“I will think over all you tell me. I
know that you are speaking to me most generously,—as
a father would. Now let me go, and may God keep
you and yours!”
“Go,—I return your blessing; go!
I don’t insult you now with offers of service;
but remember, you have a right to command them,—in
all ways, in all times. Stop! take this comfort
away with you,—a sorry comfort now, a great
one hereafter. In a position that might have
moved anger, scorn, pity, you have made a barren-hearted
man honor and admire you. You, a boy, have made
me, with my gray hairs, think better of the whole
world; tell your father that.”
I closed the door and stole out softly, softly.
But when I got into the hall, Fanny suddenly opened
the door of the breakfast parlor, and seemed, by her
look, her gesture, to invite me in. Her face
was very pale, and there were traces of tears on the
heavy lids.
I stood still a moment, and my heart beat violently.
I then muttered something inarticulately, and, bowing
low, hastened to the door.
I thought, but my ears might deceive me, that I heard
my name pronounced; but fortunately the tall porter
started from his newspaper and his leathern chair,
and the entrance stood open. I joined my father.
“It’s all over,” said I, with a
resolute smile. “And now, my dear father,
I feel how grateful I should be for all that your lessons—your
life—have taught me; for, believe me, I
am not unhappy.”
We came back to my father’s house, and on the
stairs we met my mother, whom Roland’s grave
looks and her Austin’s strange absence had alarmed.
My father quietly led the way to a little room which
my mother had appropriated to Blanche and herself,
and then, placing my hand in that which had helped
his own steps from the stony path down the quiet vales
of life, he said to me: “Nature gives you
here the soother;” and so saying, he left the
room.
And it was true, O my mother! that in thy simple,
loving breast nature did place the deep wells of comfort!
We come to men for philosophy,—to women
for consolation. And the thousand weaknesses
and regrets, the sharp sands of the minutiae that
make up sorrow,—all these, which I could
have betrayed to no man (not even to him, the dearest
and tenderest of all men), I showed without shame
to thee! And thy tears, that fell on my cheek,
had the balm of Araby; and my heart at length lay
lulled and soothed under thy moist, gentle eyes.
I made an effort, and joined the little circle at
dinner; and I felt grateful that no violent attempt
was made to raise my spirits,—nothing but
affection, more subdued and soft and tranquil.
Even little Blanche, as if by the intuition of sympathy,
ceased her babble, and seemed to hush her footstep
as she crept to my side. But after dinner, when
we had reassembled in the drawing-room, and the lights
shone bright, and the curtains were let down, and
only the quick roll of some passing wheels reminded
us that there was a world without, my father began
to talk. He had laid aside all his work, the
younger but less perishable child was forgotten, and
my father began to talk.
