THE BLIZZARD
On a gray morning in early February Dr. Dudley started for New York.
“I shall probably be back on the nine o’clock train,” he told his wife; “but the paper says there is a big snowstorm on the way, and for fear I may be delayed I have left word for Joe to come and fill up the heater.” Joe was a boy that did odd jobs about the house, and was familiar with the heater. “He will probably be here early in the evening,” the Doctor went on; “but I can see to it again when I get home.”
Polly went to school with the snowflakes flying around her. Patricia overtook her on the way.
“Where’s David?” she asked.
“He has a cold, and isn’t coming,” Polly replied. “He telephoned over just now.”
“Oh, that’s too bad!” lamented Patricia. “I had set my heart on having you and him this afternoon. Cousin Lester and Aunt Florence are coming from Nevada. Mamma heard last night. He is your cousin, too, same as I am. You’ll like him; Lester’s all right! He is just David’s age—it is a shame David can’t come! Won’t your mother let you stay home from school? I’m going to.”
“I don’t know,” said Polly. “Wouldn’t after do?”
“Not enough time,” Patricia declared. “I want you and Lester to get well acquainted; he is the nicest boy you ever saw!”
“Except David.”
Patricia laughed. “I guess you won’t except anybody when you’ve seen Lester. Well, make your mother let school go for once!”
“I’ll ask her,” Polly promised.
“Tease!” urged Patricia. “Tease like everything!”
Polly said nothing; but there were twinkles in her brown eyes.
When school was dismissed, the storm was increasing, and Polly rode home beside her cousin in the limousine.
She found the back door unlocked, but the kitchen was empty, and there were seemingly no preparations for dinner. She hastened from room to room, and finally went upstairs.
“What is the matter?” she asked in dismayed tone, for her mother was lying on her bed, white with suffering.
“It came on suddenly—this pain.” She put her hand to her forehead, moaning.
Polly stood quite still, distress in her face. She waited until the spasm had passed, and then said gently, “Can’t I get you something?”
“No. It is that neuralgia over my eye. I have had it before, but never like this. The medicine doesn’t seem to take hold. If it isn’t better soon, I’ll have to try something else.”
“I wish father were home. Shan’t I call Dr. Rodman?”
“Oh, no! It is growing easier. Run down and eat your dinner; I left it in the oven.”
“Have you had yours?”
“All I want.”
Polly lingered, irresolute, her anxious eyes on her mother’s face.
Mrs. Dudley smiled faintly. “Go, dear. There is nothing you can do for me.”
Polly ate a scant meal, and washed the few dishes. Then she thought of Patricia. Softly shutting the door of the living-room, she went to the telephone.
Patricia herself answered.
“I’m awfully sorry,” Polly told her, “but I can’t come.”
“Oh, Polly Dudley!” Patricia broke in, “you said you would!”
“Mother is sick,” Polly explained, “and I mustn’t leave her.”
“Can’t she stay alone? I shouldn’t think she’d mind. You ask her. Oh, you must come! Mamma’ll send for you, and you can stay all night. Your father’ll be home then. Say, run and see if your mother won’t let you come! I’ll hold the wire.”
“I can’t, Patricia. You don’t know how sick mother is. I wouldn’t leave her for anything.”
“Oh, botheree! You’ve just gone and spoiled all my good time!”
Polly heard the receiver slammed on its hook. She sat for a minute wondering if she could say anything to amend matters, but finally turned away. Patricia’s vexation was never lasting.
She listened at the foot of the stairs, and then tiptoed up. Her mother lay as if asleep, and she crept noiselessly into her own room.
Outside the prospect was cheerless. Few people and fewer teams were abroad. Wind and snow were in command, beating the window panes, thrashing the bare trees, whirling round house corners with a shriek and a roar. Polly turned from the cold tumult feeling strangely desolate. She read and wandered about by turns, wondering if ever there were any other afternoon so long. At last a sound from her mother’s room sent her thither. Mrs. Dudley was sitting on the edge of the bed.
“Is it worse?” Polly faltered.
A murmured affirmative was the only answer.
“I wish you would go to the medicine closet,” her mother said feebly, when the pain had lessened, “and get a little round bottle at the right-hand end of the second shelf.”
Polly was off like a sprite, barely waiting for directions.
“Yes, this is the one.” Mrs. Dudley drew the cork hesitatingly.
“I thought I could do without it,” she sighed, “but the pain is growing worse—I must have something.”
She bade Polly crush one of the tablets, and two small pills from another bottle, making a powder of the three.
