Part 7 (1/2)

In the evening the sick lady and the boy, under Captain Clark's care, reached the apartments in Brook Street that had been secured for them.

About seven o'clock Uncle Hugh made his appearance. He forbore to speak one word of anger or reproach to Jeff; even greeting him with a certain degree of kindness. The poor boy was alone in the sitting-room turning over the pages of an old _Graphic_. His eyes bore traces of recent tears.

”And how is your mother getting on, Jeff? I hope we shall be able to take her back to Scotland to-morrow.”

”To-morrow, Uncle Hugh? oh, no! She is very ill--much worse than we thought. Perhaps she will be ill a long time. The doctor is here now.

The railway tried her so much. She has fainted thrice since we got here.”

All Jeff's stoical fort.i.tude broke down when he began to speak--the tears could not be kept back, and he sobbed bitterly.

”Uncle Hugh, what shall I do? She does not look like the mother she used to be! She cannot walk across the room or even sit up.”

Mr. Colquhoun had not realized anything seriously the matter with his sister-in-law, and this was the first intimation he had received of her critical condition.

By and by, when he had seen the doctor, he was made to recognize the gravity of the case. There was very little hope of the gentle mother's recovery. All the antic.i.p.ations of convalescence in Scotland, and a reconciliation at Loch Lossie, were at an end. He remembered his wife's last injunction, ”Be sure you bring Mary down here at once, and don't have any excuses.”

Alas! poor Mary would never travel any more to her old home. Her days of rest were at hand.

Uncle Hugh was very gentle and considerate towards Jeff that night and during the ensuing days that dragged so slowly. The boy could hardly be persuaded to leave the house for half an hour, and always hurried back with feverish impatience after the shortest absence. He came in mostly laden with primroses and violets--her favourite flowers; often going into two or three shops to get them, never sufficiently satisfied with their freshness.

One night Jeff had gone to bed earlier than usual, for he mostly lingered about the pa.s.sages or wandered restlessly from room to room till it was late. This evening he had been greatly comforted by some fancied improvement in the poor invalid's appearance.

”Mother darling, you are better--say you are better to-night, and that you will soon be well enough to go back to Loch Lossie,” he said as he hung over her at saying ”good-night.”

She smiled fondly upon him.

”You wish me to get better so very much, Jeff, I almost feel as if I must.”

”You must, you must,” he repeated vehemently.

It hardly seemed any time since he had gone to bed when Jeff was roused by Uncle Hugh touching him on the shoulder.

”Get up, my boy, quickly, your mother wishes you to come to her.”

Mr. Colquhoun's face was very grave, and his habitually cold voice had a thrill of sympathy in its tones. The boy was up in a moment.

Nothing was surprising now. When he had put on his clothes he went down-stairs to his mother's room. The door was ajar and he pushed it open. There was a solemn hush here, though there were plenty of lights about, and a kettle steaming on the hearth. Jeff noticed at once an overpowering smell of drugs. There was a strange man in the room. The boy with a cold chill at his heart recognized him as a doctor. How still the figure on the bed was! How marble-white the face propped up by many pillows! The mother heard the gentle footfall of her beloved child, and the soft brown eyes unclosed at his approach--unclosed with the ever-loving glance. A fleeting smile pa.s.sed over her face.

”My little lad,” said a voice, oh, so faintly, but with such infinite tenderness, ”you have been quick in coming. I have sent for you to say another good-night. Jeff, darling, try and understand--I am going--where it is always morning--I am going to leave you--after such a little stay--”

The boy had thrown himself beside her on the big bed. He had never seen the approach of death. He could not understand it.

”Mother, why should you go? why should they take you away from me again? Oh, no, no! Please, sir, do not be so cruel; I'm so lonely without her.”

He turned with anguished eyes to the grave gentleman who had placed a hand on the dear mother's pulse.

Again she spoke: