“That wife of yours is an angel,” remarked Mr. Carlingford. “I really begin to believe in angels, at least in one angel, when I think of her. If I was Providence I should be immensely proud of myself for having invented her. I suppose she helped him through it?”
“Yes, she did help him,” said Tom eagerly; “he had been asking for her all the afternoon, and she prayed with him, and he died quietly instead of being afraid.”
“What did she say to him?”
“Ah, don’t ask me, father,” said Tom, rising. “It was all very strange to me, because it was so real to them both.”
“But what was real to them?” asked his father. “Don’t you suppose that the mere presence of May was what soothed the old man?—it would soothe me, I know. I hope May will be with me when I die. But I shan’t want soothing—I shan’t die until I no longer want to live. I am sure of that, and it is a most comforting thought, and as soon as I no longer want to live I am quite content that the powers of hell should do their worst, as that hymn we had on Easter Sunday says.”
“No, it wasn’t her mere presence,” said Tom; “it was that she reminded him of what they both believed.”
“Well, if he believed it, why did he need to be reminded of it?” demanded his father. “It is so odd that Christians send for clergymen on their death-beds, especially as those particular Christians who do so seem to me to look upon God Himself as a sort of immeasurable clergyman. It ought to be the one time they do not want them. No, you may depend on it, it was simply her presence. Have you finished drinking liquid gout? If so, we’ll go.”
When May went to bed Mr. Carlingford kissed her very affectionately.
“My dear, I wonder whether you are as nice to Tom as you are to me,” he said. “I don’t believe you can be, or else I should be jealous of him. Good-night, dear; you’ve had a tiring day.”
The two were moving up to London the next week, whither old Mr. Carlingford absolutely and entirely declined to accompany them. “London is only tolerable,” he said, “when it is quite full of fools. I dare say there are plenty, even in January, but I can’t go to the New Cut to look for them. The New Cut smells of cabbages and Salvation armies.”