The house-door had closed upon Mr. Squills,—that gentleman having promised to breakfast with me the next morning, so that we might take the coach from our gate,—and I remained alone, seated by the supper-table, and revolving all I had heard, when my father walked in.
“Pisistratus,” said he gravely, and looking round him, “your mother!—suppose the worst—your first care, then, must be to try and secure something for her. You and I are men,—we can never want, while we have health of mind and body; but a woman—and if anything happens to me—”
My father’s lip writhed as it uttered these brief sentences.
“My dear, dear father!” said I, suppressing my tears with difficulty, “all evils, as you yourself said, look worse by anticipation. It is impossible that your whole fortune can be involved. The newspaper did not run many weeks, and only the first volume of your work is printed. Besides, there must be other shareholders who will pay their quota. Believe me, I feel sanguine as to the result of my embassy. As for my poor mother, it is not the loss of fortune that will wound her,—depend on it, she thinks very little of that,—it is the loss of your confidence.”
“My confidence!”
“Ah, yes! tell her all your fears, as your hopes. Do not let your affectionate pity exclude her from one corner of your heart.”
“It is that, it is that, Austin,—my husband—my joy—my pride—my soul—my all!” cried a soft, broken voice.
My mother had crept in, unobserved by us.
My father looked at us both, and the tears which had before stood in his eyes forced their way. Then opening his arms, into which his Kitty threw herself joyfully, he lifted those moist eyes upward, and by the movement of his lips I saw that he thanked God.
I stole out of the room. I felt that those two hearts should be left to beat and to blend alone. And from that hour I am convinced that Augustine Caxton acquired a stouter philosophy than that of the Stoics. The fortitude that concealed pain was no longer needed, for the pain was no longer felt.
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