The Son of His Father. Mrs. Oliphant
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said, ‘that it’s just Emily’s way.’
‘Oh, grandmamma,’ cried John, ‘can’t you understand that I don’t want to think any more of her as Emily. She is not Emily to me.’
‘We must not judge her hardly, my dear. She has always had a way of her own. She was one that never could bear the idea of disgrace or—anything of that kind. She would bear a great deal, but, if anyone brought discredit on the family, that she could not bear. She was more like a man than a woman in that way. A woman has to put up with everything, John.’
‘I don’t see why she should, any more than a man.’
‘I can’t tell you the rights of it. I never was a clever woman like Emily. From her childhood she learned everything a great deal better than I could ever do. She could learn anything when she was a girl, she was so bright and clever, and I can’t tell you how proud we were of her, John; oh! so proud. There seemed nothing she couldn’t do. Especially her father—he was proud of her. He and she used to talk, and quite go beyond me. But anything that was a discredit she couldn’t bear. I don’t say but what it’s unjust to expect it of us; but I do think it’s best when a woman just puts up with everything, as I was always taught it was my duty to do.’
‘You speak as if there was something she would not put up with,’ he said.
Here Mrs. Sandford looked at him anxiously.
‘Oh, my dear,’ she cried. ‘Some day or other everything is found out in this world. I never put any confidence in secrets for my part. Though they may be ever so carefully kept, they always come out in the end.’
‘Is there a secret, grandmamma? I had been beginning to fear something of the kind. And they think, perhaps,’ said John, with indignation, ‘that I am a child, and cannot be trusted—that whatever it is I must not know it. But I have always felt there was something. Whatever it is, if it affects us, surely I ought to be told it now.’
Mrs. Sandford had been thoroughly recalled to herself by his words. She cast a glance of terror round her, lest, perhaps, some one might be within hearing.
‘Secret!’ she said. ‘Oh, John, what has put that into your head? Yes, yes; there have been things in the family which were very unpleasant—but they are all past and over, and what is the use of going back upon them? If there was anything you ought to know, you may be sure Emily and her father would have told you. As for me, I am not the one—I am not——’
‘Grandmamma, you are ill again.’
‘Oh, no, I’m not ill—not anything to mind. Never take any notice if I cry. I just can’t help it, John. I’m ill, you know, and not very strong. I cry for nothing, because I can’t help it, because I’m old. I have grown a great deal older, don’t you think so, in the last three weeks? and that was why I wanted Emily, partly. There were things I wanted to tell her. I wanted to tell her about that—don’t you remember, that—— What am I saying? The like of him could have nothing to do with us, nothing at all. Emily! Oh, I want her, I want to tell her something—I want——’
John had no more than time to ring the bell hurriedly, to hold her in his arms lest she should fall from the sofa, when another of her attacks came on. He had not seen it before, and he was very much frightened and distressed. It began with a sort of faint, followed by violent spasms of pain; it was dreadful to see her, so fragile and soft as she was, thus fighting for her life, and the scene made John’s heart bleed. But he was pushed out of the room by-and-by, when his grandfather, looking, oh! so haggard and anxious, and the doctor, in his brisk, professional way, came in. They bade him stay outside that he might be ready to run for anything that was wanted, which the boy understood well enough was only to get him out of the way. Presently the struggles grew less; the attack went off as the others had done. And he was allowed to help to carry her to her bed. She gave him a faint little smile as he laid down her head upon the pillow, and made a slight movement as if to put up her face to kiss him. Then she spoke confusedly, as if her brain were not quite clear: ‘Emily, Emily,’ she cried, as if to some one at a distance. ‘Oh, Emily, tell the boy: if it should be my last word; Emily! tell the boy.’
CHAPTER XI.
THE SHADOW OF DEATH.
Mrs. Sandford did not rise from her bed again. She disappeared into that mystery of the death-chamber, in which the fits of suffering that mark the different steps of progress towards the end, alternate with long intervals of calm, intervals which seem so long because there is no incident in them, and in which another series of habits springs up as if that state also might last for ever. The hours for medicine, the hours for food, the little toilet so painfully accomplished, after which the patient feels weary but refreshed, and is said to have ‘a better colour,’ a more hopeful aspect—all those laws and rules, a perfect routine of subdued being, were set up, and the alarm of the household was calmed.
When John was admitted now and then to sit by her for a little while, and hold her transparent hand, he felt a great consolation in that established routine of affairs. It seemed to afford a solid framework out of which she could not slip. She might not get better, perhaps; but still she would remain there, which was much. John sat down by the bedside at first with awe and anxiety, but, soon getting accustomed to it, lost his fears.
‘You are better to-day,’ he would say, wistfully.
‘Oh, almost well,’ said the old lady; and he believed it, though with a silent doubt down at the bottom of his heart; a doubt which was so painful and unpleasant that he would not listen to it, nor give any heed.
One night, about a week after the receipt of his mother’s letter, he was allowed to watch her for part of one night, the nurse having occasion for rest, and the grandfather, too, being exhausted with much watching. It was the middle of the night when John’s watch began, and she was very quiet, asleep, and likely to want nothing, the nurse had said.
‘If you’ll sit quite still here behind the curtain, with the light shaded, most likely she’ll never stir at all: but, if she does, you must call me; now mind you do call me, whether it’s anything of consequence or not.’
John promised, and sat down motionless within the shadow of the curtain. He had never in his life been up at such an hour, and the profound silence of the night, and the solemnity of the occasion, at once overawed and excited the boy. He felt as if this fading life was in his hands. If she woke, if she wanted anything, his action, perhaps, might save her—who could tell? He felt, as the inexperienced are so apt to feel, that an accident or miracle was always possible, and that some little matter might at any time arrest the progress of dying, and bring a sufferer back from the verge of the grave. But she did not stir. She was very quiet, as the nurse had said she would be. And then he got frightened of the stillness, and thought that she might have died.
This oppression of quietness grew upon him so that he moved the curtain slightly to look at her; and then John was more startled still, driven almost into a panic by the sight of her open eyes, which turned to him when he moved though she did not move her head. She was lying back upon her pillow like a child, so small, her little face encircled by her cap, her eyes turned to him, two lamps of light amid the stillness and the dimness. There was nothing dim or still in them, they shone with all the brightness of a life which was inexhaustible, perhaps even with humour in them, but certainly with a clearness and vigour more remarkable, John thought, than he had ever seen in them before. He faltered ‘Grandmamma!’ in his alarm, though he knew that he ought to have taken no notice, that he ought to have kept perfectly still in order that she might go to sleep again, and not be disturbed.
She did not say anything for a moment, but gave him a soft reply with her eyes, then feebly put out her hand. She smiled when she felt the touch of his hands clasping it, but for some time did not attempt to speak. Then, after awhile, she called him faintly.
‘John——!’ It took some time