It was about a week after the arrival of Louis and the coming of Alice, that, as the family were assembled round the evening fireside, a note was brought to Louis.
“Clinton is come,” cried he, in an agitated voice, “he waits me at the hotel.”
“What shall I say to him, father?” asked he, turning to Mr. Gleason, whose folded arms gave an air of determination to his person, which Louis did not like.
“Come with me into the next room, Louis,” said Mr. Gleason, and Louis followed with a firm step but a sinking heart.
“I have reflected deeply, deliberately, prayerfully on this subject, my son, since we last discussed it, and the result is this: I cannot, while such dark doubts disturb my mind, I cannot, consistent with my duty as a father and a Christian, allow this young man to be domesticated in my family again. If I wrong him, may God forgive me—but if I wrong my own household, I fear He never will.”
“I cannot go—I will not go!” exclaimed Louis, dashing the note on the floor. “This is the last brimming drop in the cup of humiliation, bitterer than all the rest.”
“Louis, Louis, have you not merited humiliation? Have you a right to murmur at the decree? Have I upbraided you for the anxious days and sleepless nights you have occasioned me? For my blasted hopes and embittered joys? No, Louis. I saw that your own heart condemned you, and I left you to your God, who is greater than your own heart and mine!”
“Oh, father!” cried Louis, melted at once by this pathetic and solemn appeal, “I know I have no right to claim any thing at your hands, but I beg, I supplicate—not for myself—but another!”
“’Tis in vain, Louis. Urge me no more. On this point I am inflexible. But, since it is so painful to you, I will go myself and openly avow the reasons of my conduct.”
“No, sir,” exclaimed Louis, “not for the world. I will go at once.”