WHEN John heard his grandfather breathe that sigh of helplessness which resolved itself into a desire for Emily—if the purposeless exclamation ‘if Emily were here!’ could be construed into a wish—he considered it best to tell him what he had done. He had felt it so strange never to see her, to know nothing of her, that he had written to beg his mother to come. For the first instant the old gentleman had shown displeasure and something like alarm.
‘Who gave you authority to invite her here? What is she going to do here? Don’t you know, sir, don’t you know, sir, that I—that she—that she—that everything depends—’ Mr. Sandford stammered forth in wrath. And then he stopped himself in considerable agitation, and walked about the parlour a little, to calm himself down. ‘To be sure she’s the boy’s mother, after all,’ he said to himself, in a sort of whisper. ‘And then her mother’s bad—my poor old dear—she’s very bad.’ There seemed a process of reasoning going on in his mind of which those murmurs marked the stages. Finally he put his hand on John’s shoulder not untenderly. ‘You’ve done it,’ he said, ‘out of your own head. I would not have let you do it had I known. But now that it’s done it’s done, and it may turn out for the best.’
‘Do you think she will come, grandfather?’ John asked, eagerly.
‘God knows. She would, like a shot, if it was anyone but Emily. But how can I tell what she will do? She was always too many for me.’
And with a sigh the old man hurried upstairs again ‘to see how She was going on.’ His old wife had done everything for him all the long lifetime they had spent together. But his alarm and awkward anxiety were touching. He would fain have done everything for her with his clumsy, old, trembling hands and slow comprehension of invalid needs. How should an old man who had been used to have everything done for him learn in a moment the arts of a sick-room—the recollection of everything, the softened touch, the subdued sounds? Love itself is not enough to teach all these. And old Mr. Sandford had been less used to help himself than any duke. To have your wife there to do everything for you, as is the habit of the class to which he belonged, involves a far closer service than any valet would give. The poor old gentleman, with the best will in the world, was quite incapable. He required her to tell him what to do. ‘My dear!’ the appeal of fifty years, which had always been met on her part by the instant response of a service which was far more than duty, came to his lips every moment almost with at touch of indignation: for if she would not tell him how could he be expected to know? But he could not keep away from her. He wanted to see with his own eyes every moment that she was getting a little better. She had never been ill, and he did not believe in her being ill; but still if she should be ill what would become of him and everything? His very heart seemed to stop beating at the thought.
These two had come to that point of age and long continuance when it is scarcely possible to believe in an end at all. Everything went on with such a steady, gentle routine, one day following another, each the same as the other, a steady succession of hours and habits, and invariable ways. They were so accustomed to it all: they were past the age of change: they were so easily satisfied, wanting nothing more than the warmth of the fireside, and their mutual talks, and their sober, moderate meals, and to see John growing up such a fine fellow! That was the one quicker, keener throb of happiness in the midst of their well-being. That he should go away would indeed be a wrench. But then there was no reason to suppose that his going away would be for anything but his good, and it was inevitable, a thing they had always known. And then they would have his letters, and his visits now and then, and always themselves to fall back upon, the inseparable pair, the two who were one. It is true that everybody knows that everybody else must die, but there seemed no reason in the world why this life should not go on for ever, so peaceful, so uneventful, doing no harm to anybody, doing good, demanding so little, and in itself so contented, without further desire or expectation. Mr. Sandford had long got over that other human sentiment which fears its own well-being, and feels that, the more comfortable you are, the more likely it is that fate will come down and crush you. Fate had nothing to do with this old pair: they were good, religious people, who had suffered much in this life, but to whom God had given a peace which was very sweet. And why should it be broken by any startling change? Why should it be disturbed? It was not an idea to be entertained for a moment. Did not all experience prove that that which hath been is the thing which shall be? He went upstairs, trying to make no noise with his heavy tread, to convince himself that every moment she was getting a little better, and that no change was possible, except for good.
The answer to John’s letter could not come till the second day; as a matter of fact, it did not come till the fourth. All these three mornings he came down early, and was at the door to meet the postman as he went his rounds, which did not mean that John doubted his mother’s coming, but only that he was very anxious, and eager to know what she would say. Not only her answer, but what she would say. Was it possible that her reply would be in the old, formal tone, as to a little boy who knew no better? or would she now perceive that he was at least an independent human creature, capable of feeling, capable of knowing, and address him as such? John was almost more anxious to resolve this question than to know whether she was coming. Of course she must be coming. Who could resist the appeal, that was at once from her mother and from her son? He had forgotten by this time how very little had been her mother’s part in it, and believed sincerely that he had said everything that had been suggested to him. In the first pang of astonished disappointment with which he found that there was no letter the first day, all his calculations were confounded, for he had never for a moment supposed that she would not answer, and answer at once. But then his hopes sprang up, and he said to himself that she must be thinking it over, and arranging how to come, and that she did not wish to write till she could tell him exactly the hour she would arrive. On the third day, grandmamma was downstairs again, looking paler, but still smiling. She took his face between her two thin hands (how thin they had grown, and all the veins showing), and whispered in his ear, as he stooped over her:
‘What does Emily say?’
Always Emily. He could not get rid of Emily.
‘There is no letter yet, grandmamma.’
‘Ah! she will be waiting till she can settle exactly which train she is to come by,’ said the old lady, and gave him a kiss, and lay smiling, thinking, no doubt, of her daughter, who was coming. She could not talk much, for she was still very weak.
On the fourth morning the letter arrived.
