She stirred.
Then he made haste, and applied his remedies, and brought her slowly back to life; he lifted her up, and carried her in his arms quite away from the bills and things, that, when she came to, she might see nothing to revive her distress. He carried her to the drawing-room, and kneeled down and rocked her in his arms, and pressed her again and again gently to his heart, and cried over her. “O my dove, my dove! the tender creature God gave me to love and cherish, and have I used it harshly? If I had only known! if I had only known!”
While he was thus bemoaning her, and blaming himself, and crying over her like the rain,—he, whom she had never seen shed a tear before in all his troubles,—she was coming to entirely, and her quick ears caught his words, and she opened her lovely eyes on him.
“I forgive you, dear,” she said feebly. “BUT I HOPE YOU WILL BE A KINDER FATHER THAN A HUSBAND.”
These quiet words, spoken with rare gravity and softness, went through the great heart like a knife.
He gave a sort of shiver, but said not a word.
But that night he made a solemn vow to God that no harsh word from his lips should ever again strike a being so weak, so loving, and so beyond his comprehension. Why look for courage and candor in a creature so timid and shy, she could not even tell her husband THAT until, with her subtle sense, she saw he had discovered it?
CHAPTER XII.
To be a father; to have an image of his darling Rosa, and a fruit of their love to live and work for: this gave the sore heart a heavenly glow, and elasticity to bear. Should this dear object be born to an inheritance of debt, of poverty? Never.