“Ay, that's more like the truth,” said he, gayly. “The language of blame is not familiar to him. So, then, from Raper you have learned little. Now, what has the great financier and arch-swindler Law taught you?”
“Emile, Emile,” broke in my mother, “this is not a way to speak to the boy, nor is it by such lessons he will be trained to gratitude and affection.”
“Even there, then, will my teaching serve him,” said he, laughingly. “From all that I have seen of life, these are but unprofitable emotions.”
I did not venture to look at my mother; but I could hear how her breathing came fast and thick, and could mark the agitation she was under.
“Now, Jasper,” said he, “sit down here beside me, and let us talk to each other in all confidence and sincerity. You know enough of your history to be aware that you are an orphan, that both your parents died leaving you penniless, and that to this lady, whom till now you have called your mother, you owe your home.”
My heart was full to bursting, and I could only clasp my mother's hand and kiss it passionately, without being able to utter a word.
“I neither wish to excite your feelings nor to weary you,” said he, calmly; “but it is necessary that I should tell you we are not rich. The fact, indeed, may have occurred to you already,” said he, with a disdainful gesture of his hand, while his eye ranged over the poverty-stricken chamber where we sat. “Well,” resumed he, “not being rich, but poor,—so poor that I have known what it is to feel hunger and thirst and cold, for actual want! Worse again,” cried he, with a wild and savage energy, “have felt the indignity of being scoffed at for my poverty, and seen the liveried scullions of a great house make jests upon my threadbare coat and worn hat! It has been my own choosing, however, all of it!” and as he spoke, he arose, and paced the room with strides that made the frail chamber tremble beneath the tread.
“Dearest Emile,” cried my mother, “let us have no more of this. Remember that it is so long since we met. Pray keep these sad reflections for another time, and let us enjoy the happiness of being once more together.”
“I have no time for fooling, madame,” said he, sternly. “I have come a long and weary journey about this boy. It is unlikely that I can afford to occupy myself with his affairs again. Let him have the benefit—if benefit there be—of my coming. I would relieve you of the burden of his support, and himself of the misery of dependence.”
I started with surprise. It was the first time I had ever heard the word with reference to myself, and a sense of shame, almost to sickness, came over me as I stood there.