The vices of his forty or fifty years′ career had so branded him, that, in comparison with their effects upon his face, the heavy hand of Time upon the old man′s face who watched him had been merciful and beautifying.
"Who is this?" asked the Chemist, looking round.
"My son George, Mr. Redlaw," said the old man, wringing his hands. "My eldest son, George, who was more his mother′s pride than all the rest!"
Redlaw′s eyes wandered from the old man′s grey head, as he laid it down upon the bed, to the person who had recognised him, and who had kept aloof, in the remotest corner of the room. He seemed to be about his own age; and although he knew no such hopeless decay and broken man as he appeared to be, there was something in the turn of his figure, as he stood with his back towards him, and now went out at the door, that made him pass his hand uneasily across his brow.
"William," he said in a gloomy whisper, "who is that man?"
"Why you see, sir," returned Mr. William, "that′s what I say, myself. Why should a man ever go and gamble, and the like of that, and let himself down inch by inch till he can′t let himself down any lower!"
"Has HE done so?" asked Redlaw, glancing after him with the same uneasy action as before.
"Just exactly that, sir," returned William Swidger, "as I′m told. He knows a little about medicine, sir, it seems; and having been wayfaring towards London with my unhappy brother that you see here," Mr. William passed his coat-sleeve across his eyes, "and being lodging up stairs for the night—what I say, you see, is that strange companions come together here sometimes—he looked in to attend upon him, and came for us at his request. What a mournful spectacle, sir! But that′s where it is. It′s enough to kill my father!"
Redlaw looked up, at these words, and, recalling where he was and with whom, and the spell he carried with him—which his surprise had obscured—retired a little, hurriedly, debating with himself whether to shun the house that moment, or remain.
Yielding to a certain sullen doggedness, which it seemed to be a part of his condition to struggle with, he argued for remaining.
"Was it only yesterday," he said, "when I observed the memory of this old man to be a tissue of sorrow and trouble, and shall I be afraid, to-night, to shake it? Are such remembrances as I can drive away, so precious to this dying man that I need fear for HIM? No! I′ll stay here."
But he stayed in fear and trembling none the less for these words; and, shrouded in his black cloak with his face turned from them, stood away from the bedside, listening to what they said, as if he felt himself a demon in the place.
"Father!" murmured the sick man, rallying a little from stupor.
"My boy! My son George!" said old Philip.
"You spoke, just now, of my being mother′s favourite, long ago. It′s a dreadful thing to think now, of long ago!"
"No, no, no;" returned the old man. "Think of it. Don′t say it′s dreadful. It′s not dreadful to me, my son."
"It cuts you to the heart, father." For the old man′s tears were falling on him.
"Yes, yes," said Philip, "so it does; but it does me good. It′s a heavy sorrow to think of that time, but it does me good, George. Oh, think of it too, think of it too, and your heart will be softened more and more! Where′s my son William? William, my boy, your mother loved him dearly to the last, and with her latest breath said, ′Tell him I forgave him, blessed him, and prayed for him.′ Those were her words to me.
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