The morning which was to decide all between my father and me, the
morning on whose event hung the future of my home life, was the
brightest and loveliest that my eyes ever looked on. A cloudless sky,
a soft air, sunshine so joyous and dazzling that the commonest objects
looked beautiful in its light, seemed to be mocking at me for my heavy
heart, as I stood at my window, and thought of the hard duty to be
fulfilled, on the harder judgment that might be pronounced, before the
dawning of another day.
During the night, I had arranged no plan on which to conduct the
terrible disclosure which I was now bound to make--the greatness of
the emergency deprived me of all power of preparing myself for it. I
thought on my father's character, on the inbred principles of honour
which ruled him with the stern influence of a fanaticism: I thought on
his pride of caste, so unobtrusive, so rarely hinted at in words, and
yet so firmly rooted in his nature, so intricately entwined with every
one of his emotions, his aspirations, his simplest feelings and ideas:
I thought on his almost feminine delicacy in shrinking from the barest
mention of impurities which other men could carelessly discuss, or
could laugh over as good material for an after-dinner jest. I thought
over all this, and when I remembered that it was to such a man that I
must confess the infamous marriage which I had contracted in secret,
all hope from his fatherly affection deserted me; all idea of
appealing to his chivalrous generosity became a delusion in which it
was madness to put a moment's trust.
The faculties of observation are generally sharpened, in proportion as
the faculties of reflection are dulled, under the influence of an
absorbing suspense. While I now waited alone in my room, the most
ordinary sounds and events in the house, which I never remembered
noticing before, absolutely enthralled me. It seemed as if the noise
of a footstep, the echo of a voice, the shutting or opening of doors
down stairs, must, on this momentous day, presage some mysterious
calamity, some strange discovery, some secret project formed against
me, I knew not how, or by whom. Two or three times I found myself
listening intently on the staircase, with what object I could hardly
tell. It was always, however, on those occasions, that a dread,
significant quiet appeared to have fallen suddenly on the house. Clara
never came to me, no message arrived from my father; the door-bell
seemed strangely silent, the servants strangely neglectful of their
duties above stairs. I caught myself returning to my own room softly,
as if I expected that some hidden catastrophe might break forth, if
sound of my footsteps were heard.
Would my father seek me again in my own room, or would he send for me
down stairs? It was not long before the doubt was decided. One of the
servants knocked at my door--the servant whose special duty it had
been to wait on me in my illness. I longed to take the man's hand, and
implore his sympathy and encouragement while he addressed me.
"My master, Sir, desires me to say that, if you feel well enough, he
wishes to see you in his own room."
I rose, and immediately followed the servant. On our way, we passed
the door of Clara's private sitting-room--it opened, and my sister
came out and laid her hand on my arm. She smiled as I looked at her;
but the tears stood thick in her eyes, and her face was deadly pale.
"Think of what I said last night, Basil," she whispered, "and, if hard
words are spoken to you, think of _me._ All that our mother would have
done for you, if she had been still among us, _I_ will do. Remember
that, and keep heart and hope to the very last."
She hastily returned to her room, and I went on down stairs. In the
hall, the servant was waiting for me, with a letter in his hand.
"This was left for you, Sir, a little while ago. The messenger who
brought it said he was not to wait for an answer."
It was no time for reading letters--the interview with my father was
too close at hand. I hastily put the letter into my pocket, barely
noticing, as I did so, that the handwriting on the address was very
irregular, and quite unknown to me.
I went at once into my father's room.
He was sitting at his table, cutting the leaves of some new books that
lay on it. Pointing to a chair placed opposite to him, he briefly
inquired after my health; and then added, in a lower tone--
"Take any time you like, Basil, to compose and collect yourself. This
morning my time is yours."
He turned a little away from me, and went on cutting the leaves of the
books placed before him. Still utterly incapable of preparing myself
in any way for the disclosure expected from me; without thought or
hope, or feeling of any kind, except a vague sense of thankfulness for
the reprieve granted me before I was called on to speak--I
mechanically looked round and round the room, as if I expected to see
the sentence to be pronounced against me, already written on the
walls, or grimly foreshadowed in the faces of the old family portraits
which hung above the fireplace.
