Читать книгу The Son of His Father - Mrs. Oliphant - Страница 12

Table of Contents

Mrs. Sandford had not been well ever since that morning expedition of hers. There was nothing the matter with her, she said, oh, nothing. She was only a little tired; perhaps she had done too much at Christmas, what with the flannel-petticoats and all the rest. The clothing club had been a little trying that year. There had been more people to satisfy, a greater number of pence to reckon up, and garments to choose. And Mrs. Egerton had been absent on a visit, so that the great part of the work fell to Mrs. Sandford’s share. All these she set forth, smiling, as reasons why she should be tired. And then there was the reason that underlay all these, which gave force to them—that she was growing old. Of that there could be no question—every birthday made it more and more certain. She was no longer at a time of life when people can make light of fatigue. She was growing older every year. This smiling plea was received by grandfather with his tchick, tchick, and by John with a troubled but nevertheless unquestioning acquiescence: for there could be no doubt that it was true. He thought her even older than she thought herself, and felt that her days were over, before she had realised that fact in her own person. She grew older not only every year but every day as the weeks of January went on. At first she went out a little in the middle of the day when the sun shone. But soon this little exercise was given up. It did a delicate person no good, really no good, the doctor said, to go out in that wintry weather. It was wiser and better to stay indoors; and then it came to be considered wiser that she should rise late, and lie on the sofa when she came downstairs. She lay there always smiling, declaring that nothing ailed her, but as a matter of fact fading and failing day by day.

The last time she went out with John she had kept looking about with a little nervous glance by all the side roads. They went as far as the common and paused a little, looking across by the path which led to the railway-station.

‘Have you ever heard anything more of that man?’ she said.

‘What man, grandmamma?’

‘The man you once told me of, you know, who had been a convict. The man who was asking for somebody’s poor wife——’

‘Oh! yes, I remember. No. I am sure he has never come back again. Perhaps he did not mean all he said. He had been drinking——’

‘Drink is a terrible thing, John. Almost everything begins with drinking. I have known it poison more lives than anything else in the world. If I had to choose, I think I would rather that a child of mine should murder some one outright than take to drink, for in that case there is no telling how many he might murder—all that loved him—and himself as well as the rest.’

‘You need not tell me, grandmamma; no one can hate it more than I.’

‘I hope so. I hope so, dear! You have never seen anything all your life that could incline you in any such way, have you, John? But remember you have never been in any temptation—and till one is in temptation one can never tell what may happen. I think, my dear, we will go home.’

They had many little conversations of this kind. The old lady would begin upon any subject, it did not matter what, and then by degrees she would come to this:

‘I have seen so much in my life. I have seen many young people grow up everything that could be wished, as you have done, John; and then, as soon as they came into temptation, they have gone astray. Nobody knows till he has been tried: and it is not the disagreeable ones, the ones that you would dislike, that go: sometimes the very nicest, John—those that are the kindest, the tenderest. That is a great mystery. None of us can fathom it.’

‘It does seem very strange,’ said the attentive boy, listening at once out of respect and out of the cheerful curiosity of his age, often with a sense that he knew better, but far too considerate and kind, as well as conscious of the fitness of things, to let her see this. She had seen so much: and yet to one who had begun to know a little philosophy and a number of books, how little it seemed that grandmamma could know.

‘Oh! it’s very strange,’ she said. ‘I’ve lain in bed for hours thinking of it, and I’ve gone about the house for days thinking of it, and yet I never come any nearer. Do you remember what it says in the Bible, about the potter making one vessel to dishonour and another to honour? Oh! but, John, it seems sometimes more than that! It seems as if He took the vessels that had been made for honour, and dashed them down on the ground and let them all break into shreds and miserable fragments. You can’t think what it is to stand and look on at that, and be able to do nothing, nothing!’

John was sitting by the side of her sofa: for they had come in: and he saw with wonder, yet great respect, that the tears had come to her eyes.

‘But, surely, grandmamma,’ he said, seriously, ‘it must be their own fault.’

