cold," said he, in his irritated voice. "I don't want another one down."
Maria ran to her closet and pulled out a little pink wrapper. "Oh, father, is mother very sick?" she whispered again.
"Yes, she is very sick. I am going to have another doctor to-morrow," replied her father, still in that furious, excited voice, which the sick woman must have heard.
"What shall I--" began Maria, but her father, running down the stairs, cut her short.
"Do nothing," said he. "Just go in there and stay with her. And don't you talk. Don't you speak a word to her. Go right in." With that the front door slammed.
Maria went tiptoeing into her mother's room, still shaking from head to foot, and her blue eyes seeming to protrude from her little white face. Even before she entered her mother's room she became conscious of a noise, something between a wail and a groan. It was indescribably terrifying. It was like nothing which she had ever heard before. It did not seem possible that her mother, that anything human, in fact, was making such a noise, and yet no animal could have made it, for it was articulate. Her mother was in fact both praying and repeating verses of Scripture, in that awful voice which was no longer capable of normal speech, but was compounded of wail and groan. Every sentence seemed to begin with a groan, and ended with a long-drawn-out wail. Maria went close to her mother's bed and stood looking at her. Her poor little face would have torn her mother's heart with its piteous terror, had she herself not been in such agony.
Maria did not speak. She remembered what her father had said. As her mother lay there, stretched out stiff and stark, almost as if she were dead, Maria glanced around the room as if for help. She caught sight of a bottle of cologne on the dresser, one which she had given her mother herself the Christmas before; she had bought it out of her little savings of pocket-money. Maria went unsteadily over to the dresser and got the cologne. She also opened a drawer and got out a clean handkerchief. She became conscious that her mother's eyes were upon her, even although she never ceased for a moment her cries of agony.
"What--r you do--g?" asked her mother, in her dreadful voice.
"Just getting some cologne to put on your head, to make you feel better, mother," replied Maria, piteously. She thought she must answer her mother's question in spite of her father's prohibition.
Her mother seemed to take no further notice; she turned her face to the wall. "Have--mercy upon me, O Lord, according to Thy loving kindness, according to the multitude of Thy tender mercies," she shrieked out. Then the words ended with a long-drawn-out "Oh--oh--"
Had Maria not been familiar with the words, she could not have understood them. Not a consonant was fairly sounded, the vowels were elided. She went, feeling as if her legs were sticks, close to her mother's bed, and opened the cologne bottle with hands which shook like an old man's with the palsy. She poured some cologne on the handkerchief and a pungent odor filled the room. She laid the wet handkerchief on her mother's sallow forehead, then she recoiled, for her mother, at the shock of the coldness, experienced a new and almost insufferable spasm of pain. "Let--me alone!" she wailed, and it was like the howl of a dog.
Maria slunk back to the dresser with the handkerchief and the cologne bottle, then she returned to her mother's bedside and seated herself there in a rocking-chair. A lamp was burning over on the dresser, but it was turned low; her mother's convulsed face seemed to waver in unaccountable shadows. Maria sat, not speaking a word, but quivering from head to foot, and her mother kept up her prayers and her verses from Scripture. Maria herself began to pray in her heart. She said it over and over to herself, in unutterable appeal and terror, "O Lord, please make mother well, please make her well." She prayed on, although the groaning wail never ceased.
Suddenly her mother turned