Mostly Mary Part 8

"There is absolutely nothing there, pet,--nothing! Sister is right. You have been lying in a cramped position which caused a pain in your side and made you dream of the man with a knife. Lie down and let Sister rub the place where you feel the pain."

But though the Doctor made light of the matter to the little girl, his sister and brother-in-law saw the anxiety written in every line of his face. Sister Julia, too, looked worried as she tried to soothe the moaning child.

"M--Mother!"

"Yes, darling, yes!"

"It hurts so, Mother--oo!--oo! It shoots--right through me. I'm wide awake now, Mother, so--why doesn't it go--away? Oh, oh!"

"She has been restless all night, Doctor,"--Sister Julia had left the little girl to her mother's care for a moment--"so restless that I disobeyed your orders about going to bed myself and remained beside her for fear she would throw off the covering and take cold. She has not been quiet long enough for the muscles to cramp----"

"I know, Sister, I know. I said that merely to quiet her. This is what I have feared all along. She is a frail mite, but I really thought that we had pulled her over the danger line. I hope it is nothing worse than pleurisy. We shall try hot applications first. I shall be back in a moment."

Sister Julia busied herself heating water and making other preparations; and the Doctor soon returned with his "telephone," as Mary called the instrument with which he had several times listened to her lungs.

"Now, dear, let me see whether I can find out just where the pain is----"

"Oh, it is right here, Uncle! On both sides right where my hands are--you don't need to listen--and it shoots--through me and--comes out under those bones--where the angels' wings grow."

"But we can do more to relieve the pain if I listen for a few minutes, pet."

The father and mother did not take their eyes off his face, which grew more and more grave. By the time he had finished the examination, there was little need for him to call the nurse to the bedside and motion them into the hall.

"I shall be perfectly honest with you," he began, "for I know that you are prepared for the worst. I fear pneumonia, but hope that we have caught the trouble in time. I can tell you nothing definite for some hours. The condition in which I find her now is the very one which Sister Julia and I have been guarding against; but I was so sure that all danger was past that I told Sister, when I came home this evening, to change her program and, instead of going to rest at that time and leaving Mary to us, Rob, to go to bed as soon as she had tucked her in for the night. This she did not do, but remained at the bedside until we came up, just as she has done every night from eleven o'clock on.

"With any other nurse, I might fear that some neglect had brought matters to this pa.s.s; but not with Sister Julia. She is a wonderful nurse, and we are blessed to have her, especially now. I have never lost a pneumonia patient when she was on the case. So we shall hope for the very best."

But though the Doctor tried to speak cheerfully, a cold fear gripped the hearts of all.

CHAPTER VIII.

THE RUSTLE OF ANGELS' WINGS.

When daylight came, they carried Mary down to her own pretty room and did all that science and love could suggest to relieve her sufferings; but in spite of everything, the child grew steadily worse; and the Doctor was at last obliged to admit that double pneumonia had set in.

"You had better bring the babies to her for a few minutes," he said to his sister. "She has a very high fever and is liable to become delirious. A peep at the twins will satisfy her and perhaps ease her mind later on."

"Sweet--darling--" Mary murmured as the babies were held up before her.

"Soon--again?"

"Yes, pet, Mother will bring them to see you very often. Try to sleep now," urged her uncle.

Oh, the long, long days and nights of suffering and grief and anxiety.

Though the twins were the delight of the household, they had not been members of the family long enough to twine themselves about the hearts of all as had the dear little girl who was never happier than when making others happy. The servants vied with one another to do her some little service. Old Susie surpa.s.sed herself with her delicious broths and gelatines over which she spent more time than she did on the meals for the family; Liza hurried with her other duties so as to be able to devote more time to the babies and leave Aunt Mandy free to help Sister Julia; Tom sat by day and night on the top step of the stairs, ready to run errands,--a task which, by the way, he had always disliked. Even Debby, who had known the little girl less than two months, almost sobbed aloud at sight of the wan little face framed in a ma.s.s of golden hair.

Indeed, so blinded was she by her tears, that she stumbled about and upset so many things that Sister Julia gently took her dust cloth from her and finished putting the room in order. As for the father, mother, and uncle, Mrs. Selwyn's words just after her brother had told them the dreaded truth, will best express the thoughts that filled their minds.