‘Oh! yes, my dear, no doubt it must be their own fault,’ she said, and put up her handkerchief to her eyes, and for a moment could not speak. The boy sat by her side, greatly touched by her emotion and wondering who it might be of whom she was thinking: for he felt that it could not be only the general question that went so much to the old lady’s heart. But he felt inclined to speak to her seriously, and reason with her, and say to her that no one could be forced to go wrong, that the people who did so must do it because they liked it, because they had no self-control, or wanted something in their constitutions: and that it was wrong to blame Providence or even human nature for what was their own individual fault. He only did not say this because he was so respectful and kind, and the sight of her silent crying—although, indeed, at her age, an old lady is easily moved to tears—went to his heart.

‘But no one can ever tell whether they can resist or not, till they have been tempted,’ she said. ‘We think nothing would ever make us do it, and then the next thing is that we find ourselves doing it, some in small things and some in great.’

To this, which was abstract, John did not know how to make any reply; and there was a silence of a minute or two, after which Mrs. Sandford said, suddenly,

‘John, I am thinking of sending for Emily. It is a long, long time since I saw her, and at my age, you know, one can’t go on living for ever.’

‘You don’t feel any worse, grandmamma?’

‘Oh, worse!’ she said, with her pretty old smile, ‘not even ill—there is nothing at all the matter with me. Still, I’ve been keeping quieter than usual, and lying on the sofa so much makes one feel weak. And I’ve been thinking that it’s a long, long time since she has been here. It is not quite natural that a daughter should be so long without coming to see her parents, is it?—and she our only child. But you must not suppose I blame Emily—oh, no! There were many reasons which seemed to make it better that she should not come—family matters which we should have to explain to people that know nothing about them. And in some respects, John, though you will think it strange, it might be a painful meeting. Still, I think that she should come.’

John did not feel able to make any reply. It seemed to have escaped Mrs. Sandford’s mind that this was his mother of whom she was speaking, and that, if it was strange that a daughter should not come to see her parents, it was still more strange that a mother should not come to see her child. The thought of her coming brought a great sense of disturbance into his mind. He did not feel that he had any wish to see her. His mother had got confused and lost in this Emily of whom he had heard so much. They were, he supposed, the same person, but he had a reluctance to identify them. It was not to her but to his grandparents that he belonged. He had no desire to have this little world disturbed, where all was so harmonious, by an alien presence. The wonder which had arisen in his mind when he talked with Elly, rose up again more painfully. How little she must care for him never to have wished to see him again. Perhaps she was one of those people who do not care much for anyone. Altogether it would be better that the family should remain as they had always been, without the disturbing influence of one who was so near to them all, and yet was a stranger. An uneasy sense that harm would come of it and that pain would be in it filled his thoughts.

‘Yes,’ said the old lady, in her soft voice, ‘whatever happens, it would be well that she should come. Her father would like her to be here. Even if he did not wish it at the time, he would be glad of it afterwards; for how could he settle everything, he that has never had any trouble about the house, by himself? John, we have a nice quiet time just now. It’s raining, and nobody is likely to call, and your grandfather has gone over to Sailsfield to ask about those new strawberries. Bring your little writing-case—that Mr. Cattley gave you on your birthday. You can put it here on my table. I’m too tired to write myself. Just say what I tell you. Are you ready, dear? Then, you may begin. “Dear Emily——”

‘But, grandmamma,’ said John, ‘how can I say “dear Emily,” when it is my mother? I can’t write to my mother so.’

‘Dear, dear me!’ said Mrs. Sandford, ‘how was it I never thought of that? Oh, my poor boy. It is just a confusion altogether,’ she cried, once more, with tears ready to drop, ‘just a confusion, everything turned upside down, and all as unnatural——! I felt it from the first, but they thought they knew better than me. Then you must say, “dear mamma,” John. I am glad you reminded me of that, for I get confused too. Now go on, my dear. “It is a long time since you have been here, and I think it is time that you should pay us a visit. We are getting old people, and your dear father, though he never complains, is not such a walker as he used to be, and I have got a little stupid, and can’t keep him as cheerful as I could wish.” Do you think I shouldn’t say as much as that? or what do you object to, my dear?’

‘Dear grandmamma,’ said John, ‘I had better put “Emily” at the beginning of the letter: for I could not say that about getting old, and about her dear father, could I—when I am only her—son?’

Mrs. Sandford said tchick, tchick as her husband did; half coughing, half crying.

