“I shouldn’t wonder if grandpa was worse,” said ’Lena, hurrying him along and ushering him at once into the sick-room.
At first Mrs. Nichols did not observe him, for she was bending tenderly over the white, wrinkled face, which lay upon the small, scanty pillow. John thought “how small and scanty they were,” while he almost shuddered at the sound of his footsteps upon the uncarpeted floor. Everything was dreary and comfortless, and his conscience reproached him that his old father should die so poor, when he counted his money by thousands.
As he passed the window his tall figure obscured the fading daylight, causing his mother to raise her head, and in a moment her long, bony arms were twined around his neck. The cruel letter, his long neglect, were all forgotten in the joy of once more beholding her “darling boy,” whose bearded cheek she kissed again and again. John was unused to such demonstrations of affection, except, indeed, from his little golden-haired Anna, who was refined and polished, and all that, which made a vast difference, as he thought. Still, he returned his mother’s greeting with a tolerably good grace, managing, however, to tear himself from her as soon as possible.
“How is my father?” he asked; and his mother replied, “He grew worse right away after ’Leny went out, and he seemed so put to’t for breath, that Nancy went for the doctor——”
Here a movement from the invalid arrested her attention and going to the bedside she saw that he was awake. Bending over him she whispered softly, “John has come. Would you like to see him?”
Quickly the feeble arms were outstretched, as if to feel what could not be seen, for the old man’s eyesight was dim with the shadows of death.
Taking both his father’s hands in his, John said, “Here I am, father; can’t you see me?”
“No, John, no; I can’t see you.” And the poor man wept like a little child. Soon growing more calm, he continued: “Your voice is the same that it was years ago, when you lived with us at home. That hasn’t changed, though they say your name has. Oh, John, my boy, how could you do so? ’Twas a good name—my name—and you the only one left to bear it. What made you do so, oh John, John?”
Mr. Livingstone did not reply, and after a moment his father again spoke; “John, lay your hand on my forehead. It’s cold as ice. I am dying, and your mother will be left alone. We are poor, my son; poorer than you think. The homestead is mortgaged for all it’s worth and there are only a few dollars in the purse. Oh, I worked so hard to earn them for her and the girl—Helena’s child. Now, John, promise me that when I am gone they shall go with you to your home in the west. Promise, and I shall die happy.”
This was a new idea to John, and for a time he hesitated. He glanced at his mother; she was ignorant and peculiar, but she was his mother still. He looked at ’Lena, she was beautiful—he knew that, but she was odd and old-fashioned. He thought of his haughty wife, his headstrong son and his imperious daughter. What would they say if he made that promise, for if he made it he would keep it.