What man has ever felt that all his thinking powers were absorbed,
even by the most poignant mental misery that could occupy them? In
moments of imminent danger, the mind can still travel of its own
accord over the past, in spite of the present--in moments of bitter
affliction, it can still recur to every-day trifles, in spite of
ourselves. While I now sat silent in my father's room, long-forgotten
associations of childhood connected with different parts of it, began
to rise on my memory in the strangest and most startling independence
of any influence or control, which my present agitation and suspense
might be supposed to exercise over them. The remembrances that should
have been the last to be awakened at this time of heavy trial, were
the very remembrances which now moved within me.
With burdened heart and aching eyes I looked over the walls around me.
There, in that corner, was the red cloth door which led to the
library. As children, how often Ralph and I had peeped curiously
through that very door, to see what my father was about in his study,
to wonder why he had so many letters to write, and so many books to
read. How frightened we both were, when he discovered us one day, and
reproved us severely! How happy the moment afterwards, when we had
begged him to pardon us, and were sent back to the library again with
a great picture-book to look at, as a token that we were both
forgiven! Then, again, there was the high, old-fashioned, mahogany
press before the window, with the same large illustrated folio about
Jewish antiquities lying on it, which, years and years ago, Clara and
I were sometimes allowed to look at, as a special treat, on Sunday
afternoons; and which we always examined and re-examined with
never-ending delight--standing together on two chairs to reach up to
the thick, yellow-looking leaves, and turn them over with our own
hands. And there, in the recess between two bookcases, still stood the
ancient desk-table, with its rows of little inlaid drawers; and on the
bracket above it the old French clock, which had once belonged to my
mother, and which always chimed the hours so sweetly and merrily. It
was at that table that Ralph and I always bade my father farewell,
when we were going back to school after the holidays, and were
receiving our allowance of pocket-money, given to us out of one of the
tiny inlaid drawers, just before we started. Near that spot, too,
Clara--then a little rosy child--used to wait gravely and anxiously,
with her doll in her arms, to say good-bye for the last time, and to
bid us come back soon, and then never go away again. I turned, and
looked abruptly towards the window; for such memories as the room
suggested were more than I could bear.
Outside, in the dreary strip of garden, the few stunted, dusky trees
were now rustling as pleasantly in the air, as if the breeze that
stirred them came serenely over an open meadow, or swept freshly under
their branches from the rippling surface of a brook. Distant, but yet
well within hearing, the mighty murmur from a large thoroughfare--the
great mid-day voice of London--swelled grandly and joyously on the
ear. While, nearer still, in a street that ran past the side of the
house, the notes of an organ rang out shrill and fast; the instrument
was playing its liveliest waltz tune--a tune which I had danced to in
the ball-room over and over again. What mocking memories within, what
mocking sounds without, to herald and accompany such a confession as I
had now to make!
Minute after minute glided on, inexorably fast; and yet I never broke
silence. My eyes turned anxiously and slowly on my father.
He was still looking away from me, still cutting the leaves of the
books before him. Even in that trifling action, the strong emotions
which he was trying to conceal, were plainly and terribly betrayed.
His hand, usually so steady and careful, trembled perceptibly; and the
paper-knife tore through the leaves faster and faster--cutting them
awry, rending them one from another, so as to spoil the appearance of
every page. I believe he _felt_ that I was looking at him; for he
suddenly discontinued his employment, turned round towards me, and
spoke--
"I have resolved to give you your own time," he said, "and from that
resolve I have no wish to depart--I only ask you to remember that
every minute of delay adds to the suffering and suspense which I am
enduring on your account." He opened the books before him again,
adding in lower and colder tones, as he did so--"In _your_ place,
Ralph would have spoken before this."
Ralph, and Ralph's example quoted to me again!--I could remain silent
no longer.
"My brother's faults towards you, and towards his family, are not such
faults as mine, Sir," I began. "I have _not_ imitated his vices; I
have acted as he would _not_ have acted. And yet, the result of my
error will appear far more humiliating, and even disgraceful, in your
eyes, than the results of any errors of Ralph's."
As I pronounced the word "disgraceful," he suddenly looked me full in
the face. His eyes lightened up sternly, and the warning red spot rose
on his pale cheeks.
"What do you mean by 'disgraceful?'" he asked abruptly; "what do you
mean by associating such a word as _disgrace_ with your conduct--with
the conduct of a son of mine?"
"I must reply to your question indirectly, Sir," I continued. "You
asked me last night who the Mr. Sherwin was who has called here so
often--"
"And this morning I ask it again. I have other questions to put to
you, besides--you called constantly on a woman's name in your
delirium. But I will repeat last night's question first--who _is_ Mr.