‘It is for you, Mr. John,’ said the postman.
‘Yes, yes,’ cried the boy; ‘I know it is for me.’
He hurried in, and shut the parlour-door, that no one might disturb him in reading it. At all events, it was a letter, he could see in a moment, and not the usual little formal note about his health and her health, which had been enough for him when he was a child. John’s heart beat very high as he began to read, but gradually calmed down, and became quite still, scarcely moving at all in his breast. For his mother’s letter was not the kind of letter to encourage the beatings of any heart.
‘I have received your letter, partly with pleasure, seeing that you write in a much more intelligent and independent way than usual, which I am glad to see—for at nearly seventeen you are on the eve of manhood, and very different things may be expected from you from those which all your friends were content with when you were a child. But I also read it with pain, for there seems to me an idea in it that, if you insist very much, you are sure to get your own way, a sort of thing which perhaps is natural, seeing how you have been brought up, and that no doubt my father and mother have indulged you very much: but which is not good for you, and will expose you to disappointment even greater than we are doomed to by nature. How can you know that it would be a good thing if I were to come? You ought rather to understand that, as I have not come all these years, it is because your grandparents and I, who know all the circumstances, have decided that it is better I should not come. This I probably could not explain to your satisfaction, but it was settled to theirs and to mine long ago—and you cannot expect that I should depart from a resolution which I did not make without pain—because you, a boy who knows nothing about it, have been taken with a fancy that you would like to see your mother. It is quite natural, no doubt, that you should wish it, though I cannot suppose that it would make any particular difference to you whether your wish was granted or not. You are at an age when a mother is not of much consequence, and, if you had been brought up with me, you would probably be very impatient of me, and prefer to get out of my way, like most boys of your age. And I am sorry to say that I don’t think you would like me much if you saw me. Your ideal of course is my mother, and I am not at all like my mother. If anything should happen that would make it necessary for us to be together, necessity will help us to get on with each other; but for the present, so long as there is no necessity, it is best to go on as we are doing. There are reasons, quite needless to enter into, which make it out of the question, unless it were a matter of life and death, that I should go to Edgeley. I am sorry to disappoint you, but it is much better you should know.
‘I shall always be glad to hear how you are getting on. I am glad to know that something has been done towards deciding what you are to do for your living. Of course my father and mother, who have brought you up, are the right persons to settle that, and I approve in general, though I should like to know what they are doing most particularly, and to give my advice, though I should not interfere. For yourself, pray write to me whenever you feel disposed, and I will answer to the best of my ability, though I cannot always promise you to do what you desire.
‘Your affectionate mother,
‘EMILY SANDFORD.
‘P.S—I am sorry to hear that my mother is not so strong as usual. Let us hope she will recover her old spirits as the spring comes on. I daresay she was a little low when she thought it would do her good to have a talk with me. Tell her, if she thinks a little, she will remember that it is very doubtful whether we should either of us like it, and, as for the people being ignorant, the more ignorant the better, it seems to me.’
John had been palpitating with expectation and hope when he opened this letter. He came gradually down, down, as he read it. All through, he felt that it was Emily who was writing to him, a woman whom he knew a great deal about (and yet nothing), and whom he did not like very much—not his mother.
It seemed likely that he had no mother. The loss of all that he had been expecting and looking forward to, and the strangest sense of whirling down, down, as if everything was giving way under him, made him sick and cold. When he had read it to the last word, he folded it up carefully, with a very grave face, and put it into his pocket. He was far too serious for the angry impulse of throwing it into the fire. He was not angry so much as crushed and overawed. He felt himself altogether put down from the position which he had taken. She had acknowledged that he was no longer a child, and yet she treated him as if he knew nothing, understood nothing. The injury to his pride, to his heart, to all that was individual in him, was more than words could say.
Mrs. Sandford looked at him wistfully when she came downstairs (always a little later). She caught his hand when he came and stood by her sofa looking down at her, thinking how bright and liquid her eyes were. How large and deep the sockets seemed, as if they had widened out, and what a pallor had come upon her face—her little face! She was a small woman, but now her face was like the face of a child, all but the widened circle about her eyes. She put her hand upon his, the touch felt like a feather, and looked up at him wistfully, but without speaking. He had gone out immediately after breakfast, half stupified, and taken a long walk, his chief object being not to see her, not to give her any information. But he was obliged to answer the question in her eyes.
‘I have had a letter, grandmamma. She says she can’t come.’
‘Can’t come, John!’ The old lady kept looking up at him, till suddenly her eyes grew dim with two great tears. She clasped her hands together with a low cry. He could see the disappointment, which was so unexpected, go over her like a flood. She could not say any more. Her lips quivered—it was all she could do in her weakness not to break down altogether, and whimper and moan like a child. ‘Can’t come!’ she repeated, after a time, with little broken sobs.
‘Grandmamma, don’t take it like that, and break my heart. It is my fault. I began to write as if it was me only, and I felt it a good deal and went on and on from myself, not from you. She thinks it was only my letter, only I that wanted her. She seems to have thought that it was rather impudent of me to ask.’
‘She could not have done that. She could not have done that,’ said the old lady. She was so used to mastering herself that she had by this time succeeded in doing so, though her lip trembled and she kept softly drying her eyes: for at her age the eyes only get full with a dew of pain, they do not pour forth easy floods of tears like those that are young. John felt that she was, like himself, cast down from a height of expectation. She began to smile after a time very pathetically with her quivering lips. ‘We mustn’t forget,’ she 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.’