GRAVE NEWS.
It was with a feeling of shame that Alfred put his boasted latch-key
into the street-door. He knew that Lily was waiting up for him, and
that it was inconsiderate in him to keep the young girl from her bed
until so late an hour; and although his brain was disturbed by drink,
he strove to administer a salve to his conscience by thinking that
Lily would do anything for him; but the effort was not quite
successful. Something whispered to him that it was unfair to take
advantage of the girl's love and devotion for him, and to cause her
anxiety. This was not the only unwelcome thought suggested by the
silent monitor that keeps watch in the mind of a man whose sense of
right is not entirely blinded; and Alfred received the points of these
nettles discontentedly, as others are in the habit of receiving them,
making excuses in response which he vainly strove to believe were not
shallow. He fell back at last upon the most ordinary of all
subterfuges. "What's the use of bothering?" he thought. "I'm not the
only young fellow who keeps out late once now and again." It is the
commonest thing in the world for us thus to throw the responsibility
of our own inexcusable actions upon other people's shoulders. "O,
well, I am not worse than my neighbours!" is the ointment we apply
when our conscience mildly pricks us but we cannot deprive the nettles
of their sting by suchlike sophistry.
As Alfred closed the street door behind him, a stream of light fell
upon the stairs from the room on the first-floor. Lily had heard him
come in, and now glided down to meet him.
"I am so glad you have come home," she said, with her arm round his
neck. "How late you are!"
Something in the hushed tones of her voice, some new tenderness in her
manner, expressive of pity for herself and for him, struck strangely
upon his senses. At the same time, he was ashamed of himself for the
condition he was in. His gait was unsteady, and his voice was thick.
His senses were not so clouded, however, as not to be able to perceive
that something of a grave nature had occurred in the house. Lily
seemed to cling to him for comfort, and, hiding her face in his neck,
strove to shut out creeping fears by which she was oppressed.
"How's mother, Lily?" he asked.
The sound of his voice came upon her like a shock. She was
inexpressibly grieved to learn from it that he was drunk. Her first
impulse led her to shrink from him, but only for a moment. The next
she linked her hand in his arm, and besought him to come up-stairs
quietly. He stumbled up by her side, and every slip he made caused her
to quiver with keenest pain. That he should come home at such a time
and in such a condition was one of the greatest sorrows the young girl
had known. He was about to enter the room where his mother was lying,
but Lily laid her hand upon his arm with nervous force.
"No, no!" she whispered, but so clearly and with such intensity that
her whisper was almost a cry; "no, no! Not there, Alfred; not there!"
"Why not?" he questioned wonderingly, and inclined to force his way.
But she stood before him, and said,
"Not as you are, Alfred; not as you are! You will be sorry! Come into
my room."
He obeyed her sullenly, and she, keeping tight hold of his arm, drew
him into her little room, where he sank unsteadily upon her bed. There
was no light in the room, and she made no attempt to light a candle
for she felt that it would be greater shame to see him drunk than to
know he was drunk and not look upon his face. But her suffering showed
itself in her voice. All that she said was, "O Alfred, Alfred!" and
sank upon her knees by the bedside, and hid her face in the clothes,
sobbing quietly. In a blundering way he drew her to him; but even
while she lay with her head upon his shoulder, she seemed to shrink
from him and to be ashamed of him.
"Are you making all this fuss because I've taken a glass too much to
drink?" he asked. "There! be quiet, and I'll promise not to do so
again."
Promises were the easiest things in the world for him to make. Weak
pliable natures such as his are continually building airy havens, in
which they do painless penance for their faults.
Before Lily could answer, the door was opened, and old Wheels entered
with a light. He looked at the young man half sternly and half sadly.
So significant in its rebuke was his look, that Alfred, glad of an
opportunity of attacking somebody in his own defence, started to his
feet in unreasoning anger. But, what with his passion and his
condition, the words that came from his lips were not distinct; and
old Wheels raised his hand with an action almost of horror, and
exclaimed,
"At such a time, at such a time! Are the sins of the father really
visited upon the children?" Then, with a compassionate glance at Lily,
he muttered, "I pray not, I pray not--for _her_ sake!"
"What do you mean, grandfather?" cried Alfred. "Is it such an
unheard-of thing for a man to come home an hour later than usual, that
you should treat me as if I have committed a crime?"
"Crime!" echoed the old man, looking steadily into Alfred's eyes. "God
keep you free from it!"
Whatever answer Alfred was prompted to give, it did not pass his white
and trembling lips. But presently he mustered up a blustering courage,
and cried in an injured tone,
"I won't stand it; I'll go away this minute! Let me go, Lily! I'll get
a bed somewhere else."
He knew his power over her; and even in this moment of weakness, when
he felt himself at such disadvantage, and so clearly in the wrong, he
had the cunning of a weak mind, and used it. He smiled in selfish
triumph as Lily's arms tightened round him.
"He does not know, grandfather!" she said, in an imploring tone.
"Don't speak harshly to him; he does not know."
"O, I know very well, Lily," he said, thinking she referred to his
condition; "I've taken a glass too much. I'm not ignorant of that; and
if grandfather thinks he can bully me without my answering him, he is
mistaken. He takes advantage of your being here, and of my being fond
of you, to cast out all sorts of insinuations against me."
"I have not accused you of anything, Alfred;" said old Wheels sadly.
"You hoped I should be kept free from crime," exclaimed Alfred
violently.
"Hush, Alfred," implored Lily, in awe-struck tones; "you don't know
what has occurred. Don't speak so loud! Your voice sounds sinful used
in such a way, and at such a time."
"I don't understand you, Lily. What's the matter with the time? It's a
little late, that's all."
"Lost to all sense of shame!" muttered old Wheels. "It is like fate.
So I parted from the father, and the son is before me, with the same
curse upon him."
"O, I can't stand this, and won't!" exclaimed Alfred roughly. "I'll
see if mother is awake, and then I'll go to bed."
He was moving towards the door, when Lily's terrified look, and the
old man's solemn gesture, made him pause. For the first time a fear
fell upon him.
"Why do you look so?" he asked of her; and then of his grandfather,
"and why do _you_ seek to prevent me going in to see mother?"
"Because you are drunk, and in your present state would not desire to
appear before her, if you knew----"
"If I knew what? Is mother worse? Why don't you answer? I _will_ go in
and see her!"
"Stop, Alfred," said the old man, quietly and solemnly; "Your mother
is dead!"