“Your father would have given me this before now if he had been here,” she smiled.
“Why don’t you want to take it?” queried Polly.
“I always put off anodynes as long as possible. But I will not take a large dose.”
“Will it hurt you?” Polly’s face was anxious.
“Oh, no! it will stop the pain. But how is it that you are home from school so early? It is not three o’clock, is it?”
“It is after four. But I didn’t go this afternoon. I wouldn’t leave you all alone; besides, it is snowing hard.”
“Oh, is it snowing! Well, I’m glad you stayed at home. Poor little girl! you are having a dreary time.” She clasped Polly’s hand with gentle pressure.
“I don’t mind, if you could only be well.” Polly’s voice almost broke.
“Don’t worry! I’m easier now. Perhaps I can go to sleep.”
Cautiously she laid her head on the pillow that Polly had made plump and smooth, and was soon so quiet that the small nurse could not be sure whether she were sleeping or not. The rooms were fast growing shadowy, and Polly felt that the lights would be company, so she lit the gas upstairs and down, turning it low in her mother’s room. Then fetching her doll, she took a low rocker, and blue-eyed Phebe and brown-eyed Polly sat down to watch.
There was a stir on the bed. Phebe’s eyes were wide open, but she made no sign when the sick woman rose totteringly to her feet. Polly’s eyes were shut tight, and her breathing soft and slow. She was dreaming of Colonel Gresham and his beautiful Lone Star, when she awoke with a start to find the bed empty and uncertain footsteps in the hall. Leaping to her feet, and dropping Phebe with no ceremony, she bounded to the head of the stairs, where her mother wavered on the top step. Catching her gently, in a voice not quite steady, she asked:—
“Where are you going?”
“Oh, I thought I’d go down—and help you wash the dishes!” Mrs. Dudley replied. “Poor child! you’ve had all the work to do.”
“The dishes are all washed,” Polly assured her, “and I am not tired. Hadn’t you better lie down again before the pain comes on?”
The sick woman suffered herself to be led back to the bed, where she sat for a moment in silence.
“I’ll wipe the dishes for you,” she murmured, and began fumbling in her lap. “Where are they?” she asked bewilderedly. “They are not here.”
“I put them up in the china closet,” Polly answered. “Please lie down! I will call you if I need your help.”
At last she was on her pillow, and for a time lay quiet.
Polly lingered near, affright in her heart, Oh, if her father were only there! For a long time she dared not move, but stood and watched the quiet face. Then, suddenly, the lips began to mutter unintelligible things, and Polly’s eyes dilated in terror. That September night, when Colonel Gresham was so near to death, came vividly back to her.
“I’m afraid”—she whispered, but did not go on. With one, long, anxious look she stole softly away and downstairs to the telephone. She wished she had called Dr. Rodman sooner.
Her heart was beating painfully as she took the receiver in her hand. No word came to her ear, nothing save a low sputtering of the wire. She waited, and then gently pressed the hook. Still no answer. Again and again, she made the attempt, until, at last, she realized the truth—the wires were useless.
She sat for a moment, trying to decide what to do. Finally with determination on her face she ran over to the stairs, and listened. There was no sound. Still not quite satisfied, she crept up to her mother’s room. She found little change, except that the mutterings were fainter, and at times the lips were at rest.
“I must go! I must!” Polly whispered to herself. “She acts just as Colonel Gresham did—oh, dear!”
She dreaded to leave the house, fearing that her mother might rouse—and who knew what she would do! Yet at the hospital was Dr. Rodman and help. It would take but a few minutes to go. Thus reassuring herself, she made ready to battle with the storm. It was not long before she opened the front door, but, unprepared for the fury of the wind, she gave a cry as the knob was swept from her grasp. Still she had no thought of turning back, and snapping the night lock, so that she could return without a key, she succeeded in shutting the door behind her.
Outside was tumult. A procession of blasts came roaring down the street. It was biting cold. The snow stung. The muffled lights shone wanly through the night, and laid bare the desolate scene. Polly breathed hard as she staggered across the piazza. The steps were a drifty slope of white, making descent dangerous; but she plunged on, gained a scant foothold, missed the next, clutched at nothing, and went down, a helpless little heap in the whirling snow.
Starting to scramble up, she dropped back with a cry. Pluckily she tried it again, this time coming to a sitting posture with a gasp of pain. Her ankle had twisted when she fell, and was now throbbing distressfully.
“Oh, I can’t go!” she half sobbed. “Dear, dear mother!”
