I wanted him to take something—wine or food; or at least to have one of our ponies saddled that he might ride instead of walking home. But he would not.
We were standing at the hall—only he and I—the others having gone to bed. He took both my hands, and looked long and steadily in my face as he said good-bye.
“Keep up heart. I do not think any harm will come to your father.”
“I hope not. Dear, dear papa—it would indeed be terrible.”
“It would. Nothing must be allowed to grieve him in any way—as long as he lives.”
“No.”
Doctor Urquhart was not more explicit than this; but I am sure he wished me to understand that in any of those points discussed today, wherein he and I agreed, and both differed from my father—it was our duty henceforth, as much as possible, to preserve a respectful silence. And I thanked him in my heart—and with my eyes too, I know—for this, and for his forbearance in not having contradicted papa, even when most violent and unjust.
“When shall you be coming again, Doctor Urquhart?”
“Some day—some day.”
“Do not let it be very long first. Good-bye.”