“You will be kind to him—will you not?” said Mrs. Morton; and the appeal was made with that trustful, almost cheerful tone which implies, ‘Who would not be kind to a thing so fair and helpless?’ “He is very sensitive and very docile; you will never have occasion to say a hard word to him—never! you have children of your own, brother.”
“He is a beautiful boy—beautiful. I will be a father to him!”
As he spoke,—the recollection of his wife—sour, querulous, austere—came over him, but he said to himself, “She must take to such a child,—women always take to beauty.” He bent down and gently pressed his lips to Sidney’s forehead: Mrs. Morton replaced the shawl, and drew her brother to the other end of the room.
“And now,” she said, colouring as she spoke, “I must see your wife, brother: there is so much to say about a child that only a woman will recollect. Is she very good-tempered and kind, your wife? You know I never saw her; you married after—after I left.”
“She is a very worthy woman,” said Mr. Morton, clearing his throat, “and brought me some money; she has a will of her own, as most women have; but that’s neither here nor there—she is a good wife as wives go; and prudent and painstaking—I don’t know what I should do without her.”
“Brother, I have one favour to request—a great favour.”
“Anything I can do in the way of money?”
“It has nothing to do with money. I can’t live long—don’t shake your head—I can’t live long. I have no fear for Philip, he has so much spirit—such strength of character—but that child! I cannot bear to leave him altogether; let me stay in this town—I can lodge anywhere; but to see him sometimes—to know I shall be in reach if he is ill—let me stay here—let me die here!”
“You must not talk so sadly—you are young yet—younger than I am—I don’t think of dying.”
“Heaven forbid! but—”