She looked up and down the street, in hope of help; but none was there. The pain in her foot increased, and she realized that she must act quickly. With a prayer in her heart, she crawled back, little by little, up the steps and over to the door, finally, after much effort, reaching the knob and letting herself in. Once assured that the door was fast, she sank into the hall corner, spent with her struggle.
After what seemed a long while Polly crept upstairs. Her mother was still quiet, as if asleep. There were now no mutterings. Polly shivered in her damp clothing and went over to the radiator. The warmth was grateful, and she dropped to the floor, cuddling beside her iron friend. Soon there were two sleepers in the lonely room.
When she awoke Polly found herself hugging a cold pillow, and she suddenly remembered that Joe was to have come to fill up the heater. Could the fire have gone out? The question brought dismay. If she could only get down cellar!
Her foot and ankle ached unbearably, and she tried to take off her shoe; but it held fast. She pulled and pushed and twisted, gasping with pain; the boot would not stir.
“Colonel Gresham would let Oscar come over and ’tend to the heater, if he only knew,” she muttered sadly—and then a hope popped up. She would ring the dinner bell from a side window—perhaps some of them would hear!
It was a painful journey downstairs, but Polly did not flinch. Again and again the little bell sent its loudest appeal out into the stormy night; but the merciless wind stifled its voice before it could reach a kindly ear. There were snow wreaths in the ringer’s hair, and tears in her eyes, when she shut the window.
“I thought they must hear,” she said sobbingly. Then, like a careful little housewife, she shook the snow from her dress, and brushed up the slush from the floor.
“I guess I’ll go,” she whispered. “Mother will freeze if I don’t. P’rhaps I can—I’ve got to anyway!” She caught her breath in pain.
Hobbling over to the kitchen shelf where the runabout lamp was kept, she lighted it, and, supplying herself with matches and a small shovel, she started for the cellar. In baby-fashion she went down, sitting on the top stair and slipping from step to step. The light threw shadows all about, grotesque and startling; but the little figure kept steadily on.
The fire was very low. Polly gazed anxiously at the dull red coals. The damper in the lower door had a bad habit of opening when it was jarred. It was open now.
“Father was in a hurry this morning when he shut this door,” she explained to herself, “and I guess he didn’t stop to look. That’s why it’s burned out.”
Slowly and painfully she fetched wood and threw it in the heater, opening the draughts wide, and watching to see if it caught. Soon it began to crackle and blaze cheerily, and, despite her loneliness and her suffering, hope leaped in her heart.
“It will be nice and warm when mother wakes up—oh, I’m so glad I came down!”
Yet it was dreary waiting for the moment when it seemed best to put on the coal, and then she lingered still longer before she dared shut off the draught. But at last her labor was complete. The pipes were growing warm, and the heater could safely be left to care for itself.
Going upstairs was difficult and distressing; but the two flights were finally accomplished, and Polly was free to rest. She lay down quietly beside her mother, though not to sleep. Pain that made her almost cry out for relief kept her awake hour after hour. Mrs. Dudley lay very still. But for her soft breathing the little watcher at her side would have thought her dead. Many times Polly lifted herself upon her elbow, leaned over to listen, and dropped back again satisfied, but with a stifled groan. Every movement now was torture.
The night seemed to have no end. Polly felt as if she had lain there a hundred hours, and yet no sign of day. She wondered if God had forgotten to wake up the world—and then she slept.
It was so that Dr. Dudley found them at eight o’clock in the morning. When Polly came to herself her father and mother were talking of the great storm, the delay of his train, and of her sudden illness. But Polly’s story of the night sent the Doctor in haste to the aid of the injured ankle.
One glance at the swollen foot, and he whipped a pair of scissors from his pocket, inserting a blade underneath the leather.
“Oh, father,” cried Polly in alarm, “these are my second-best boots!”
But the scissors were doing their merciful though destructive work, and the little sufferer closed her eyes with a sob of relief.
For several days Polly’s seat at school was vacant; but Patricia did not allow her to get lonely.
“If you had come to see Lester, as I wanted you to,” she insisted, “you wouldn’t have sprained your ankle and had to stay home. Honestly, don’t you wish you had?”
Polly glanced across to her mother with a mysterious smile.
“I am sorry,” she answered, “not to have seen your cousin—”
“And yours!” put in Patricia.
“Yes, ‘and mine,’” Polly laughed. “But father says that blizzard lessons are sometimes better than Latin and geography; so I’m glad I didn’t miss them.”
Patricia looked puzzled.