“The sofa will do,” he answered.
“Let his bed be aired to-morrow, Becca,” interposed the old man. And they stared in astonishment to hear him say it.
Francis sat down to the tea-table with Stephen and his wife; but neither of them spoke a word to him. Mr. Radcliffe had his tea in his arm-chair at the fire, as usual. Afterwards, Francis took his hat and went out. He was going to question the doctor; and the wind came rushing and howling about him as he bore onwards down the lane towards Church Dykely.
In about an hour’s time he came back again with red eyes. He said it was the wind, but his subdued voice sounded as though he had been crying. His father, with bent head, was smoking a long pipe; Stephen sat at the table, reading the sensational police reports in a low weekly newspaper.
“Been out for a stroll, lad?” asked old Radcliffe—and it was the first voluntary question he had put for months. Stephen, listening, could not think what was coming to him.
“I have been to Duffham’s,” answered Francis. “He—he—” with a stopping of the breath, “says that nothing can be done for my mother; that a few days now will see the end of it.”
“Ay,” quietly responded the old man. “Our turns must all come.”
“Her turn ought not to have come yet,” said Francis, nearly breaking down.
“No?”