Johnny Ludlow, Fourth Series. Mrs. Henry Wood

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      “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. “Won’t you shake hands with me?—and—and kiss me?”

      Now Becca had never kissed her in all the years they had lived together, and she did not seem to care about beginning now. “I’ll go down and beat you up an egg and a spoonful of wine,” said she, just touching the tips of Selina’s fingers, in response to the held-out hand: and, with that, went away.

      Stephen was the only one who did not pay the Pine Room a visit that day. He heard of the surprising change while he was feeding the pigs: for Becca went out and told him. Stephen splashed some wash over the side of the trough, and gave a little pig a smack with the bucket, and that was all his answer. Old Radcliffe sat an hour in the room; but he never spoke all the time: so his company could not be considered as much.

      Selina crept as far as the window, and looked out on the bare pines and the other dreary trees. Most trees are dreary in November. Francis saw a shiver take her as she stood, leaning on the window-frame; and he went to give her his arm and bring her back again. They were by themselves then.

      “A week, or so, of this improvement, mother, and you will be as you used to be,” said he cheerfully, seating her on the sofa and stirring up the fire. “We shall have our home together yet.”

      She turned her face full on his, as he sat down by her; a half-questioning, half-wondering look in her eyes.

      “Not in this world, Francis. Surely you are not deceived!” and his over-sanguine heart went down like lead.

      “It is but the flickering of the spirit before it finally quits the weary frame; just as you may have seen the flame shoot up from an expiring candle,” she continued. “The end is very near now.”

      A spasm of pain rose in his throat. She took his hands between her own feeble ones.

      “Don’t grieve, Francis; don’t grieve for me! Remember what my life has been.”

      He did remember it. He remembered also the answer Duffham gave when he had inquired what malady it was his mother was dying of. “A broken heart.”

      “Don’t forget, Francis—never forget—that it is a journey we must enter on, sooner or later.”

      “An uncertain and unknown journey at the best!” he said. “You have no fear of it?”

      “Fear! No, but I had once.”

      She spoke the words in a low, sweet tone, and pointed with a smile to the book that still lay open on the table. Francis’s eyes fell on the page.

      “When death is drawing near,

       And thy heart shrinks with fear,

       And thy limbs fail,

       Then raise thy hands and pray

       To Him who cheers the way

       Through the dark vale.

      “Seest thou the eastern dawn?

       Hears’t thou, in the red morn,

       The angel’s song?

       Oh! lift thy drooping head,

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