"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
assault 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 gratitude. 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 compassion 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 attitude
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 assault upon her character now that she was
gone beyond its reach? Would those who threatened her with arrest be
remorseful?
Mrs. Bowers persuaded him to take another cup of hot coffee, and then
together they returned to the little apartment above to wait for the
coming of the doctor and Mrs. Joyce. The young mother became
philosophical at once. "After a body gets to be forty I tell you he
don't know what's going to happen next. I reckon you better set here
where you can't see the bed," she added, kindly. "It don't do any good,
and it only makes you grieve the harder."
He obeyed her like a child and listened through his mist of tears as she
rambled on. "I've had my share of trouble," she explained. "First my
mother went, then my oldest boy, then my husband took sick. Yes, a body
has to face trouble about so often, anyway, and, besides, I don't
suppose your mother was afraid of death, anyhow. I've known all along
what her business was, ever since I came into the house, and I've been
up to see her a few times. Still I'm not much of a believer. Dad is,
though. It's his greatest affliction that he can't hear The Voices any
more. I want to say I believe in your mother. She was a mighty fine
woman; but the docterin of spiritualism I never could swaller,
notwithstanding I grew up 'longside of it."
The sound of a decisive step on the stairs cut her short. "I bet a
cookie that's the doctor!"
A clear, crisp, incisive voice responded to her greeting at the door,
and a moment later a beardless, rather fat young fellow was confronting
Victor with professional, smiling eyes. "You're not the patient," he
stated, rather than asked. Victor shook his head and pointed to the bed.
With quick step the physician entered the bedroom and set to work upon
the motionless form with methodical haste. He was still busy in this way
when the whir of a motor car announced Mrs. Joyce.
Victor was at the door to meet her, and when she saw him she opened her
arms and took him to her broad, maternal bosom. "You poor boy!" she
said, patting his shoulder. "You're having more than your share of
trouble."
He frankly sobbed out his penitence and grief. "Oh, Mrs. Joyce! She's
gone, and I was so hard last night. I'll never forgive myself for what I
said to her."
She again patted him on the shoulder with intent to comfort him. "There,
there! I don't believe you have anything to reproach yourself for, and,
then, remember your mother's beautiful faith. She has not gone far away.
Her heaven is not distant. She is very near. She has merely cast off the
garment we call flesh. She is here, close beside you, closer than ever
before, touching you, knowing what you think and feel."
In this way she comforted him, and in a measure drew his mind away from
the memory of his cruel and unfilial words.
Sill approached her with thoughtful glance. "Are you related to this
woman?"
"No, I am only a friend," replied Mrs. Joyce; "but this is her son."
"When did you discover your mother's present condition?"
"This morning."
"Did you fold her hands and put her in the position she occupies?"
"No, that is the strange thing. When I left her last night she was--she
was lying across the bed, face downward. I had just told her that I was
going away and that I wanted her to go with me. She refused to do this
and tried to get The Voices to speak to her. They would not come, and so
she, being hurt, I suppose, by what I said, ran into the room and flung
herself down on the bed, weeping. I was angry at her and did not speak
to her again. I went to sleep out here on the couch, and did not see her
again till morning. When I looked in at eight o'clock she was lying just
as she is now."