“Good news, dear, good—Annette, a son.”
“Ah!” It was the queerest sound, ugly, relieved, pitiful, triumphant—like the noise a baby makes getting what it wants. The eyes closed, and that strangled sound of breathing began again. Soames recoiled to the chair and stonily sat down. The lie he had told, based, as it were, on some deep, temperamental instinct that after death James would not know the truth, had taken away all power of feeling for the moment. His arm brushed against something. It was his father’s naked foot. In the struggle to breathe he had pushed it out from under the clothes. Soames took it in his hand, a cold foot, light and thin, white, very cold. What use to put it back, to wrap up that which must be colder soon! He warmed it mechanically with his hand, listening to his father’s laboured breathing; while the power of feeling rose again within him. A little sob, quickly smothered, came from Winifred, but his mother sat unmoving with her eyes fixed on James. Soames signed to the nurse.
“Where’s the doctor?” he whispered.
“He’s been sent for.”
“Can’t you do anything to ease his breathing?”
“Only an injection; and he can’t stand it. The doctor said, while he was fighting....”
“He’s not fighting,” whispered Soames, “he’s being slowly smothered. It’s awful.”
James stirred uneasily, as if he knew what they were saying. Soames rose and bent over him. James feebly moved his two hands, and Soames took them.
“He wants to be pulled up,” whispered the nurse.
Soames pulled. He thought he pulled gently, but a look almost of anger passed over James’ face. The nurse plumped the pillows. Soames laid the hands down, and bending over kissed his father’s forehead. As he was raising himself again, James’ eyes bent on him a look which seemed to come from the very depths of what was left within. “I’m done, my boy,” it seemed to say, “take care of them, take care of yourself; take care—I leave it all to you.”