THE ONLY SON OF HIS MOTHER.
"The sap is bitter in the bark,
That sweetens in the fruit above;
And spirits toiling through the dark
Shall reach at last their light of love."
GERALD MASSEY.
JOSEPH purposely refrained from speaking of his encounter with Horace
Grandpont before Ruth, so tea-time passed over without any allusion to
it, and afterwards he had plenty to divert his mind from the occurrence
in the shape of his own Greek and Ruth's arithmetic.
Mr. Adams had been attending a funeral that afternoon, and had not yet
come in. He had told his wife not to expect him early, as he should
take the opportunity of making a call, at the other side of the town,
upon some one with whom he had a little matter of business to arrange;
but it was getting late. Ruth had been upstairs an hour or more, and
Joseph was beginning to feel sleepy over his Greek. At length, with a
desperate yawn, which plainly showed his usual bedtime was past, he
closed his books and pushed them away.
"Father didn't expect to be so late as this," he said.
"No," replied his mother. "I can't think what has delayed him. But that
need not keep you up, Joseph. You have to be stirring early, and want
your rest. How are the greenhouses getting on?"
Joseph had commenced another gape and stretch at the bare mention of
rest, but his mother's question about the greenhouses recalled Horace's
conduct. The yawn came to a premature end, and he was just about to
relate what had taken place, when a well-known step outside made his
mother jump up and lay aside her work.
"There's father at last," she exclaimed, at once commencing
preparations for dishing up the bacon she had been keeping hot for his
supper. "I knew he couldn't be much longer."
Mr. Adams looked worn and tired when he came in. He brightened up at
the smell of the bacon, however.
"Always the one to have a bit of something nice for me after a tiring
day," he said, with a grateful smile at his wife. "I don't know what I
should do without you, after all, Mary."
"'After all!'" exclaimed his wife, as she placed the dish before him
and removed the cover. "There's a funny thing to say! You didn't think
of trying, did you?"
"One of us will have to do without the other, some day," returned Mr.
Adams, a trifle gloomily. "I often think of that when I'm helping to
bury the dead out of sight. 'One' must go 'first.'"
"I thank God the choice is not in our hands," said the wife reverently.
"I shouldn't know which way to choose if it were," rejoined Mr. Adams.
"I'm better fitted to go through the world alone than you; but for
that, I'd rather go first. They say widowers are easily consoled; but I
wouldn't care to live without you."
"It will all be ordered for the best," said his wife solemnly. "But
come, Joseph," she added, in a more cheery tone, "you're dull to-night.
You talk as if you had been making your will."
"No need of much making," laughed Mr. Adams, suddenly clearing his
brow, as if struck by a comical thought. "Brother Benjamin might well
make his. I heard to-day that he and Edward Anderson were heavily
staked in this new Building Society. It's quite true about the
waggonette, too, in addition to the dog-cart; and young Neville is to
go to Oxford. When a man can afford all that expense, it's well for a
lawyer to see all square, in case of a casualty."
Neville going to Oxford! Joseph almost started, and his heart was
filled with burning envy. Why must he be condemned to labour with his
hands, while this empty-headed cousin of his went to college, to learn
vicious ways and squander his father's income?
Not that Joseph envied him his idleness and luxury, his white hands and
well-cut clothes. But he had a great ambition, and the very opportunity
which would be the first step towards realizing it was denied to him
and given to another, incapable and undesirous of using it.
Joseph was roused from his thoughts by a question from his father
relating to the greenhouses. After reporting progress, Joseph told him
of Horace Grandpont's insolence, with his usual truthfulness neither
adding to nor taking from the plain statement of facts.
Mr. Adams looked serious. "It isn't advisable you should come to open
hostilities," he said. "Working-people—and we are that, Joseph—"
"I know we are that," interrupted Joseph, somewhat bitterly.
"And nothing to be ashamed of either," interposed his mother; "so long
as we do our duty in our own sphere of life, and owe no man anything.
But you're not getting on with your supper, father."
Mr. Adams had allowed his knife and fork to lie idle for some time.
He now pushed his plate away, saying, "No more, Mary. It seems to go
against me; I feel rather queer."
And driving his chair back, he turned towards the fire and spread out
his hands to the glow.
