she was going to die—or as I termed the phrase in my own mind, that “there was going to be an end of her—” and the idea delighted me. I had even a vague notion that she was appealing to me for assistance; and that she wanted me to ring the bell, or call the servants; but I did neither. Presently, a convulsion passed over her features, and she struggled so much, that thinking she would succeed in rising from the floor, I rushed to the door that I might be ready to make my escape; but it was the last struggle, which ended by her falling over on her back. When I saw that she lay quite still, I approached her again; and after watching her for a minute or two, I laid my finger on her cheek; and finding she took no notice of that liberty, I proceeded to greater; pinching her nose, and poking at her with the toe of my boot. Shocking! as the reader will exclaim; but “as ye sow ye shall reap;” I hated her; and I had no respect for death. I was too ignorant to have any; and my heart was too contracted. All I felt was triumph to think that I had the best of her now. She could not clutch me with those awful hands, nor make me learn the Catechism and the Ten Commandments any more. I jumped for joy; and it was whilst I was in the midst of expressing my satisfaction in a fandango, that my father entered the room, and I felt his fingers on my collar; but immediately afterwards, perceiving his mother on the floor, he flung me off, and was kneeling beside her, calling on her name in an agony of grief, and giving vent to the strongest expressions of despair; for he perceived at once that she was gone beyond recall; and although medical assistance was summoned, it was but a form. Death was too plainly written on her face to leave room for a hope.
From this time I saw very little of my father. What his feelings might have previously been towards me I do not know, but doubtless his affection was not augmented by the manner in which he found me testifying my satisfaction at a catastrophe which, I believe, he looked upon as the greatest misfortune that it remained for fate to inflict.
If the house was dull before, it was twenty times more so now. The bereaved son shut himself up in his library to moan unseen, and the servants, under the influence of the housekeeper and butler, moved about on tiptoe, and scarcely spoke above their breaths, that is to say, whilst they were within hearing of these functionaries. Out of doors there was a good deal of larking and fun, as I had occasion to see; for my father, unused I suppose to think of me, having given no directions to the contrary, I was left to roam about the grounds at pleasure. In short, as I had expected, I found my situation considerably ameliorated by what had occurred, and many a time I clapped my hands and kicked up my heels for joy that old Bogie was dead.
Her funeral was splendid—as the undertakers’ phrase is—and, no doubt, it cost a great deal of money. I was arrayed in a new suit of sables to attend it, and rode in the same carriage as my father. This was the first time I had seen him since he interrupted my fandango, and I felt dreadfully alarmed; but he was too much absorbed in his grief to think of me or my misdemeanors just then. Child as I was, I observed how much he was altered. He looked dreadfully ill; and—shall I confess it—I felt a hope that he was going to die too.
On the third day after this, I was informed by the servant who assisted me to dress that I was going to be sent away to school. I had a very obscure notion of what school was, and the idea of being sent away anywhere being agreeable, I felt quite elated at the news. I ate my breakfast in a pleasing state of excitement unknown to me before, till it being announced that the carriage was at the door, I was informed that I must go and bid papa good bye. A chill came over me at the thought of it, and yet I am inclined to think, now, that he had not treated me so very ill, nor even, perhaps, so very harshly; but, on the other hand, he never gave many evidences of affection. He supported my grandmother in whatever she chose to do, and I believe fancied she could never be wrong; and then his whole demeanor, as well as his countenance, were so sombre, dry, and austere, that it was impossible he could inspire a child like me with any other sentiments than those of fear and dislike.
When I went in, or rather was pushed into the library, he was sitting at the opposite end of it, at a table strewn with letters and papers. Some were tied up in packets, bound with red tape, and sealed. A basket filled with the fragments of those he had torn up stood beside him. He held one in his hand, which he was reading, when I entered. The servant, as he softly closed the green baize door behind me, gave me another push, indicating that I was to go forward, but I was in no hurry to advance, and, as the room was thickly carpeted, and everything since my grandmother’s death was performed in the most piano key, my father remained unconscious of my presence. I did not then know whether that was the case, or whether he did not choose to see me, so I stood still, scarcely breathing, with my eyes fixed upon his face, not wishing to accelerate the awful moment, and feeling something as a mouse might do that was shut up in the cage of a rattlesnake.
Presently, to my surprise, I saw the tears—big tears—begin to stream over his wan cheeks and fall upon the paper. He brushed them away and went on reading; but they gathered again and again. I had never seen any grown person weep before. I thought, indeed, nobody ever did weep but me. I was amazed and moved. I suppose there was a vague feeling, an unconscious estimate, of what an enormous amount of grief that must be which could have loosed the arid fountain of those tears. As his passion grew, my breast began to heave, till at length, when he dropt the letter on the table, and covering his face with his hands, gave free vent to his anguish in convulsive sobs, I, too, lifted up my wailing voice.
“Child!” exclaimed my father, uncovering his face, and suddenly rising from his seat, “What brings you here? Oh! I forgot. Come here, George.” And when he saw I did not move, he added, “Come here, my boy!” Then I went.