‘How very silly I am. Of course, you can’t put all that in if you begin “dear mamma.” This is what you must say, John, just “My dear.” That is neither one thing nor another. Put all the rest that I have told you, and “My dear,” to begin with. “My dear,” will do for anybody. Tell her that I’ve been thinking of late of a great many things I should like to say to her: but that it tires me very much to write, and that the only way I can think is if she would come. Of course it will interfere with her time and she might not be able to get leave; but I hope she won’t grudge that once in a way to her mother: and tell her, John—it is just a little matter between us; it is nothing you will understand—tell her that the people here are very ignorant, good sort of souls that never know anything. They don’t even read the newspapers, and never have done so. She will know what I mean.’

John put down all this in the best way he could; but it seemed sadly out of character to him to write with his firm young handwriting, and with all the sense of incongruity that was in his mind, such sentences as these to his mother. He wrote to her very seldom; only on great occasions, at Christmas and other anniversaries, and very formally, as a boy writes when he is at school. He had done this for a long time, as a matter of course, and never thought any more of it. But now his eyes were opened to the strangeness of everything, to all that was out of nature in the constitution of his family, and it did not seem possible to him to continue any longer in that way which till now he had accepted without question. There was something even in the erasures with which this paper began—the ‘dear Emily’ which gave him a little shiver, the ‘dear mamma’ which was still more incongruous—which seemed to stir up all the smouldering questions which he was not aware were in his mind. He had not known anything about them, and yet, apparently, they were all there, waiting only this touch to bring them to light. Why was it she never came? Why was it she had abandoned him, her child, and then her parents? What was it in her life that kept her so far apart, so unknown, in a strange world, from which nobody ever came—nobody who could say ‘I have seen her’—to give them fuller satisfaction than letters could afford, letters which John was now aware told nothing but the merest surface of existence, that all was well, that he was getting on with his lessons, that the weather was very fine, or the season a cold one? What are such facts as these in comparison with the intercourse that ought to exist between people who were each other’s nearest relations? It gave him a great shock as he wrote that about ‘your dear father.’ Was grandpapa, indeed, her dear father? and did she think so little of him that she never came to see with her own eyes whether he was growing old or not? And what was he, John himself, her son? Oh, but other women were not so with their sons. All this must have been in his mind, though he had never thought of it before. He wrote down all that his grandmother had told him, and then he paused in his new development of feeling. It seemed to him that he would like to take this paper and tear it into a dozen pieces in the exasperation of his soul.

‘Grandmamma,’ he said, with a little quiver in his voice, ‘don’t you think it would be better for me to write from myself, and tell her this in my own way? I will say just what you want to have said, but it shall be from myself. It would be more natural. After all she is my—mother, I suppose.’

‘John!’ said the old lady. ‘You suppose! What should she be but your mother? Who should be your mother but she? Oh, my dear, I hope you will not take things into your head that are not true. We have enough of trouble, enough of trouble, in our family. Don’t you begin and imagine things that are not true.’

‘I don’t imagine anything,’ said the boy, ‘but if you will consider, grandmamma, this is my mother. And I know nothing about her. For a long time it seemed all simple. I never minded. But, now I’m getting older and see how other people are, it is all so strange. Let me have my own way this time—let me just write to her as it would be natural if I were really her son.’

‘Oh, my John, that you are, indeed, indeed; her son and nothing else. Whose son should you be but hers? Don’t take any wrong notions into your head. My poor Emily! Oh, if you knew how many things she has had to bear! And what would she do at the end of all if her own boy’s heart was cold to her? You are her son and no one’s else—hers, my dear, and hers alone.’

John looked with his clear young eyes, severe yet gentle, in her face.

‘Isn’t that too much to say, grandmamma? Am I not the son of my father, too?’

The old lady looked at him with a strange, low cry. She caught hold of both his hands for a moment, with a grasp in which there seemed something like terror. And then she dropped back upon her pillow and covered her face with her hands.

‘I always said it. I always said it,’ she cried.

Just then, in the pause that followed, a heavy, familiar step, slow and steady, came along the road, audible for some time in the quiet of the afternoon and the house. Mrs. Sandford dried her eyes hastily and raised herself up again.

‘There is your grandfather,’ she said. ‘Oh, my dear, take that away, and write as you please: but don’t say anything about it, for I have not spoken to him. And it is not as if I were sending for her, John. I am only saying that I should like to see her. Of course I should like to see her, every mother wishes that, to see her child. Write out of your own head; but don’t say anything about it, and quick, quick, take all that away!’