I smiled again, and bent and kissed the bloodless fingers. ‘There, my dear,’ I said. ‘Lie quietly; all will be well. And there is no need in the world to say anything unless you wish.’
The doctor himself had warned us that the boy was not to be crossed in anything. And I realized what that meant. In the brief, broken talk between us that followed, he confessed that he had some days before made up his mind to run away. To his mother I admit, not to me; and then he had decided otherwise.
‘Why, Philip? What had made you so unhappy?’ I ventured.
‘Not unhappy,’ he assured me. ‘I was too happy. But – but, you see, it was no use. It never could be.’
This completely perplexed me. But how ask a child why he is happy! ‘Then there was nothing – I was with you a while when you were asleep, my dear – there was nothing on your mind; nothing to be afraid of?’
Yet again the eyes turned restlessly in their sockets. ‘Afraid, Auntie!’ he said. ‘Oh, no. I don’t mind that now. Nothing to be afraid of now, I mean. It’s still there; but now – it doesn’t matter.’ And what I saw in his face at this moment was certainly neither dread, nor terror, nor even misgiving, nothing of that – but a grieved, profound, unutterable longing and pining.
‘Listen, Philip,’ I said; ‘your mother will soon be here, very soon.’
‘That’s lovely,’ he replied. But to my consternation – since I can truthfully say I had never in act or thought stood between them – there was something – a tone, an accent – wanting even in that ‘lovely’, however sincerely it was meant. What then else could he be pining for? What could I do – or say – to rest his mind, comfort him? I pondered in vain.
The plain whitewashed room was radiant with light. It was a beautiful summer morning; the airs at the window ebbed in, sweet with the flowers of the garden and the smell of new-mown hay. Out of the distance came the noise, the voices, of the boys in the playing-fields … A day of darkness, leaden clouds and pelting rain would have been easier to endure. At that time I had already steeled myself to many things in this world; but a life, I can truthfully declare, was slipping away far from me more precious than my own. I was a stranger to all this. I had never, except once before, felt helpless and forsaken. But how console a child with that!
And then, as if in direct answer to the question, the fallen narrow face on the pillow had suddenly become still again. The eyes beneath the leaden lids had moved to their extreme angle – away from me. And this, at the sound of a footstep. The door opened; I looked up.
It was the little dormitory maid. She had come to tell me that my sister had arrived, and would I join her in the headmaster’s study. I looked at her – her face vaguely recalled some old picture I had seen. It was a quiet face, not pretty, but fair, with an unspoilt, remote look in her eyes. For an instant I could not reveal my thoughts. I was intensely reluctant to go. I smiled at her as best I could. ‘Then I can commit my nephew safely to you for a few moments?’ I said.
She turned to look at him – as I did. And – how describe what I saw? There was no expectation now, no foreboding, or pining in the face on the pillow. No trace of these. But a look fixed on her as near human ecstasy as mortal features are capable of. I detest anything even resembling sentimentality; but my heart seemed to clap-to in my body. No expression on any human countenance, not even of hopeless grief or anguish, has ever affected me so acutely. Nor had I realized until that tragic moment – nor have I ever either more than once shared – its inward meaning. But there was not the least doubt of it. The poor child was in love.
Out of the Deep: And Other Supernatural Tales Page 32