Sherwin?"
"He lives--"
"I don't ask where he lives. Who is he? What is he?"
"Mr. Sherwin is a linen-draper--"
"You owe him money?--you have borrowed money of him? Why did you not
tell me this before? You have degraded my house by letting a man call
at the door--I know it!--in the character of a dun. He has inquired
about you as his 'friend,'--the servants told me of it. This
money-lending tradesman, your _'friend!'_ If I had heard that the
poorest labourer on my land called you 'friend,' I should have held
you honoured by the attachment and gratitude of an honest man. When I
hear that name given to you by a tradesman and money-lender, I hold
you contaminated by connection with a cheat. You were right,
Sir!--this _is_ disgrace; how much do you owe? Where are your
dishonoured acceptances? Where have you used _my_ name and _my_
credit? Tell me at once--I insist on it!"
He spoke rapidly and contemptuously, and rising from his chair as he
ended, walked impatiently up and down the room.
"I owe no money to Mr. Sherwin, Sir--no money to any one."
He stopped suddenly:
"No money to any one?" he repeated very slowly, and in very altered
tones. "You spoke of disgrace just now. There is a worse disgrace then
that you have hidden from me, than debts dishonourably contracted?"
At this moment, a step passed across the hall. He instantly turned
round, and locked the door on that side of the room--then continued:
"Speak! and speak honestly if you can. How have you been deceiving me?
A woman's name escaped you constantly, when your delirium was at its
worst. You used some very strange expressions about her, which it was
impossible altogether to comprehend; but you said enough to show that
her character was one of the most abandoned; that her
licentiousness--it is too revolting to speak of _her_-- I return to
_you._ I insist on knowing how far your vices have compromised you
with that vicious woman."
"She has wronged me--cruelly, horribly, wronged me--" I could say no
more. My head drooped on my breast; my shame overpowered me.
"Who is she? You called her Margaret, in your illness--who is she?"
"She is Mr. Sherwin's daughter--" The words that I would fain have
spoken next, seemed to suffocate me. I was silent again.
I heard him mutter to himself:
_"That_ man's daughter!--a worse bait than the bait of money!"
He bent forward, and looked at me searchingly. A frightful paleness
flew over his face in an instant.
"Basil!" he cried, "in God's name, answer me at once! What is Mr.
Sherwin's daughter to _you?_"
"She is my wife!"
I heard no answer--not a word, not even a sigh. My eyes were blinded
with tears, my face was bent down; I saw nothing at first. When I
raised my head, and dashed away the blinding tears, and looked up, the
blood chilled at my heart.
My father was leaning against one of the bookcases, with his hands
clasped over his breast. His head was drawn back; his white lips
moved, but no sound came from them. Over his upturned face there had
passed a ghastly change, as indescribable in its awfulness as the
change of death.
I ran horror-stricken to his side, and attempted to take his hand. He
started instantly into an erect position, and thrust me from him
furiously, without uttering a word. At that fearful moment, in that
fearful silence, the sounds out of doors penetrated with harrowing
distinctness and merriment into the room. The pleasant rustling of the
trees mingled musically with the softened, monotonous rolling of
carriages in the distant street, while the organ-tune, now changed to
the lively measure of a song, rang out clear and cheerful above both,
and poured into the room as lightly and happily as the very sunshine
itself.
For a few minutes we stood apart, and neither of us moved or spoke. I
saw him take out his handkerchief, and pass it over his face,
breathing heavily and thickly, and leaning against the bookcase once
more. When he withdrew the handkerchief and looked at me again, I knew
that the sharp pang of agony had passed away, that the last hard
struggle between his parental affection and his family pride was over,
and that the great gulph which was hence-forth to separate father and
son, had now opened between us for ever.
He pointed peremptorily to me to go back to my former place, but did
not return to his own chair. As I obeyed, I saw him unlock the door of
the bookcase against which he had been leaning, and place his hand on
one of the books inside. Without withdrawing it from its place,
without turning or looking towards me, he asked if I had anything more
to say to him.
The chilling calmness of his tones, the question itself, and the time
at which he put it, the unnatural repression of a single word of
rebuke, of passion, or of sorrow, after such a confession as I had
just made, struck me speechless. He turned a little away from the
bookcase--still keeping his hand on the book inside--and repeated the
question. His eyes, when they met mine, had a pining, weary look, as
if they had been long condemned to rest on woeful and revolting
objects; his expression had lost its natural refinement, its
gentleness of repose, and had assumed a hard, lowering calmness, under
which his whole countenance appeared to have shrunk and changed--years
of old age seemed to have fallen on it, since I had spoken the last
fatal words!
