CHAPTER II

THE MOTHER

Doctor Rast didn’t get around to see Mrs. Kroll till late that afternoon. The enchantment of the morning proved to be but a promise of Spring--a promise unfulfilled. Clouds engulfed the city, darkening the streets. The wind blew wild, scattering dust. People hurried; pedlars raced their pushcarts along; windows were slammed shut. There was something ominous in the air, a momentary expectation of rain and storm.

The Doctor could not help feeling the power of the weather--how the human race is driven before the changing atmosphere. A blue morning shakes out four million people exultant and daring; a black afternoon sweeps them shivering home. He himself felt the tragedy of the day--the sweet bubbling April broken and ruined. Full of these thoughts, as he passed the gas-lit shops of Clinton Street, he paused and entered a draughty hall and climbed two dark flights of stairs.

He knocked in front, and getting no answer, tried the door. It was unlocked. A gust of air blew in with him. He stepped through the dark kitchen, through a dark inner room to the open doorway of another. As he stood a moment he could see the window of the parlor in front gray and dim, and suddenly lashed with rain.

“May I come in?” he said softly.

“Ach, ya, Doktor,” came a plaintively glad voice from the darkness. “Ach, I waited--all day!”

There was a low light burning, and the Doctor reached and turned it big. It was a neat tidy room, mostly filled with the wooden double-bed. Mrs. Kroll was in bed, propped by pillows--a large fat woman, with a worn and wasted flabby face. Her eyes especially had a wasted look, surrounded by touches of red and gray and yellow flesh. Her nose was large; her lips large. She was breathing heavily.

The Doctor felt a pang of remorse for his enforced tardiness; it had been a crowded day. He sat down on a chair at the bedside.

“Mrs. Kroll,” he said gravely, “forgive me for making you wait.”

“Ach,” she smiled, “but you are here. I could feel better already.”

And to the simple woman his presence seemed to overflow the room. She muttered:

“Does it rain?”

“Listen!” he said.

They heard in the hush the mighty sweep of the storm, on roof, and window, and pavement. She shook her head.

“My Edy gets wet then?”

The Doctor laughed softly:

“No worrying! Edith can take care of herself! I want you to brace up, and feel better, and be happy!”

She smiled sweetly:

“No, Doktor, it is too late.”

The sound of the rain darkened over him, but he leaned closer and spoke with a touch of tenderness:

“Well, tell me how you are feeling.”

She began at once, after the Jewish manner, and described her symptoms:

“Doktor, I’m a sick woman. You couldn’t tell how sick I am. Eat I a sausage day before yesterday for supper, and it stick in my stomach and make me stoss auf (belch) and I feel gas on my heart, so it goes jump like a baby. And such a rheumatis_mus_ in my leg I got, like it was crazy. And my head! And my hand! And my stomach! I get very nervous. I could vomit my insides out. Um Gottes willen (for God’s sake) how sick I am. Doktor, I think I’m a very sick woman. I got four children, one dead, holy God, but not such pains as these.”

The Doctor knew the case well, and so he did not smile, but spoke even more tenderly:

“There is one thing you must do.”

She put up a bony hand:

“Don’t tell me to take castor oil, Doktor. I couldn’t do it. Rather would I die right away, and be done with it.”

The Doctor smiled:

“No, it isn’t that.”

“Neither can I stay in bed. A woman must work.”

“Not that--either.”

Mrs. Kroll glanced at him, and spoke in a scared voice:

“To the hospital?”

“No,” he said quietly, “not that. Something very simple and good.”

She was ready to listen to him then, and asked what it was.

The Doctor leaned close and spoke gently:

“Don’t worry.”

Much pathos went into her voice then.

“Ah, worry? I must not worry?”

“Listen,” he said very gently, “you can live many years yet and be very happy, if you live quietly--if you don’t worry and get excited and worked up. Many, many years.”

“And if I don’t stop worrying--no?”

He said nothing, for his throat caught slightly. The noise of the rain rose upon them and seemed to the poor woman to be sounding her death. It was very strange to be alive, and yet to be so near the passing. Then she heard the Doctor saying softly:

“What should you worry about?”

“My boys,” she sobbed.

The Doctor spoke in a queer voice:

“Why I thought they were mighty good boys!”

“Yes,” she sobbed, “but it’s America, Doktor. In the old country we Jews were very different. We were pious and good and the children loved God. But here the children care for nothing--nothing but fun. They think a pious boy ain’t stylish. They think their Mother is a back-number. So they run wild, and nothing stops them. They will never marry. If only my good man, _selig_, were alive!”

“The boys!” muttered the Doctor. “Yes, our Jewish boys all sow their wild oats.”

The woman’s voice arose and she gave vent to the tragedy of her life:

“When my man died, I thought these boys would take his place. I thought I should be a proud Mother. Ach, they hurt the heart like strangers--my heart is zerrissen (ripped). They have made me old--I’m not such an old woman like I look--_they make my hair gray_. Maybe they think I’m not like other women.” She became excited. “Maybe they think such an ugly thing don’t want love and sweet words and good children. Maybe they forget what I done for them--how I got backache and hard hands bringing them up--how I work and work and work--I just kill myself working for my children. Ach, Gott, it’s not good to be a Mother.” She suddenly sat up in bed, her eyes flashed, and she cried out: “Look at me! See what my children done to me!”

The Doctor spoke firmly:

“It’s just this you mustn’t do. You mustn’t give way like this. You must control yourself.”

“Huh!” she muttered. “It’s easy to say.” She fell back on the pillow and pressed her breast. “But I’ve got a heart--here!”