"Perhaps it is wrong to feel as I do, Rob,--that it would be far easier to lose both of our babies than our little Mary."

"You are merely speaking the thought that is in all our hearts, Elizabeth, and it is only natural that we should feel as we do. In one sense, the babies are just as dear to us as Mary is; but they have not yet entered into our very life as she has done by her own winning ways.

So, if she is taken from us, we shall miss her far more than we should either, or even both, of the twins. I doubt whether Berta or Beth could ever quite fill the void which her loss would cause in our lives. But we shall not think of that now. Let us hope for the best and pray that, if it be G.o.d's will, our darling may be spared to us. We can trust Frank to see that everything possible is done for her."

"Poor Frank! He could not love her better if she were his own child. I have telephoned to Sister Florian to ask the prayers of the Sisters and pupils, and, of course, I called Maryvale early this morning. Mary asked me to let her know Frank's decision."

"I shall go now to telephone to her. Try to get a little rest before dinner."

Alone with Mary, Sister Julia seized the chance to have a little talk with her.

"There is one very important thing, dear, in this kind of illness, and that is the fight which the patient herself makes."

"Fight, Sister? You mean that I must punch something the way I saw boys doing to each other out on the sidewalk one day?"

"No, dear, I mean that you must make up your mind that you are going to get well as soon as possible and----"

"And I am, Sister. I take my medicine even though it has a very bad taste. I try to remember what you told me about our Lord--that they gave Him a bitter, bitter drink when He was hanging on the cross and said, 'I thirst.' But--but I can't help screaming sometimes when the pain is so dreadful. I seem to forget everything then."

"Indeed, you have been very good and patient, dear; but in spite of the pain and the bad dreams, you must say to yourself, 'I am going to be well and strong very soon.'"

Often in the days which followed, when Mary was delirious from fever and pain, the hearts of those at her bedside were wrung by her cry, "But I am going to be well and strong soon, I am, I _am_!" Then she would beg them not to let her fall into the big, black hole where wicked men were waiting to stick long knives into her. Sometimes, she knew those about her for a few minutes, but the greater part of the time she was not conscious. Sister Madeline and Sister Austin came in from Maryvale to see her; Sister Florian with a companion called several times; but the little girl had no memory of their visits when asked later about them.

Father Lacey called one afternoon and read a Gospel over her; but she gave no sign that she knew he was there until after he had left the room. Then she murmured, "Sister--was Father Lacey--here?"

"Yes, dear, he has just left the room."

"I--would like--to see him,--please."

The priest, who had stopped in the hall to speak to Mrs. Selwyn, returned and seated himself at the bedside, saying cheerily, "Do not try to talk to me, dear child. I am glad you are awake so that I can tell you how much all your little friends at the convent miss you. They are praying very hard for you every day, and so are all the Sisters. Yes, I know you wish me to thank them for you."

"Did--the girls--go to--Confession--yet, Father?"

"Yes, Mary, they made their first Confession last week."

"Mine--now?--I know--how."

"Certainly, my dear child; but you must let me do most of the talking. I shall ask you questions, and you will just answer them," and Father Lacey again slipped his stole about his neck as Sister Julia left the room.

After he had said with her the _Hail Mary_ which he had given as a penance, Mary's mind again began to wander; and when Sister Julia returned, she was babbling of those tell-tale, little white birds with blue heads and red tails and yellow ribbons about their necks.

"Truly an angelic little soul, Sister," said the priest. "I greatly fear that she will not be with us long. What does Doctor Carlton say of her condition?"

"He will not say anything, Father."

"And I suppose it is not quite the thing for you to express your opinion. When is the Doctor at home?"

"This is the first time in several days that he has left the house, Father. He spends the greater part of the day and night with the child.

His devotion to her is touching. I have sometimes wondered at his great gentleness with children, even though he has several times spoken of his small niece and repeated her quaint remarks to amuse his little patients; but I understand it all now. If she does not recover, more than half of his life will go out with hers. And the poor father and mother! They have already lost two little boys, yet they are so patient and resigned. You will have to know Mary better than you do, Father, to understand just what her loss would mean to this home. The servants fairly worship her. No little queen could have more faithful subjects.