"Have you anything more to say to me?"
On the repetition of that terrible question, I sank down in the chair
at my side, and hid my face in my hands. Unconscious how I spoke, or
why I spoke; with no hope in myself, or in him; with no motive but to
invite and bear the whole penalty of my disgrace, I now disclosed the
miserable story of my marriage, and of all that followed it. I
remember nothing of the words I used---nothing of what I urged in my
own defence. The sense of bewilderment and oppression grew heavier and
heavier on my brain; I spoke more and more rapidly, confusedly,
unconsciously, until I was again silenced and recalled to myself by
the sound of my father's voice. I believe I had arrived at the last,
worst part of my confession, when he interrupted me.
"Spare me any more details," he said, bitterly, "you have humiliated
me sufficiently--you have spoken enough."
He removed the book on which his hand had hitherto rested from the
case behind him, and advanced with it to the table--paused for a
moment, pale and silent--then slowly opened it at the first page, and
resumed his chair.
I recognised the book instantly. It was a biographical history of his
family, from the time of his earliest ancestors down to the date of
the births of his own children. The thick quarto pages were
beautifully illuminated in the manner of the ancient manuscripts; and
the narrative, in written characters, had been produced under his own
inspection. This book had cost him years of research and perseverance.
The births and deaths, the marriages and possessions, the battle
achievements and private feuds of the old Norman barons from whom he
traced his descent, were all enrolled in regular order on every
leaf--headed, sometimes merely by representations of the Knight's
favourite weapon; sometimes by copies of the Baron's effigy on his
tombstone in a foreign land. As the history advanced to later dates,
beautiful miniature portraits were inlaid at the top of each leaf; and
the illuminations were so managed as to symbolize the remarkable
merits or the peculiar tastes of the subject of each biography. Thus,
the page devoted to my mother was surrounded by her favourite violets,
clustering thickest round the last melancholy lines of writing which
told the story of her death.
Slowly and in silence, my father turned over the leaves of the book
which, next to the Bible, I believe he most reverenced in the world,
until he came to the last-written page but one--the page which I knew,
from its position, to be occupied by my name. At the top, a miniature
portrait of me, when a child, was let into the leaf. Under it, was the
record of my birth and names, of the School and College at which I had
been taught, and of the profession that I had adopted. Below, a large
blank space was left for the entry of future particulars. On this page
my father now looked, still not uttering a word, still with the same
ghastly calmness on his face. The organ-notes sounded no more; but the
trees rustled as pleasantly, and the roar of the distant carriages
swelled as joyously as ever on the ear. Some children had come out to
play in the garden of a neighbouring house. As their voices reached
us, so fresh, and clear, and happy--but another modulation of the
thanksgiving song to God which the trees were singing in the summer
air--I saw my father, while he still looked on the page before him,
clasp his trembling hands over my portrait so as to hide it from
sight.
Then he spoke; but without looking up, and more as if he were speaking
to himself than to me. His voice, at other times clear and gentle in
its tones, was now so hard and harsh in its forced calmness and
deliberation of utterance, that it sounded like a stranger's.
"I came here, this morning," he began, "prepared to hear of faults and
misfortunes which should pain me to the heart; which I might never,
perhaps, be able to forget, however willing and even predetermined to
forgive. But I did _not_ come prepared to hear, that unutterable
disgrace had been cast on me and mine, by my own child. I have no
words of rebuke or of condemnation for this: the reproach and the
punishment have fallen already where the guilt was--and not there
only. My son's infamy defiles his brother's birthright, and puts his
father to shame. Even his sister's name--"
He stopped, shuddering. When he proceeded, his voice faltered, and his
head drooped low.
