‘Your father is now composed, and perfectly sensible,’ said the doctor. ‘He is very anxious to speak to you alone,’ he added, to Jerome. ‘The Sister will wait in the ante-room. Call her if there is the least need for help. She knows what to do. I will look in again about midnight.’
With a brief good-evening he was gone; and Jerome, rising, went to his father’s room.
CHAPTER V.
FATHER AND SON ARRANGE ACCOUNTS.
A LAMP was brightly burning in the sick-room, with a shade over it, and so placed as not to dazzle the invalid’s eyes. The Sister had left the room when Jerome entered; and there was a stillness as of death over everything. Jerome went up to the bedside, and stooped over the motionless figure lying back, nerveless and exhausted, after the agonies of pain which had shaken the already feeble frame. The face upon which the lamplight shone was, or had been, a fine one, as regarded features. These bore little resemblance to those of his son, though they, like Jerome’s, were finely cut, pale, and clear. Now, they were wasted and waxen in their languid weariness. A high, somewhat bald forehead, a long, slender, grey moustache gave a thoroughly un-English appearance to the whole countenance. As Jerome’s hands pressed the bedclothes, and he stooped without speaking over the pillow, the large closed eyelids were raised, and a pair of strange bright blue eyes were discovered, such eyes as are often the token of a cool, self-seeking disposition—eyes which contained a light and a life which not even this day of mortal pain had been able utterly to quench.
Face of father and face of son were near together; the one evidently near death, the other scarcely less pale, quite as still and composed, yet eloquent of health and strength, and early manhood’s pride and power.
‘Ah, Jerome, it is you?’ came in a feeble voice from the patient.
‘I am thankful to hear that you are out of pain, sir. My sister and I have passed some anxious hours.’