Horace had never but once before seen his parent weep upon his account, and the occasion which drew forth those tears was one of the most tender recollections of his childhood. Horace remembered the time when he had lain in his little cot, parched by fever, and when awakening again and again in the long, wretched nights, he had ever seen, by the dim light of the shaded candle, the form of his mother, ready to offer the cooling drink to relieve his burning thirst. He remembered how, as long as his danger continued, her calm courage had never failed her, faith and love supporting her through sleepless nights and miserable days; but that when the doctor had said at last, "The crisis is over, he will do well," her over-strained feelings had at length given way, and she had wept tears of thankful delight over the child who lay on her bosom!
How different from those glad tears were the drops which the wounded, disappointed parent was shedding now! A painful sensation came over Horace as the doubt suggested itself to his mind whether his mother would have felt such transport at his recovery had she known all that his petulance would cost her; nay, Horace was not certain whether, on the whole, her only and much-loved son had not given her more pain than pleasure. It was too true that he had thought more of his own selfish fancies than of the wishes of his tender parent; that he had often treated her with disrespect, and even with actual disobedience.
Horace's conscience told him that he had not honored his mother, nor made her happy; and he was so painfully stung by its reproaches that he was half inclined to call out to the driver to go back to the inn, as a kind of practical way of showing his parent that he regretted having preferred his own opinion to hers.
But the carriage was now plunging down a road so steep and narrow, that it we have been almost impossible to stop it, and quite impossible to turn. The utmost attention of the driver was required to keep his horses on their legs, and every now and then a tremendous jolt made Mrs. Cleveland grasp the side of the vehicle to prevent herself from being jerked out of her seat. She had ceased crying, but she was thoroughly displeased with her son, and was not disposed to address him again, even if the roughness of the road had not rendered it difficult to speak.
Horace knew that he ought to ask his mother's forgiveness at once, as he had often done when a child; but pride shrank from that simple course. As a compromise between conscience and pride, he said, with a little hesitation:
"I am sorry that I spoke so unguardedly about that mysterious Italian; though who could have dreamed of any one here comprehending the English tongue?"
Mrs. Cleveland made no reply, but continued gazing out of the carriage window in an opposite direction.
"And I am sorry," continued Horace with an effort, "that I said or did anything to vex you."
Still silence—still the averted face. This had not been the first, no, nor the fiftieth time that Horace had offended his mother, and such offences, though apparently trivial,—
"Make up in number what they lack in weight."