"I say it again:--you are below all reproach and all condemnation; but
I have a duty to perform towards my two who are absent, and I have a
last word to say to _you_ when that duty is done. On this page--" (as
he pointed to the family history, his tones strengthened again)--"on
this page there is a blank space left, after the last entry, for
writing the future events of your life. Here, then, if I still
acknowledge you to be my son; if I think your presence and the
presence of my daughter possible in the same house, must be written
such a record of dishonour and degradation as has never yet defiled a
single page of this book--here, the foul stain of your marriage, and
its consequences, must be admitted to spread over all that is pure
before it, and to taint to the last whatever comes after. This shall
not be. I have no faith or hope in you more. I know you now, only as
an enemy to me and to my house--it is mockery and hypocrisy to call
you son; it is an insult to Clara, and even to Ralph, to think of you
as my child. In this record your place is destroyed--and destroyed for
ever. Would to God I could tear the past from my memory, as I tear the
leaf from this book!"
As he spoke, the hour struck; and the old French clock rang out gaily
the same little silvery chime which my mother had so often taken me
into her room to listen to, in the bygone time. The shrill, lively
peal mingled awfully with the sharp, tearing sound, as my father rent
out from the book before him the whole of the leaf which contained my
name; tore it into fragments, and cast them on the floor.
He rose abruptly, after he had closed the book again. His cheeks
flushed once more; and when he next spoke, his voice grew louder and
louder with every word he uttered. It seemed as if he still distrusted
his resolution to abandon me; and sought, in his anger, the strength
of purpose which, in his calmer mood, he might even yet have been
unable to command.
"Now, Sir," he said, "we treat together as strangers. You are Mr.
Sherwin's son--not mine. You are the husband of his daughter--not a
relation of my family. Rise, as I do: we sit together no longer in the
same room. Write!" (he pushed pen, ink, and paper before me,) "write
your terms there--I shall find means to keep you to a written
engagement--the terms of your absence, for life, from this country;
and of hers: the terms of your silence, and of the silence of your
accomplices; of all of them. Write what you please; I am ready to pay
dearly for your absence, your secrecy, and your abandonment of the
name you have degraded. My God! that I should live to bargain for
hushing up the dishonour of my family, and to bargain for it with
_you._"
I had listened to him hitherto without pleading a word in my own
behalf; but his last speech roused me. Some of _his_ pride stirred in
my heart against the bitterness of his contempt. I raised my head, and
met his eye steadily for the first time--then, thrust the writing
materials away from me, and left my place at the table.
"Stop!" he cried. "Do you pretend that you have not understood me?"
"It is _because_ I have understood you, Sir, that I go. I have
deserved your anger, and have submitted without a murmur to all that
it could inflict. If you see in my conduct towards you no mitigation
of my offence; if you cannot view the shame and wrong inflicted on me,
with such grief as may have some pity mixed with it--I have, I think,
the right to ask that your contempt may be silent, and your last words
to me, not words of insult."
"Insult! After what has happened, is it for _you_ to utter that word
in the tone in which you have just spoken it? I tell you again, I
insist on your written engagement as I would insist on the engagement
of a stranger--I will have it, before you leave this room!"
"All, and more than all, which that degrading engagement could imply,
I will do. But I have not fallen so low yet, as to be bribed to
perform a duty. You may be able to forget that you are my father; I
can never forget that I am your son."
"The remembrance will avail you nothing as long as I live. I tell you
again, I insist on your written engagement, though it were only to
show that I have ceased to believe in your word. Write at once--do you
hear me?--Write!"
I neither moved nor answered. His face changed again, and grew livid;
his fingers trembled convulsively, and crumpled the sheet of paper, as
he tried to take it up from the table on which it lay.
"You refuse?" he said quickly.
"I have already told you, Sir--"
"Go!" he interrupted, pointing passionately to the door, "go out from
this house, never to return to it again--go, not as a stranger to me,
but as an enemy! I have no faith in a single promise you have made:
there is no baseness which I do not believe you will yet be guilty of.
But I tell you, and the wretches with whom you are leagued, to take
warning: I have wealth, power, and position; and there is no use to
which I will not put them against the man or woman who threatens the
fair fame of this family. Leave me, remembering that--and leave me for
ever!"
Just as he uttered the last word, just as my hand was on the lock of
the door, a faint sound--something between breathing and speaking--was
audible in the direction of the library. He started, and looked round.
Impelled, I know not how, I paused on the point of going out. My eyes
followed his, and fixed on the cloth door which led into the library.
It opened a little--then shut again--then opened wide. Slowly and
noiselessly, Clara came into the room.
