“Did you never hear of a discarded child?” said he, his voice sinking almost to a whisper, it was so choked with passion.
“Yes, sir.”
“And do you not fear such a doom?”
“No, sir.”
“My husband,” exclaimed Mrs. Gleason, laying her hand imploringly on his shoulder, “be calm. Seek not by violence to break the stubborn will which kindness cannot bend. Let not our fireside be a scene of domestic contention, which we shall blush to recall. Leave her to the dark and sullen secrecy she prefers to our tenderness and sympathy. And, one thing I beseech you, my husband, suspend your judgment of the character of Clinton till Louis is able to explain all that is doubtful and mysterious. He is weary now, and needs rest instead of excitement.”
There was magic in the touch of that gentle hand, in the tones of that persuasive voice. The father’s stern brow relaxed, and a cloud of the deepest sadness extinguished the fiery anger of his glance. The cloud condensed and melted away in tears. Helen saw them, though he turned away, and shaded his face with his hand, and putting her arms round him, she kissed the hand which hung loosely at his side. This act, so tender and respectful, touched him to the heart’s core.
“My child, my darling, my own sweet Helen,” he cried, pressing her fondly to his bosom. “You have always been gentle, loving and obedient. You have never wilfully given me one moment’s sorrow. In the name of thy beautiful mother I bless thee, and thou shalt be blessed.”
The excitement of his feelings gave an exalted tone to his voice and words, and as the benediction stole solemnly into her heart, Helen felt as if the plumage of the white dove was folded in downy softness there. In the meantime Mittie had quitted the room, and Mrs. Gleason drawing near Louis, sat down by him, and addressed him in a kind, cheering manner.
“These heavy locks must be shorn to-morrow,” said she, passing her hand over his long, dark hair. “They sadden your countenance too much. A night’s sleep, too, will bring back the color to your face. You are over weary now. Retire, my son, and banish every emotion but gratitude for your return. You are safe now, and all will yet be well.”
“Oh, mother,” he answered, suffering his head to droop upon her shoulder, then suddenly lifting it, “I am not worthy to rest on this sacred pillow. I am not worthy to touch the hem of your garments, but if the deepest repentance—the keenest remorse,” he paused, for his voice faltered, then added, passionately, “oh, mother—