Victor Ollnee's Discipline Part 13

"I am glad she's able to sleep," he said, and stole back to the pantry.

He studied its spa.r.s.e supplies with care. There was not much to do with, but he boiled some eggs and made coffee very quietly, with intent to let his mother sleep as long as she could. He found himself less savage than the night before.

"I can't leave till she wakes," he said to himself, "but I'm going, all the same."

In order to pa.s.s the time of waiting he went down to the foot of the stairs to find the morning paper. He opened it with apprehension, but breathed a sigh of relief upon finding no further "scare heads" of himself. The only reference to his mother came in the midst of an editorial advocating the cleaning out of all the healers, palmists, fortune-tellers, and mediums in the city. With lofty virtue the writer went on to say that the _Star_ had refused to advertise the business of these people, no matter what the pecuniary reward, and that it purposed a continuous campaign. "We intend to pursue all such women as Mrs.

Ollnee, who fasten upon their credulous dupes like leeches," he declared.

As Victor read this paragraph he caught again the violence of contrast between the woman pictured by the pen of the editor and the pale, sweet, mild-voiced little woman who was his mother. It would have been funny had it not been so serious and so personal. Furthermore, the paragraph strengthened him in his determination to leave the city, and he still hoped to be able to persuade his mother to go with him.

At eight o'clock he once more tiptoed in to see if she still slept, and finding her in the same position his heart softened with pity. "She must have been completely tired out, poor little mother! I'm afraid what I said to her worried her."

After another hour of impatient waiting he again entered her room and studied her more intently. There was something suggestive of death in the folded hands and he could detect no breathing. Her face was as pale as that of a corpse, and his blood chilled a little as he approached her. He called to her at last, but she did not stir.

Stepping to her bedside, he laid his palm upon her wrist. It was cold as ice, and he started back filled with fear. "Mother! _mother!_ Are you ill?" he called. She gave no sign of life.

For a long time he stood there, rigid with fear, not knowing what to do.

He knew no one in all the city upon whom he could call save Mrs. Joyce and Leo, and he did not know their street or number. He felt himself utterly alone, helpless, ignorant as a babe, and in the presence of death.

Gradually his brain cleared. Sorrow overcame his instinctive awe of a dead body. He felt once more the pulseless arm and studied closely the rigid face. "She is gone!" he sobbingly cried, "and I was so cruel to her last night!"

The memory of his harsh voice, his brutal words, came back to plague him, now that she was deaf to his remorse. How little, how gentle she was, and how self-sacrificing she had been for him! "She burned out her very soul for me," he acknowledged.

He remained beside her thus till the sound of a crying babe on the floor below suggested to him the presence of neighbors. Hastening down-stairs, he knocked upon the first door he came to with frantic insistence.

A slatternly young woman with a crown of flaming red-gold hair came to the door. She smiled in greeting, but his first words startled her.

"My mother is dead. Come up and help me. I don't know what to do."

His tone carried conviction, and the girl did not hesitate a moment. She turned and called: "Father, come here quick. Mrs. Ollnee is dead."

An old man with weak eyes and a loose-hung mouth shuffled forward. To him the girl explained: "This is Mrs. Ollnee's son. He says his mother is dead. I'm going up there. You look out for the baby." She turned back to Victor. "When did she die?"

"I found her cold and still this morning."

"Have you called a doctor?"

"No, I don't know of any to call."

"Jimmie!" she shrieked.

A boy's voice answered, "What ye want, maw?"

"Jimmie, you hustle into your clothes and run down the street to Doctor Sill's office and tell him to come up here right away. Hurry now!"

Closing the door behind her, she started resolutely up the stairway, and her action gave Victor a grateful sense of relief.

"What do you think ailed her?" she asked.

"I don't know. She seemed all right last night when I went to bed."

This woman, young in years, was old in experience, that was evident, for she proceeded unhesitatingly to the silent bedside with that courage to meet death which seems native to all women. She, too, listened and felt for signs of life and found none. "I reckon you're right," she said, quietly. "She's cold as a stone."

At her words the strong young fellow gave way. He turned his face to the wall, sobbing, tortured by the thought that his bitter and savage a.s.sault and expressed resolve to leave her had been the cause of his mother's death. "What can I do?" he asked, when he was able to speak. "I must do something--she was so good to me."

The young woman, looking upon him with large tolerance and a certain measure of admiration, replied: "There's nothing to do now but wait for the doctor. You'd better come down with me and have some coffee."

He did not feel in the least like eating or drinking, but he needed human companionship. Therefore he followed his neighbor down the stairs and into her cluttered little living-room with submissive grat.i.tude. The home was slovenly, but it was glorified by kindliness. A tousled baby of eighteen months was keeping the old man busy and a small boy of eight or nine was struggling into his knickerbockers, and Victor, thrust into the midst of this hearty, dirty, noisy household, remembered with increasing respect his mother's dainty housekeeping. "She was a lady," he said to himself, in definition of the difference between her apartment and this.

"Her home was poor, but it was never ratty."

Mrs. Bowers was kindness and consideration itself. Her father, deaf and partly paralytic, was treated gently, although he was irritatingly slow of comprehension and insisted on knowing all about what had taken place up-stairs. It pained and disgusted Victor inexpressibly to have his mother's condition bawled into the old man's ears, but he could not reasonably interfere.

He thought of Mrs. Joyce, knowing that his mother would want to have her instantly informed. "I ought to telephone some friends," he said to Mrs.

Bowers. "Where is the nearest 'phone?"

She told him, and he went out and down the steps in haste to let Mrs.

Joyce know of his tragic bereavement, and when at the drug-store near by he finally succeeded in getting communication with the house he was deeply disappointed to be told by the butler that Mrs. Joyce was not down and could not be disturbed so early in the morning.

"But I _must_ see her," he insisted. "My mother, Mrs. Ollnee, her friend, is--is--very sick. I am Victor, her son, and I'm sure Mrs. Joyce would want to speak to me."

The butler's voice changed. "Oh, very well, Mr. Ollnee," he replied, knowing the intimacy which existed between his mistress and the psychic. "Just hold the line; I'll call her."

It was a long time before the calm, cultivated voice of Mrs. Joyce came over the 'phone, but it was worth the waiting for. "Who is it?" she asked.

"Mrs. Joyce, this is Victor Ollnee. My mother is very, very ill. I'm afraid she's dead."

He heard her gasp of pain and surprise as she called: "Your mother! Why she seemed perfectly well last night."

"I found her lying cold and still this morning. I can't detect any pulse or any breathing. Can't you come over at once? Please do. I don't know a soul in the city but you, and I'm in great trouble."

"You poor boy! Of course I'll come. I'll be over instantly. Have you called a doctor?"

"No, I don't know of any."

"Where are you now?"

"At the corner drug-store."

"Is any one with your mother?"

"No, but the woman below has been up. She is quite sure my mother is dead."

"Gracious heavens! I can't realize it. Good-by for a few minutes. I'll come at once."

Victor returned to Mrs. Bowers' apartment with a glow of grateful affection for Mrs. Joyce. It was wonderful what comfort and security came to him with her voice so sincerely filled with compa.s.sion and desire to help. He wondered if Leo would come with her, and asked himself how the news of his bereavement would affect her. Her att.i.tude toward him had been that of the elder sister who felt herself also to be the wiser, but he did not resent that now.

He thought of the effect of his mother's death upon the press. Would the _Star_ forego its malignant a.s.sault upon her character now that she was gone beyond its reach? Would those who threatened her with arrest be remorseful?