The silence and suddenness of her entrance at such a moment; the look
of terror which changed to unnatural vacancy the wonted softness and
gentleness of her eyes, her pale face, her white dress, and slow,
noiseless step, made her first appearance in the room seem almost
supernatural; it was as if an apparition had been walking towards us,
and not Clara herself! As she approached my father, he pronounced her
name in astonishment; but his voice sank to a whisper, while he spoke
it. For an instant, she paused, hesitating--I saw her tremble as her
eyes met his--then, as they turned towards me, the brave girl came on;
and, taking my hand, stood and faced my father, standing by my side.
"Clara!" he exclaimed again, still in the same whispering tones.
I felt her cold hand close fast on mine; the grasp of the chill, frail
fingers was almost painful to me. Her lips moved, but her quick,
hysterical breathing made the few words she uttered inarticulate.
"Clara!" repeated my father, for the third time, his voice rising, but
sinking again immediately--when he spoke his next words, "Clara," he
resumed, sadly and gently, "let go his hand; this is not a time for
your presence, I beg you to leave us. You must not take his hand! He
has ceased to be my son, or your brother. Clara, do you not hear me?"
"Yes, Sir, I hear you," she answered. "God grant that my mother in
heaven may not hear you too!"
He was approaching while she replied; but at her last words, he
stopped instantly, and turned his face away from us. Who shall say
what remembrances of other days shook him to the heart?
"You have spoken, Clara, as you should not have spoken," he went on,
without looking up. "Your mother--" his voice faltered and failed him.
"Can you still hold his hand after what I have said? I tell you again,
he is unworthy to be in your presence; my house is his home no
longer--must I _command_ you to leave him?"
The deeply planted instinct of gentleness and obedience prevailed; she
dropped my hand, but did not move away from me, even yet.
"Now leave us, Clara," he said. "You were wrong, my love, to be in
that room, and wrong to come in here. I will speak to you
up-stairs--you must remain here no longer."
She clasped her trembling fingers together, and sighed heavily.
"I cannot go, Sir," she said quickly and breathlessly.
"Must I tell you for the first time in your life, that you are acting
disobediently?" he asked.
"I cannot go," she repeated in the same manner, "till you have said
you will let him atone for his offence, and will forgive him."
"For _his_ offence there is neither atonement nor forgiveness. Clara!
are you so changed, that you can disobey me to my face?"
He walked away from us as he said this.
"Oh, no! no!" She ran towards him; but stopped halfway, and looked
back at me affrightedly, as I stood near the door. "Basil," she cried,
"you have not done what you promised me; you have not been patient.
Oh, Sir, if I have ever deserved kindness from you, be kind to him for
_my_ sake! Basil! speak, Basil! Ask his pardon on your knees. Father,
I promised him he should be forgiven, if I asked you. Not a word; not
a word from either? Basil! you are not going yet--not going at all!
Remember, Sir, how good and kind he has always been to _me._ My poor
mother, (I _must_ speak of her), my poor mother's favourite son--you
have told me so yourself! and he has always been my favourite brother;
I think because my mother loved him so! His first fault, too! his
first grief! And will you tell him for this, that our home is _his_
home no longer? Punish _me,_ Sir! I have done wrong like him; when I
heard your voices so loud, I listened in the library. He's going! No,
no, no! not yet!"
She ran to the door as I opened it, and pushed it to again.
Overwhelmed by the violence of her agitation, my father had sunk into
a chair while she was speaking.
"Come back--come back with me to his knees!" she whispered, fixing her
wild, tearless eyes on mine, flinging her arms round my neck, and
trying to lead me with her from the door. "Come back, or you will
drive me mad!" she repeated loudly, drawing me away towards my father.
He rose instantly from his chair.
"Clara," he said, "I command you, leave him!" He advanced a few steps
towards me. "Go!" he cried; "if you are human in your villany, you
will release me from this!"
I whispered in her ear, "I will write, love--I will write," and
disengaged her arms from my neck--they were hanging round it weakly,
already! As I passed the door, I turned back, and looked again into
the room for the last time.
Clara was in my father's arms, her head lay on his shoulder, her face
was as still in its heavenly calmness as if the world and the world's
looks knew it no more, and the only light that fell on it now, was
light from the angel's eyes. She had fainted.
He was standing with one arm round her, his disengaged hand was
searching impatiently over the wall behind him for the bell, and his
eyes were fixed in anguish and in love unutterable on the peaceful
face, hushed in its sad repose so close beneath his own. For one
moment, I saw him thus, ere I closed the door--the next, I had left
the house.
I never entered it again--I have never seen my father since.