I was about to reply, when the old Captain raised a commanding hand.
"The trouble is," said he with great deliberation, "that we do print the truth in the Star; but this new generation, fed upon luxury and ease, has lost its desire for the truth. We're preaching the same sound doctrine that we've preached for thirty years—but the people refuse the truth. They say to us, 'Prophesy not unto us right things. Speak unto us smooth things, prophesy deceits.' They are wandering in the wilderness. They have made unto themselves a graven image of free trade, and they are falling down and worshipping before the profane altar of what they are pleased to call the Rights of Women. Rights of Women!"
Whenever the old Captain grew most eloquent he always waxed Biblical.
Here Nort broke in again:
"Well, if you don't like that report—I wrote it more than half in fun anyway—here's another. It's the truth—I felt it, too, David—and I haven't used a single name!"
I can see him yet, sitting up there behind the table, quite rigid, reading from his manuscript:
"There is a man in this town who quarrels regularly with his wife. He quarrelled with her this morning at breakfast: said the eggs were overdone and the coffee was cold. The sun was shining in at the window, the birds were singing, and the grass was green—but he was quarrelling with his wife——"
Well, Nort had a breathless audience! This time he was in deadly earnest. His sketch was not long, but it was as vivid a picture of the torment of domestic unhappiness as ever I have seen in such brief compass. Moreover, it had the very passion, the cut and thrust of the truth of things.
No sooner had he finished reading than Harriet leaned forward and asked in a half whisper, all ablaze with shocked interest.
"Who is it? Is it the Newtons?"