“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.
“They’re sleeping.”
“I won’t go in,” said Soames with relief. “My father’s dying; I have to—go up. Is it all right?”
The doctor’s face expressed a kind of doubting admiration. “If they were all as unemotional” he might have been saying.
“Yes, I think you may go with an easy mind. You’ll be down soon?”
“To-morrow,” said Soames. “Here’s the address.”