He held me fast,half unconscious as he was,lest I should summon help;and when a step was heard in the passage,as once before--the day Edwin was married--how,on a sudden,I remembered all!--he tottered forward and locked,double-locked,the door.
After a few minutes the worst suffering abated,and he sat down again in his chair.I got some water;he drank,and let me bathe his face with it--his face,grey and death-like--John's face!
But I am telling the bare facts--nothing more.
A few heavy sighs,gasped as it were for life,and he was himself again.
"Thank God,it is over now!Phineas,you must try and forget all you have seen.I wish you had not come to the door."He said this,not in any tone that could wound me,but tenderly,as if he were very sorry for me.
"What is it?"
"There is no need for alarm;--no more than that day--you recollect?--in this room.I had an attack once before then--a few times since.
It is horrible pain while it lasts,you see;I can hardly bear it.
But it goes away again,as you also see.It would be a pity to tell my wife,or anybody;in fact,I had rather not.You understand?"He spoke thus in a matter-of-fact way,as if he thought the explanation would satisfy me and prevent my asking further.He was mistaken.
"John,what is it?"
"What is it?Why,something like what I had then;but it comes rarely,and I am well again directly.I had much rather not talk about it.Pray forget it."But I could not;nor,I thought,could he.He took up a book and sat still;though often times I caught his eyes fixed on my face with a peculiar earnestness,as if he would fain test my strength--fain find out how much I loved him;and loving,how much I could bear.
"You are not reading,John;you are thinking--what about?"He paused a little,as if undetermined whether or not to tell me;then said:"About your father.Do you remember him?"I looked surprised at the question.
"I mean,do you remember how he died?"
Somehow--though,God knows,not at that dear and sacred remembrance--I shuddered."Yes;but why should we talk of it now?""Why not?I have often thought what a happy death it was--painless,instantaneous,without any wasting sickness beforehand--his sudden passing from life present to life eternal.Phineas,your father's was the happiest death I ever knew.""It may be--I am not sure.John,"for again something in his look and manner struck me--"why do you say this to me?""I scarcely know.Yes,I do know."
"Tell me,then."
He looked at me across the table--steadily,eye to eye,as if he would fain impart to my spirit the calmness that was in his own."Ibelieve,Phineas,that when I die my death will be not unlike your father's."Something came wildly to my lips about "impossibility,"the utter impossibility,of any man's thus settling the manner of his death,or the time.
"I know that.I know that I may live ten or twenty years,and die of another disease after all.""Disease!"
"Nay--it is nothing to be afraid of.You see I am not afraid.Ihave guessed it for many years.I have known it for a certainty ever since I was in Paris.""Were you ill in Paris?--You never said so."
"No--because--Phineas,do you think you could bear the truth?You know it makes no real difference.I shall not die an hour sooner for being aware of it.""Aware of--what?Say quickly."
"Dr.K--told me--I was determined to be told--that I had the disease I suspected;beyond medical power to cure.It is not immediately fatal;he said I might live many years,even to old age;and I might die,suddenly,at any moment,just as your father died."He said this gently and quietly--more quietly than I am writing the words down now;and I listened--I listened.
"Phineas!"
I felt the pressure of his warm hand on my shoulder--the hand which had led me like a brother's all my life.