A CALL FOR EMILY.
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!’