A Mother's Ghost

"We came upon this lovely piece in the old files of 'The Woman's Voice,' and wondered that it should have remained unpublished to this day.

"Its author, a baccalaureate student, sent it in some time ago, and there is no doubt that this student, who has written such a story, could today give us very beautiful things. We hope this pen will persevere in the craft of beautiful letters."

Far from the children's chatter and play, in a corner of the school garden, "Salwa" had withdrawn into herself, musing, dazzled and bewildered, feeling no desire to play; a shade of melancholy had settled over her sweet face, and a deep silence had taken the place of that sweet smile. Then she began to gaze at the horizon with her calm green eyes, their pupils swimming in tears, going back over her life through these few years in which she had known existence: her dear mother had left this life three years ago and left her alone, knowing nothing of her world but her beloved father, who had so often stilled her tears and been father and mother to her both. And she still remembered his tenderness toward her when her gentle grandmother departed — the grandmother who had loved her so, in whose lap she had buried her little face to complain of some thing or other; this grandmother had promised her to return when the fields blossomed, but she never returned, and they told her she had died.

"Salwa," alone in life, feels herself a stranger to this world and to everything in it — even this house she lives in, and this wicked woman, her father's wife, whom they tell her is her second mother and whom she must love. She is at a loss over it all, finding no likeness between her and the dear departed one; her child's imagination cannot bring together these ever-scowling features and her mother's forgiving, radiant face; this voice that never stops scolding and that quiet gentleness with which her mother used to speak to her; this coarse body that strikes the ground with arrogance and that slender figure that used to move about in silence like a phantom. As for this "little one" whom her father's wife awaited with joy and whose coming she celebrated, and whom they call her brother — she hates him with the fiercest hatred and wishes he would die, so that she might be spared the sight of his mother kissing him with rapture and rocking him all night long. She used to feel a deadly deprivation when she saw her flooding him with the overflow of a mother's affections.

... "this little one" is the source of her misery; if he died, her father's love would come back to her...

If he died...!

He must die...

But how is he to die?

Where is her mother, to kiss her as she used to? Where are those serene looks that used to bring peace into her heart? Yes! She hates him, and hates everything to do with him, though in his form and the fineness of his features he resembles her beautiful dolls. She had felt that the discord between her father and his wife had begun to fade since the coming of this "little one," and that her father's love for her had lessened accordingly: he no longer set her on his knee, telling her absorbing tales with eagerness and delight — he told her she had become a young lady — no longer visited her at night in her bed to kiss her tenderly, no longer even found again in her dear face the image of her mother. He used to spend the long evenings away from his wife and in her company, talking to her of her mother; and often he would fix on her deep looks whose meaning she could not fathom, then say to her, the tears streaming from his eyes: "How beautiful you are, my little Salwa, and how much you resemble your mother! How I wish you might be like her in gentleness... in character... in your dealings." Then he would go to his cabinet and bring out for her some curios and precious gifts. And now those gifts had begun to grow fewer... until they had almost ceased.

"Salwa" returned home that evening absorbed and absent-minded, and no sooner had she crossed the hall than she was startled by the nurse, her face dark with anger, telling her to soften her footsteps on the floor, for her brother was ill. But she paid no heed and set about looking for her beloved father; she did not find him, not even in the library where he was accustomed to sit after meals, sipping hot coffee and reading quietly. And when she happened to open the door of the "little one's" room, she found him bent over the bed, the marks of grief drawn on his face, and with him the doctor, the two talking gravely about the patient's condition; and she heard the latter say: "One must be careful with this medicine, for too much of it kills — a few drops are enough for the child." Salwa hurried to her father and called to him as she used to, but he ordered her, in a tone with something of harshness and anger in it, to keep away from him now, for he was busy with the patient.

"Salwa" went out, going over what her father had said to her and feeling the cruelty of those words. She felt that everything was frowning upon her, and that she was no longer that pampered, indulged darling; the house appeared to her like one of those desolate, ruined dwellings she had heard of in her grandmother's magic tales, and these people seemed nothing but troubling... frightening specters moving about in it. She went down to the garden and did not find it smiling as she had always known it; it seemed to her that the birds were keening... and the roses weeping... even her little cat had gone quiet and feigned sleep, her food neglected for the sake of the little patient.

Night settled with its pitch darkness, and "Salwa" slipped into her room, sad... wounded, and lay down on her bed, moaning and weeping. The night, with its depth, its stillness, and its secrets, was desolate... dismal... dreadful, sending into the child's soul a fear that made her limbs tremble and her knees knock, while a wave of bitter cold ran through her body. The doves of slumber hovered about her burning eyelids, left raw by weeping, then drew away and came again; a light doze would take her, from which she would wake in terror at some sudden thought.

