It was already growing dark when at last he opened the door, and stood listening. Not a sound! A milky twilight crept about the stairway and the landings below. He had turned back when a sound caught his ear. Peering down, he saw a black shape moving, and his heart stood still. What was it? Death? The shape of Death coming from her door? No! only a maid without cap or apron. She came to the foot of his flight of stairs and said breathlessly:
He ran down. She stood flat against the wall to let him pass, and said:
“Over?” said Soames, with a sort of menace; “what d’you mean?”
He dashed up the four steps in front of him, and came suddenly on the doctor in the dim passage. The man was wiping his brow.
Soames stood quite still, covering his eyes.
“I congratulate you,” he heard the doctor say; “it was touch and go.”
Soames let fall the hand which was covering his face.
“Thanks,” he said; “thanks very much. What is it?”
“Daughter—luckily; a son would have killed her—the head.”
“The utmost care of both,” he hears the doctor say, “and we shall do. When does the mother come?”
“To-night, between nine and ten, I hope.”
“I’ll stay till then. Do you want to see them?”
“Not now,” said Soames; “before you go. I’ll have dinner sent up to you.” And he went downstairs.
Relief unspeakable, and yet—a daughter! It seemed to him unfair. To have taken that risk—to have been through this agony—and what agony!—for a daughter! He stood before the blazing fire of wood logs in the hall, touching it with his toe and trying to readjust himself. “My father!” he thought. A bitter disappointment, no disguising it! One never got all one wanted in this life! And there was no other—at least, if there was, it was no use!
While he was standing there, a telegram was brought him.
“Come up at once, your father sinking fast.—MOTHER.”
He read it with a choking sensation. One would have thought he couldn’t feel anything after these last hours, but he felt this. Half-past seven, a train from Reading at nine, and madame’s train, if she had caught it, came in at eight-forty—he would meet that, and go on. He ordered the carriage, ate some dinner mechanically, and went upstairs. The doctor came out to him.
“I won’t go in,” said Soames with relief. “My father’s dying; I have to—go up. Is it all right?”