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 to form her words. ‘I’m glad you’re there. I wanted to speak to you—my boy.’
‘Yes, grandmamma.’ He had knelt down at the bedside, where his head was on a level with hers as it lay on the pillow. She moved 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 should he know her whom he sought, wondering if she had come, wondering which could be her? He felt now, at this moment for which he believed himself to have wished, that if she had not come it would be a relief, then he could go back all the easier, more peacefully if he went back alone. Even as the thought passed through his mind, one of the figures which he had been following with his eyes, that of a tall woman, detached itself quickly from the group of the others, and came towards him.
‘You are John?’ she asked.
‘Yes,’ he answered, with a gasp.
‘Have you a cab? This is all I have brought. Let us lose no time.’
She had put her hand in his as she had come up to him. She gave him no other salutation, no kiss; but followed, as the boy, once more with the sensation of falling down, down, from he knew not what height, led the way to where the cab was standing. She put in her bag, stepped in hastily, motioned him to her side, and in another moment they were driving away together, seated there, this mother and son who had not met for years. John felt timid, altogether stupid, unable to say a word, his heart one moment giving a great throb, the next like a lump of lead in his breast.
‘How is my mother?’ she asked, ‘is she still alive?’
It was like a stab to John to have this question put to him in so many words, though he knew that it was a question of how long she might survive.
‘I was told,’ he said, ‘to tell you that your mother was a little better and might rally.’
‘Might rally?’ she said, thoughtfully, ‘I should scarcely think it likely.’ She was quite calm. John seated so that he felt her breath upon him, could scarcely help shivering with a nervous chill which seemed to come from her. She remarked this at once.
‘You are cold,’ she said. ‘Put up the window at your side; no doubt it is your nerves: you have been kept on the strain all day, or perhaps for some days. It is not a good thing for you at your age: put up the window, I will keep mine open; I like the air. Have they let you be with her?’
‘A little last night—not before.’
‘I am glad they had so much sense as that. She would talk to you, no doubt, and you would be very much affected. Poor boy!’
There seemed a momentary wavering in her, as if she might have turned to him with something like tenderness. Her arm seemed to him to move. He thought she was going to put it round him, and his heart filled with a sudden rush of warmth and softness. His mother! But either she had never meant it, or she changed her mind. She altered her position only enough to change from one hand to another the little bag she carried. And yet he could not help feeling that she meant more than that.
‘Did she say anything to you?—I mean anything beyond what she would naturally say?’
‘She spoke to me about you, mother.’
Once more the dark figure at his side moved. A sort of thrill seemed to run through her. She took a little time apparently to compose and command herself.
‘What did she say to you of me?’
‘I did not understand it,’ said John.
She turned, and seemed to look at him as if asking herself whether this simplicity was assumed or not. Then, with a touch of divination, put her hand upon his arm for a moment, and repeated,
‘Poor boy! I can see you are half-dazed with trouble and fatigue,’ she said.
‘Mother!’ said John, ‘mother——’
Again there was that faint thrill and moving in the profile that showed against the dim night of the further window. There was a soft suffusion of whiteness in the air from an unseen moon, and he could see the outline of her face and figure against it. But, if she had been moved by any impulse of love, she restrained it once more.
‘I would rather,’ she said, quickly, ‘that you used that name as little as possible while I am here. I am your mother, certainly; but we’ve been separated for a long time, and I have my reasons, chiefly for your own sake, for preferring not to be talked about among your village people, or discussed who I am. I mean no unkindness,’ she added, after a little pause.
‘Must I not call you mother?’ asked the boy. He was so tired, so dazed, as she said, so broken down with weariness and wonder and grieving that the sharp tone in his voice was more the petulance of a child than the indignation which began faintly to rise among the other emotions that were too much for him.
‘Not except when we are alone,’ she said. ‘Is this the village? are we near?’
The carriage stopped with a sudden creaking and jar. John had not observed where they were. He stumbled out now to his feet and held the door for her to get out. The door of the house was open, and his grandfather stood in the opening. The old man came down through the little garden slowly, shuffling with his heavy feet. There seemed to John’s feverish eyes some change, he scarcely knew what, in the house, as if the expectation, the waiting, had come to an end.
‘Emily,’ said old Mr. Sandford, ‘you are too late. Your mother is dead.’
‘Dead?’ she said, standing still at the gate.
‘Half-an-hour ago.’
The two, father and daughter, stood facing each other, with John behind not able to convince himself that there was anything real in it, that it was not all a dream.
‘Do you mean me to go back again, straight,’ she said, ‘from your door?’