"Salwa" went on thinking, in pain and revolt, and her broad imagination — the imagination of children of her age — drew for her manifold pictures and varied shadows; she suffered... then hoped. A wave of joy would seize her... then a deep sadness take hold of her... until at last she discovered that this "little one" was the source of her misery. If he died, she would once more have her father's love and tenderness to herself, and would return to her former life, since these galling events would cease, and she would again be her father's only daughter, receiving everyone's attention. But how was he to die? She kept straining her mind with all manner of questions, sounding it for the outcome, until it seemed to her that she had found the final solution...

"Salwa" waited until every movement in the house had stilled and everyone slept; then she stole, light as a rabbit, out of her room, while silence wrapped the world... and the silver rays of the moon poured down on her small face, which looked pale... drawn, with something strange upon it. She reached the "little one's" room and found him asleep, sweet dreams hovering about his lips so that he smiled at them with the meekness of the angels; and she found his mother, worn out with watching, sunk in a deep sleep on a couch nearby. Salwa's hands trembled, her pupils widened, and an obscure feeling came over her; then she gathered her courage, and without thinking took the medicine bottle and began pouring draughts of it into the "little one's" mouth; and when she was sure he had swallowed it, she hurried back.

She reached her room trembling, her body streaming with sweat, her hands rigid. Here she felt a deep, vague, delicious relief; she lay down in the bed and gave herself up to a long sleep such as she had not enjoyed for an age... And she saw, as the sleeper sees, a distant specter which seemed to her to be her mother; the specter kept drawing nearer, and her heartbeats kept mounting, until at last she made out her mother. But she was not in the accustomed calm that Salwa knew, and she had turned her face away from her. The child cried out from the depths of her heart, calling her: "Beloved Mother!" The mother turned, a great tear glistening in her clear eyes, and looked at her daughter with a deep look that pierced to the secrets of her heart, and said in a voice like a whisper: "Woe to you, Salwa! What have you done? You have killed your little brother! Is it thus that your tender... little... heart fills with jealousy and envy? Is it thus that Salwa, the loving daughter, is transformed?... Are these the morals I planted in your soul and suckled you upon with my milk? I shall not visit you in your dreams after today... nor listen to your ardent calls. No, Salwa! God will not forgive you; your prayer will not reach Him in the morning, nor will He accept your accustomed supplication at evening."

The specter vanished, murmuring: "Lord, forgive them, for they know not what they do." Then a fierce light flashed before the child's eyes, upon which she awoke, shivering like a bird drenched by the rain, searching for her mother like one possessed, and weeping tender tears... repentant... begging forgiveness.

The still dawn was sending out threads of its glittering silver lights... the universe was singing the glory of God, the Lord of might and power... and everything lay in an awesome silence and a stillness like the stillness of eternity... when "Salwa" sank to her knees with a reverence like the reverence of the virgin saints... clasped her hands with force and strength and faith, and lifted her gaze on high with wandering eyes... yearning... penitent... brimming with tears, turning to her Lord with an ardent, deep prayer: "Save my little brother, O my God... do not let death take him... Thy mercy, O Lord — pardon me... I will love him with all my love after today... Take me, O Death, in his stead... make me a ransom for my brother... I do not want him to die..." Then calling wore her out and weeping exhausted her, and she sank down, sobbing and sighing...

God heard Salwa's ardent call, and accepted her innocent repentance, pure... with the purity of dawn... and the miracle happened: the child benefited from the draughts of medicine instead of dying from them. What people had thought a cause of death became a cause of healing, and the angel of death vanished from around the patient, leaving the child in a world of peace... and bliss, believing that God had forgiven her and that her prayer would reach Him.

At the celebration of the "little one's" recovery, "Salwa" was the most joyful of all, feeling as though a hidden, unseen gladness were carrying her up to a sky... radiant... smiling. And she came forward to present him with a collection of her precious toys... and then the dearest thing she owned in all the world... the keepsake of her departed mother... a frame of precious diamonds on a chain of gleaming gold... She began to take out of it her mother's picture — which seemed to her to be smiling, more beautiful and sweeter than anything she had ever seen — to put in its place her brother's picture and present it to him, with a tear in her eye...

Who knows what the secret of that tear was?.. Was it joy that she had won the favor of her Lord and her mother, or sorrow for her dear keepsake?