The Complete Works of James Whitcomb Riley, vol 10 | Page 7

the still senseless woman through the
hall into a dimly lighted room upon the right, and laying her upon a
clean white bed that glimmered in the corner. He reached and turned
the gas on in a flaring jet, and as he did so, "This is my home," he
whispered, "and this woman is--my mother!" He flung himself upon his
knees beside her as he spoke. He laid his quivering lips against the
white hair and the ruddy wound upon the brow; then dappled with his
kisses the pale face, and stroked and petted and caressed the faded
hands. "O God!" he moaned, "if I might only weep!"
The steps of some one coming down the stairs aroused him. He stepped
quickly to the door, and threw it open. It was a woman servant. He

simply pointed to the form upon the bed.
"Oh, sir!" exclaimed the frightened woman, "what has happened? What
has happened to my poor dear mistress?"
"Why did you let her leave the house?"
"She sent me away, sir. I never dreamed that she was going out again.
She told me she was very sleepy and wanted to retire, and I helped her
to undress before I went. But she ain't bad hurt, is she?" she continued,
stooping over the still figure and tenderly smoothing back the
disheveled hair. --"It's only the cheek bruised and the forehead cut a
little--it's the blood that makes it look like a bad hurt. See, when I bathe
it, it is not a bad hurt, sir. She's just been--she's just worn out, poor
thing-- and she's asleep--that's all."
He made no answer to the woman's speech, but turned toward me.
"Five doors from here," he said, "and to your left as you go out, you
will find the residence of Dr. Worrel. Go to him for me, and tell him he
is wanted here at once. Tell him my mother is much worse. He will
understand. I would go myself, but must see about arranging for your
comfort upon your return, for you will not leave me till broad
daylight--you must not!" I bowed in silent acceptance of his wishes,
and turned upon my errand.
Fortunately, the doctor was at home, and returned at once with me to
my friend, where, after a careful examination of his patient, he assured
the anxious son that the wounds were only slight, and that her
unconscious condition was simply "the result of over-stimulation,
perhaps," as he delicately put it. She would doubtless waken in her
usual rational state--an occurrence really more to be feared than desired,
since her peculiar sensitiveness might feel too keenly the unfortunate
happening. "Anyway," he continued, "I will call early in the morning,
and, in the event of her awakening before that time, I will leave a
sedative with Mary, with directions she will attend to. She will remain
here at her side. And as to yourself, Mr. Clark," the doctor went on in
an anxious tone, as he marked the haggard face and hollow eyes, "I
insist that you retire. You must rest, sir--worrying for the past week as
you have been doing is telling on you painfully. You need rest--and
you must take it."
"And I will," said Mr. Clark submissively. Stooping again, he clasped
the sleeping face between his hands and kissed it tenderly. "Good

night!" I heard him whisper--"good night-good night!" He turned, and
motioning for me to follow, opened the door--"Doctor, good night!
Good night, Mary!"
He led the way to his own room up-stairs. "And now, my friend," he
said, as he waved me to an easy chair, "I have but two other favors to
ask of you: The first is, that you talk to me, or read to me, or tell me
fairy tales, or riddles--anything, so that you keep it up incessantly, and
never leave off till you find me fast asleep. Then in the next room you
will find a comfortable bed. Leave me sleeping here, and you sleep
there. And the second favor," he continued, with a slow smile and an
affected air of great deliberation--"oh, well, I'll not ask the second favor
of you now. I'll keep it for you till to-morrow." And as he turned
laughingly away and paced three or four times across the room, in his
step, his gait, the general carriage of the figure, I was curiously
reminded of the time, years before, that I had watched him from the
door of the caboose, as he walked up the suburban street till the
movement of the train had hidden him from view.
"Well, what will you do?" he asked, as he wheeled a cozy-cushioned
lounge close beside my chair, and removing his coat, flung himself
languidly down.-- "Will you talk or read to me?"
"I will