The Son of His Father. Mrs. Oliphant
her other hand, as if to give him a caress.
‘You’ve been a good boy. Whatever may happen afterwards, you’ve been a good, good boy to me. Always remember that, whatever happens. John, it’s about—Emily; I want to speak to you.’
She lay still a little and rested, and then resumed,
‘Emily is not—like me. She’s one that is—more difficult to get on with. She thinks you’re like him, and you are—like him. I see it, too. But never mind—there was good in him—plenty of good. You mustn’t—be discouraged—my boy.’
She put her left hand upon his shoulder—it was a great effort for her—and faintly patted him with her fingers. So faintly: like the touch of a bird.
‘And she seems—harder than she is. It’s her— principle. She has more—love in her—than she knows. If you wait long enough, it will come out. John—remember that. She will not let—her heart speak. It’s her—principle. She has—always done that. She has never—let her heart speak.’ The old lady stirred a little in her bed. Her voice strengthened for a moment. ‘Except once,’ she said. ‘And you know how that—turned out. She blames me, for I—was always fond of him—John.’
Her voice was so faint he could scarcely hear it, though every word was so precious to him, and though it was so hard to understand.
‘Poor dear,’ she resumed, ‘poor dear—if ever you should see him—you can tell him—I—always—prayed for him—to—the—end.’
‘Who is it, grandmamma? Oh, one word—tell me—who is it?’
The light in her eyes flickered a little. Perhaps she did not hear him. They wandered, fixed on his face for a moment, then strayed uncertain to other things.
‘It’s about Emily,’ she said, ‘Emily—don’t you know, Emily? You will think—she is hard—but, no—that’s her principle. Where—where is she? I thought—just now—she was here. Emily!’ She raised her voice a little, to call. And then a smile came over her face. Her hand dropped from John’s shoulder. ‘Yes,’ she said; ‘you are right, Emily—you always are right. I’ll talk—no more. I’ll go to sleep.’
John remained on his knees, he did not know how long. He was still there when the nurse came in from her sleep.
‘I hope you have not been talking to her, or crying, to excite her.’
‘She spoke to me a little; it was not my fault. I found her with her eyes wide open, and, when she saw me, she spoke.’
‘You ought not to have let her. This is always the way when one of the relations interferes. How is one to do one’s nursing, when relations interfere? There should have been another to take the night duty, and no amateurs here.’
‘May I stay?’ said John, who was shivering with cold and excitement.
‘No—get away, please, and leave me my sick person to myself; relations is just the destruction of everything. Oh, get away, please.’
John went downstairs to the fire, which had been kept up all night, and over which he crouched to warm himself. He was overwhelmed with wonder and sorrow. Death had come to the house, he felt it chill and cold, chilling him to his very heart. And what did these wandering words mean? Who was it for whom she had prayed to the end? He had his knees almost in the fire, and yet he shivered with cold, and with wondering and trying to understand. He must have dozed a little, for the voice of his grandfather, calling him, came to him through some sort of miserable dream, in which he seemed to be seeking some one and unable to find them—searching through wild distances and open wastes. He heard the call repeated two or three times, repeated through his dream, before he woke, with the trembling hand of the old man on his shoulder.
‘John! John! run for the doctor. John!’
‘Yes, grandfather,’ he cried, starting to his feet, still in his dream. Then he saw the cold, grey dawn of the morning about him, and the fire, and the well-known walls, and, with a shock and terrible sense of reality, came to himself. ‘Is she worse?’ he cried.
‘Run, run! Tell him he is to come directly,’ the old man cried, with a wave of his hand.
After the doctor had come and gone again, there was another errand for John. He had heard for himself what the doctor said. It had been said before them both, and they had received it in silence, saying nothing. Mr. Sandford was standing up, leaning against the mantelpiece, covering his eyes with his hand. He said, in a low voice, it might have been to himself,
‘We must send for Emily, now; she must come. She must come—now.’
‘Shall I telegraph, grandfather?’
‘Yes; say the time has come. Say her mother—her mother——’
And then there rose, in full wintry splendour, the day. It seemed to burst into sunshine all at once, as John came back from the telegraph office. It had been grey and misty before. But, suddenly, in a moment, the sun burst out over the top of the dark trees, in a flush and glow of triumph, and the village street blazed from end to end. It had rained the day before, and the road was wet and glistening, giving back a reflection from every broken edge and bit of pavement. It seemed to arrest and take hold of John in his cloud of trouble and unaccustomed misery, and flash him all over with light and warmth. He was astonished by it, as if it had been some great mysterious comet, and the suddenness of the illumination came into his mind and memory with an aching contrast to everything else about. It seemed to summon him to life and all its exertions, to hope and prosperity and activity; above all, it moved in his young soul an eager desire to do something, to fling himself into work, whatever it was; to begin in earnest. Alas, all that he had to do was to go back to the silent house, to meet and go through that awful day of waiting—that day in which nothing can be begun or done—in which all is waiting, in which every hour seems a whole day, although one would give one’s life to prolong that which this endless steady slow succession of flying moments is carrying away. The two watchers sat down sombre to meal after meal, at which each made a pretence of eating for the sake of the other, or rather that Mr. Sandford made a pretence of eating, for John, poor John, restless and unhappy, with nothing else to do, eat almost more than usual, ashamed of himself, yet feeling the relief of the dinner which was the only thing he had to do, the only break to those monotonous, endless hours.
‘Emily will arrive by the seven o’clock train. You must get the cab at Johnson’s, and go over to meet her, John.’
‘Yes, grandfather.’
‘And tell her her mother is if anything a little better. She may rally still. You will lose no time, John.’
‘No, grandfather.’
This was all the conversation that passed between them. It was repeated in about the same words three or four times during the day. For what was there else to say? All was either too trifling or too solemn. How could they talk of her, lying upstairs upon the edge of the eternal world? And how, she being there, could anything else be spoken of? The day went on like a century. Grandfather went up and down stairs, trying to walk softly, stealing into the room above on tiptoe, coming out again after a while shaking his head. John downstairs sat still and listened, sometimes dozing, in the long strain of that expectancy, waiting, almost wishing, for the news that would break his heart to hear. At last the evening came, and it was time to see after the cab at Johnson’s, and to set out to meet his mother. To meet his mother! How strange the words sounded! and yet he did not think much of them now. He drove to the station across the edge of the common, watching all the lights in the cottage windows staring out into the night.
There were several people arriving by the train, as John stood half stupified on the platform, still vaguely gazing, looking at the dark figures undistinguishable, which flitted to and fro against the background of the lights: the flicker of the lamps in the wind, the movement, the noise, the little crowd, confused him, even if he had not been confused before by all the effects of the domestic tragedy. He looked helplessly at the moving figures, wondering