Me an' Babby [pp. 58-70]

"I.fe ani' Babby."
seemed at last to understand that her
child was dangerously sick.
"'Pears like I cud n't stan' it nohow if
she be tuk too. Me an' Babby is all
alone in the worl',"-with a piteous
trembling of her mouth and chin.
I went over to the lounge where the
child lay in a kind of stupor, breathing
with difficulty. The shrunken, pallid
face was pressed against the lion's skin,
while between her wee frozen feet the
kitten had curled itself into a fluffy ball.
I saw in a moment's glance that Babby's happy morning was but a harbinger
of the eternal one whose dawn had
already risen.
We did what we could to make her
more comfortable, but alas! it was little
enough, though our hearts were full to
bursting. The poor mother moved to
and fro with an expression of helplessness that was inexpressibly touching.
At eleven Manuel said he would go home
and ask the madre's permission to return
and watch out the night with us. I could
see that his affection for the beautiful
child was a profound sentiment with
him, and when he bent to kiss the white
face, his tears fell unrestrainedly.
As I saw the lad's slim figure disappear in the gloom, I noticed that the
night was dark and lowering. Not a
star pricked the black pall overhead. A
fierce wind tore over the plains as though
chased by invisible hosts. Now coming
closer it shrieked around the isolated
house, shaking the weak foundations
until they tottered, rattled the loosened
mortar down the chimney's throat, and
pausing for a moment as if to gather
strength, renewed its onslaught with
increasing fury. With a shiver of indefinable dread I resumed my place by the
dying child. Under cheerful surroundings such a wind is dismal enough, but
situated as I was then, I felt that it kept
"slow time to horrors in the blood."
On the whitewashed wall the monstrous shadow of old Nancy lengthened
and contracted in a menacing manner
with every turn she made; while to my
fevered imagination the candle's rays
appeared to center on Babby's ghostly,
upturned face, where they flickered
strangely up and down, now making a
halo of her hair, now binding a golden
band across the marble brow, and again
sliding a roseate glow as of health over
cheek and lips. One moment she was
the pictured Madonna. the next our poor
Babby making her last brave fight with
death. The tawny lion's skin circling her
seemed to bristle like a living thing in
terror. Was it the wind stirring its
folds or the impulse of some nameless
force abroad this night? My nerves
tingled as with an electric shock. I compelled myself to look less at the child
and more at the mother, whose appearance was certainly practical enough to
banish an army of hallucinations. She
had rolled her sleeves up to her shoulders and opened the collar of her dress,
exposing her brawny arms and neck.
Her grizzled head was tied up in a nightcap of unprecedented pattern, which
made a grotesque frame for her uncouth
features. I wondered if she had ever
been fresh and fair when she was young,
and how it were possible for her to have
outgrown the faintest suggestion of
youth.
For some time neither of us spoke.
The clock struck twelve, and I gave a sigh
of relief. "John will be here soon," I
thought with a sense of nearing help and
comfort. There was no apparent change
in the child's condition. Her quick
breathing cut short the low moans that
occasionally passed her lips.
Suddenly the silence was broken by
coarse laughter and singing. Somre men
were coming up the path, slamming the
gate behind them. I sprang to the door
and slid the bolt, and a moment after
secured the fastenings of the single window. Fortunately John had made both
safe that morning.
"Hello!" shouted a drunken voice,
while a heavy fist struck the door. "1 et
1889.]
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