"As I was about to say," he continued, in a minute or so;
"working-people can't afford to quarrel with their bread and butter.
And though I never was one to cringe to my superiors where they had no
right to demand it, I don't believe in that spirit of general equality
which makes a man forget that his employer's money must be bought with
respect. It's quite true he's made of the same blood, and a hundred
years hence, king and beggar will both be dust, but it's the same
spirit that's at the bottom of Communism and Nihilism, and all such
great evils, and can't be productive of good. God Almighty permits
differences of rank, and as long as we don't forfeit our self-respect,
we needn't be ashamed to act in accordance with our position in life.
But you did very well, my boy; and you played a very Christian part at
the last."
"I hope he felt ashamed of himself," remarked Joseph.
"I hope he did," echoed his father; "for his own sake. It's a bad thing
for a young man with a long life ahead of him, to start with the notion
that the world was made for his express gratification. If he doesn't
meet with a pretty decided pull up before he gets out of bounds, he'll
cut a sorry figure in his old age. Riches will not serve him against
God's justice. There are stern laws in this world that will not yield
even to 'the pick-lock that never fails;' and working against them
wastes time and muscle, and wears us out in the end."
Soon after this, Mrs. Adams went out into the kitchen, and Joseph—by
this time thoroughly tired—said good-night. He was not half-way up to
his room, when he heard his father call. Thinking that the latter had
something to tell him about the morning's work, he turned at once and
obeyed the summons, dropping down the stairs two or three steps at a
time.
His father was sitting just as he had left him, with his elbows resting
on his knees, and his eyes apparently fixed on the fire; but he did not
stir when Joseph entered. Probably he did not hear; for the lad had
pulled off his boots for the night, and run upstairs without them. So
after waiting an instant by the door, Joseph approached.
"Here I am, father," he said. "Did you want me?"
Mr. Adams raised his head slightly at these words. "I wish you would
call your mother," he said, in a hollow voice. "I feel so curious."
He was deathly pale, and his lips were livid. There was a strange look
on his face, which Joseph had never seen before. Springing to his side
with an instinctive fear lest he should fall forward on the bars, he
placed the unresisting man back in his chair, and dragged it a few
paces from the hearth, then hurried out to find his mother, calling her
as he went.
She was not in the kitchen, so he passed out and met her just returning
from putting the padlock on the fowl-house.
"Your father usually does this," she began; but Joseph interrupted her.
"Father wants you," he said. "He doesn't feel well."
"He came in tired," returned his mother, never dreaming of the awful
blow that was awaiting her. "I'll be with him directly I've called the
cat in."
"You had better come at once," said Joseph urgently. "There is
something serious the matter."
And without further delay, he hastened back.
His mother followed immediately.
Mr. Adams was sitting back in his arm-chair as his son had placed him,
with his head sunk on his breast, and his hands hanging lifelessly
on his knees. One glance was enough. Even as they reached his side,
a faint sound escaped from his lips, and his head sank lower on his
breast.
"The brandy, Joseph, quick! A doctor! Oh, my poor husband!"
Swift as lightning Joseph obeyed; then leaving his mother with the
dying, or the dead, he sped from the house and down the street.
The nearest doctor lived within ten minutes' walk. Joseph reached his
door in less than five, and rang the bell as if he would tear it down.
"Not at home!"
Without waiting to ask further questions, the lad rushed on, careless
that his stockinged feet felt each stone on the road. In turning a
sharp corner, he came straight into the arms of his cousin and Horace
Grandpont, lounging idly, cane in hand, but disentangled himself
without a word, scarcely knowing who they were, and sped on, on to Dr.
East's, where, panting and well-nigh exhausted, he awaited an answer.
"Not at home, nor likely to be in all night."
For a moment, Joseph stood dismayed. His father dying, and no doctor
to be had! Then he remembered that he had left Dr. Abel's without
ascertaining whether he was expected in, and thither he retraced his
steps.
The carriage was just driving into the stable-yard as he arrived at the
surgery door. Breathlessly, he stated his errand.
The doctor gave orders to turn the horse's head, and springing to the
box, in less than a minute Joseph was once more at home.
But it was too late. No help could avail. The last breath was drawn ere
Joseph left the house; and his mother was a widow.