Johnny Ludlow, Fourth Series. Henry Wood

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СКАЧАТЬ father. Mr. Radcliffe, in a shabby old coat, was sitting in his arm-chair at the parlour fire. He looked pleased to see Francis, and kept his hand for a minute after he had shaken it.

      “My mother is very ill, sir,” said Francis.

      “Ay,” replied the old man, dreamily. “Been so for some time now.”

      “Can nothing be done to—to—keep her with us a little longer, father?”

      “I suppose not. Ask Duffham.”

      “What the devil!—is it you! What brings you here?”

      The coarse salutation came from Stephen. Francis turned to see him enter and bang the door after him. His shoes were dirty, his beaver gaiters splashed, and his hair was like a tangled mop.

      “I came down to see my father and mother,” answered Francis, as he held out his hand. But Stephen did not choose to see it.

      Mrs. Stephen, in a straight-down blue cloth gown and black cap garnished with red flowers, looking more angular and hard than of yore, came in with the tea-tray. She did as much work in the house as a servant. Lizzy had been married the year before, and lived in Birmingham with her husband, who was curate at one of the churches there.

      “You’ll have to sleep on the sofa to-night, young man,” was Mrs. Stephen’s snappish salutation to Francis. “There’s not a bed in the house that’s aired.”

      “The sofa will do,” he answered.

      “Let his bed be aired to-morrow, Becca,” interposed the old man. And they stared in astonishment to hear him say it.

      Francis sat down to the tea-table with Stephen and his wife; but neither of them spoke a word to him. Mr. Radcliffe had his tea in his arm-chair at the fire, as usual. Afterwards, Francis took his hat and went out. He was going to question the doctor; and the wind came rushing and howling about him as he bore onwards down the lane towards Church Dykely.

      In about an hour’s time he came back again with red eyes. He said it was the wind, but his subdued voice sounded as though he had been crying. His father, with bent head, was smoking a long pipe; Stephen sat at the table, reading the sensational police reports in a low weekly newspaper.

      “Been out for a stroll, lad?” asked old Radcliffe—and it was the first voluntary question he had put for months. Stephen, listening, could not think what was coming to him.

      “I have been to Duffham’s,” answered Francis. “He—he—” with a stopping of the breath, “says that nothing can be done for my mother; that a few days now will see the end of it.”

      “Ay,” quietly responded the old man. “Our turns must all come.”

      “Her turn ought not to have come yet,” said Francis, nearly breaking down.

      “No?”

      “I have been looking forward at odd moments to a time when I should be in work, and able to give her a happy home with me, father. It is very hard to come here and find this.”

      Old Radcliffe took a long whiff; and, opening his mouth, let the smoke curl upwards. “Have a pipe, Francis?”

      “No, thank you, sir. I am going up to my mother.”

      As he left the room, Stephen, having finished the police reports, was turning the paper to see what it said about the markets, when his father put down his pipe and began to speak.

      “Only a few days, he says, Ste!”

      “What?” demanded Stephen in his surly and ungracious tones.

      “She’s been ailing always; and has sat up there away from us, Ste. But we shall miss her.”

      “Miss her!” retorted Ste, leaving the paper, and walking to the fire. “Why, what good has she been? Miss her? The house’ll have a good riddance of her,” he added, under his breath.

      “It’ll be my turn next, Ste. And not long first, either.”

      Stephen took a keen look at his father from beneath his overhanging, bushy eyebrows, that were beginning to turn grey. All this sounded very odd.

      “When you and me and Becca’s left alone here by ourselves, we shall be as easy as can be,” he said.

      “What month is it, Ste?”

      “November.”

      “Ay. You’ll have seen the last o’ me before Christmas.”

      “Think so?” was Stephen’s equable remark. The old man nodded; and there came a pause.

      “And you and Becca’ll be glad to get us out, Ste.”

      Stephen did not take the trouble to gainsay it. He was turning about in his thoughts something that he had a mind to speak of.

      “They’ve been nothing but interlopers from the first—she and him. I expect you to do what’s right by me, father.”

      “Ay, I shall do what’s right,” answered the old man.

      “About the money, I mean. It must all come to me, father. I was heir to it before you ever set eyes on her; and her brat must not be let stand in my way. Do you hear?”

      “Yes, I hear. It’ll be all right, Ste.”

      “Take only a fraction from the income, and how would the Torr be kept up?” pursued Stephen, plucking up his spirits at the last answer. “He has got his fine profession, and he can make a living for himself out of it: some o’ them counsellors make their thousands a-year. But he must not be let rob me.”

      “He shan’t rob you, Ste. It will be all right.”

      And covetous Stephen, thus reassured and put at ease, strolled into the kitchen, and ordered Becca to provide his favourite dish, toasted cheese, for supper.

      The “few days” spoken of by Mr. Duffham, were slowly passing. There was not much difference to be observed in Selina; except that her voice grew weaker. She could only use it at intervals. But her face had a beautiful look of peace upon it, just as though she were three parts in heaven. I have heard Duffham say so many a time since; I, Johnny Ludlow.

      On the fifth day she was so much better that it seemed little short of a miracle. They found her in the Pine Room early, up and dressed: when Holt went in to light the fire, she was looking over the two books that lay on the round table. One of them was the Bible; the other was a translation of the German tale “Sintram,” which Francis had brought her when he came down the last summer. The story had taken hold of her imagination, and she knew it nearly by heart.

      Down went Holt, and told them that the mistress (for, contradictory though it may seem, Selina had been always accorded that title) had taken a “new lease of life,” and was getting well. Becca, astonished, went stalking up: perhaps she was afraid it might be true. Selina had “Sintram” in her hand as she sat: her eyes looked bright, her cheeks pink, her voice was improved.

      “Oh,” said Becca. “What have you left your bed for at this early hour?”

      “I feel so well,” Selina answered with a smile, letting the book lie open on the table. СКАЧАТЬ