In the silence again came the noise of the wild rain sweeping the toilers home. The Doctor’s heart went out to the poor woman, who once had her youth and her dreams.

“You have Edith,” he murmured. “Remember that!”

An exquisite smile lit her face:

“My Edith!----” Then she sighed. “But a Mother thinks more of her boys.”

“But Edith,” the Doctor went on, “what a wonderful girl! You can be proud of her. Not many girls are earning as much; not many are so sweet and beautiful.”

The woman breathed softly.

“Ach, Doktor,” she said, “she helps me, works hard, makes me money--a good girl, a good girl.” She went on musingly. “If I could live to see Edith married, I could die happy, I think.”

“You shall,” said the Doctor heartily.

“That I don’t know,” sighed the Mother. “For I must, must worry.”

Then, in the silence, a door opened and shut, and a glad young voice cried, “Mother, Mother,” and at once the music of the Spring overflowed the room. It seemed good that the wild rain should encircle the warm human shelter; it made the home all the warmer and sweeter. The mother laughed softly, the Doctor arose, and then Edith glided in. She was bedraggled, dripping from head to foot, her clothes tight on her limbs, her hair pasted down her face. Tilting her hat, it spilled silver drops, and drops were falling from her chin. Like a wild-rose in rain, sweet enough to kiss, thought the Doctor.

She ran over with laughter:

“Oh, the Doctor! I didn’t think _you’d_ be here. I’m simply sopping wet. Such weather!”

“Well!” cried the Doctor. “No umbrella?”

“Umbrella! It’s glorious!--But I’d better go in the kitchen, or I’ll ruin the house!”

She vanished; the Doctor looked at the mother, and both laughed with delight. He leaned over and took her hand:

“How can you worry with _that_ in the house?”

“I feel better,” she murmured.

“Good,” he said heartily. “Now, really, you’ll brace up and take care of yourself. Good-by. I’ll come again soon--just a social visit.”

He groped through the inner room into the kitchen. Edith was reaching up on tiptoe to light the gas.

“Here,” he said, taking the match. In the sudden glow, the room broke real and vivid about them--stove, and dining table, cupboard and ice box.

“How is she?” asked Edith anxiously.

He took a hand, held it close, and spoke very near and very low.

“Edith, your Mother must keep very quiet--she mustn’t excite herself.”

Her face lifted, quivering with care.

“Doctor.”

“Yes.”

“Do you think I’m a brave girl?”

“I do, Edith.”

“Then tell me the truth. What is the matter with Mother?”

He spoke very tenderly.

“Edith, your Mother has a weak heart.”

The girl trembled, and grew pale.

“Weak heart? You mean----”

“Yes,” his voice was almost inaudible, “at any moment--unless she controls herself.”

“And then----?”

“She may live years.”

Her eyes were very large, her cheeks white. She gasped:

“My Mother--die?”

The Doctor whispered:

“You’re a brave girl, Edith!”

The girl swayed:

“Oh, she’s all I have; I can’t stand it!”

Two tears ran down her face. “Doctor!”

“Hush!” he warned, “if she heard----!”

“I can’t stand it!” She hid her face in her hands. “I can’t stand it!”

The Doctor spoke in a voice of intimate pity:

“You must take good care of her, and make your brothers behave. If she lives quietly, it will be years yet. Come, Edith, your Mother needs you!”

He had touched the right string. The young girl threw up her head, and spoke with lovely courage:

“She needs me? Yes, I’m selfish. But”--she looked in the Doctor’s face--“you can trust me. I’ll keep Mother alive.”

The Doctor pressed her hand hard.

“I knew it, Edith, I knew it!” And passed out.

For a moment she was stunned and wrung her hands. It was as if blackness had entered her heart; she felt lonely, forsaken. And then her Mother called:

“Come in and change your clothes, Edy.”

And all the terror changed to tenderness. So she hurried in, and while her Mother was buttoning up her waist and she was rolling the water out of her long hair or changing her stockings and shoes, she asked a hundred loving questions. Wasn’t there anything she could do? What did her Mother like? Should she get her some chicken to-morrow? Wouldn’t she like to have a servant to help her?

“Servant? Are you crazy?” cried the Mother. “For thirty years I worked without a servant! _Now I should begin!_”

Edith turned about with divine eagerness:

“Mother! Couldn’t I give up my job then, and stay home and help you? I’d take _such_ care of you, dear!”

Her Mother ha-ha’d in her face:

“I could put your help under my fingernail. Dummer esel! (Stupid donkey.)”

The two brothers now came in, slamming the door.

“Well, Mutter,” said the elder, a small stout fellow with a shining face, “how goes it?”

He rubbed his hands and grinned.

“Ach,” said the Mother, “I’m a sick woman.”

“Too much sausage, hey?” said the son glibly.

Edith spoke in a low voice.

“Sam, you’d better go in the kitchen!”

“Why?”

She came closer:

“Sam,” her voice took on a command new to her, “go in the kitchen!”

He shrugged his shoulders in surprise and went. The other son, Marcus, who had the slimness of his sister without her beauty, muttered:

“Say, the sis is getting pretty fresh, ain’t she?” And followed his brother.

Then Edith laughed and kissed her Mother.

“Dear,” she whispered, “I’m going to take care of the boys and make them behave! Indeed, I will! And I’m going to make you just so happy!” She hugged the Mother to show her just how happy.

“Ah,” said the Mother, “you are my baby, Edith!”

And they kissed each other, and Edith ran into the kitchen and prepared the supper, humming as she worked, and now and then a tear stealing down her cheek and angrily brushed off as she murmured:

“I promised him I’d be brave.”