"She went off like a lamb, sir," said the girl, drying her eyes. "You see the gentleman had been with her all the day, and she was much more easy and comfortable in her mind after he came."
"The gentleman! Not the gentleman I found here?"
"Oh, dear no! Not the pale middle-aged gentleman nurse and I saw go down as the clock struck two. But the young, soft-spoken gentleman who came in the morning, and said as how he was a relation. He stayed with her till she slept; and, when she woke, she smiled in his faceI shall never forget that smilefor I was standing on the other side, as it might be here, and the doctor was by the window, pouring out the doctor's stuff in the glass; and so she looked on the young gentleman, and then looked round at us all, and shook her head very gently, but did not speak. And the gentleman asked her how she felt, and she took both his hands and kissed them; and then he put his arms round and raised her up to take the physic like, and she said then, 'You will never forget them?' and he said, 'Never.' I don't know what that meant, sir!"
"Well, wellgo on."
"And her head fell back on his buzzom, and she looked so happy; and, when the doctor came to the bedside, she was quite gone."
"And the stranger had my post! No matter; God bless himGod bless him. Who was he? what was his name?"
"I don't know, sir; he did not say. He stayed after the doctor went, and cried very bitterly; he took on more than you did, sir."
"And the other gentleman came just as he was a-going, and they did not seem to like each other; for I heard him through the wall, as nurse and I were in the next room, speak as if he was scolding; but he did not stay long."
"And has never been seen since?"
"No, sir. Perhaps missus can tell you more about him. But won't you take something, sir? Doyou look so pale."
Philip, without speaking, pushed her gently aside, and went slowly down the stairs. He entered the parlour, where two or three children were seated, playing at dominoes; he despatched one for their mother, the mistress of the shop, who came in, and dropped him a courtesy, with a very grave, sad face, as was proper.
"I am going to leave your house, ma'am; and I wish to settle any little arrears of rent, &c."
"O sir! don't mention it," said the landlady; and, as she spoke, she took a piece of paper from her bosom, very neatly folded, and laid it on the table. "And here, sir," she added, taking from the same depository a card,"here is the card left by the gentleman who saw to the funeral. He called half an hour ago, and bade me say, with his compliments, that he would wait on you to-morrow at eleven o'clock. So I hope you won't go yet: for I think he means to settle everything for you; he said as much, sir."
Philip glanced over the card, and read, "Mr. George Blackwell, Lincoln's Inn." His brow grew darkhe let the card fall on the ground, put his foot on it with a quiet scorn, and muttered to himself, "The lawyer shall not bribe me out of my curse!" He turned to the total of the billnot heavy, for poor Catherine had regularly defrayed the expense of her scanty maintenance and humble lodgingpaid the money, and, as the landlady wrote the receipt, he asked, "Who was the gentlemanthe younger gentlemanwho called in the morning of the day my mother died?"
"Oh, sir! I am so sorry I did not get his name. Mr. Perkins said that he was some relation. Very odd he has never been since. But he'll be sure to call again, sir; you had much better stay here."
"No: it does not signify. All that he could do is done. But stay, give him this note, if she should call."
Philip, taking the pen from the landlady's hand, hastily wrote (while Mrs. Lacy went to bring him sealing-wax and a light) these words:
"I cannot guess who you are: they say that you call yourself a relation; that must be some mistake. I knew not that my poor mother had relations so kind. But, whoever you be, you soothed her last hoursshe died in your arms; and if everyears, long years hencewe should chance to meet, and I can do anything to aid another, my blood, and my life, and my heart, and my soul, all are slaves to your will. If you be really of her kindred, I commend to you my brother: he is at , with Mr. Morton. If you can serve him, my mother's soul will watch over you as a guardian angel. As for me, I ask no help from any one: I go into the world and will carve out my own way. So much do I shrink from the thought of charity from others, that I do not believe I could bless you as I do now if your kindness to me did not close with the stone upon my mother's grave. PHILIP."
He sealed this letter, and gave it to the woman.
"Oh, by the by," said she, "I had forgot; the Doctor said that if you would send for him, he would be most happy to call on you, and give you any advice."
"Very well."
"And what shall I say to Mr. Blackwell?"
"That he may tell his employer to remember our last interview."
With that Philip took up his bundle and strode from the house. He went first to the churchyard, where his mother's remains had been that day interred. It was near at hand, a quiet, almost a rural, spot. The gate stood ajar, for there was a public path through the churchyard, and Philip entered with a noiseless tread. It was then near evening; the sun had broken out from the mists of the earlier day, and the wistering rays shone bright and holy upon the solemn place.
"Mother! mother!" sobbed the orphan, as he fell prostrate before that fresh green mound: "herehere I have come to repeat my oath, to swear again that I will be faithful to the charge you have entrusted to your wretched son! And at this hour I dare ask if there be on this earth one more miserable and forlorn?"
As words to this effect struggled from his lips, a loud, shrill voice the cracked, painful voice of weak age wrestling with strong passion, rose close at hand.
"Away, reprobate! thou art accursed!"
Philip started, and shuddered as if the words were addressed to himself, and from the grave. But, as he rose on his knee, and tossing the wild hair from his eyes, looked confusedly round, he saw, at a short distance, and in the shadow of the wall, two forms; the one, an old man with grey hair, who was seated on a crumbling wooden tomb, facing the setting sun; the other, a man apparently yet in the vigour of life, who appeared bent as in humble supplication. The old man's hands were outstretched over the head of the younger, as if suiting terrible action to the terrible words, and, after a moment's pausea moment, but it seemed far longer to Philipthere was heard a deep, wild, ghastly howl from a dog that cowered at the old man's feet; a howl, perhaps of fear at the passion of his master, which the animal might associate with danger.
"Father! father!" said the suppliant reproachfully, "your very dog rebukes your curse."
"Be dumb! My dog! What hast thou left me on earth but him? Thou hast made me loathe the sight of friends, for thou hast made me loathe mine own name. Thou hast covered it with disgrace,thou hast turned mine old age into a by-word,thy crimes leave me solitary in the midst of my shame!"
"It is many years since we met, father; we may never meet againshall we part thus?"
"Thus, aha!" said the old man in a tone of withering sarcasm! "I comprehend,you are come for money!"
At this taunt the son started as if stung by a serpent; raised his head to its full height, folded his arms, and replied:
"Sir, you wrong me: for more than twenty years I have maintained myself no matter how, but without taxing you;and now, I felt remorse for having suffered you to discard me,now, when you are old and helpless, and, I heard, blind: and you might want aid, even from your poor good- for-nothing son. But I have done. Forget,not my sins, but this interview. Repeal your curse, father; I have enough on my head without yours; and solet the son at least bless the father who curses him. Farewell!"