He said this, not in any tone that could wound me, but tenderly, as if he were very sorry for me.
"What is it?"
"There is no need for alarm;—no more than that day—you recollect?—in this room. I had an attack once before then—a few times since. It is horrible pain while it lasts, you see; I can hardly bear it. But it goes away again, as you also see. It would be a pity to tell my wife, or anybody; in fact, I had rather not. You understand?"
He spoke thus in a matter-of-fact way, as if he thought the explanation would satisfy me and prevent my asking further. He was mistaken.
"John, what is it?"
"What is it? Why, something like what I had then; but it comes rarely, and I am well again directly. I had much rather not talk about it. Pray forget it."
But I could not; nor, I thought, could he. He took up a book and sat still; though often times I caught his eyes fixed on my face with a peculiar earnestness, as if he would fain test my strength—fain find out how much I loved him; and loving, how much I could bear.
"You are not reading, John; you are thinking—what about?"
He paused a little, as if undetermined whether or not to tell me; then said: "About your father. Do you remember him?"
I looked surprised at the question.