"Courage! I'll bear all the blame. We have committed no absolute sin, and have paid dearly for any folly. Courage!"
At the five minutes' end my father opened the door. He was dressed as usual, looked as usual. Whether he had sat up watching, or had suffered any anxiety, I never found out.
He said nothing; merely opened the door, admitted us, and closed it behind us. But we were certain, from his face, that he knew all. It was so; some neighbour driving home from Coltham had taken pains to tell Abel Fletcher where he had seen his son—at the very last place a Friend's son ought to be seen—the play-house. We knew that it was by no means to learn the truth, but to confront us with it, that my father—reaching the parlour, and opening the shutters that the hard daylight should shame us more and more—asked the stern question—
"Phineas, where hast thee been?"
John answered for me. "At the theatre at Coltham. It was my fault. He went because I wished to go."
"And wherefore didst thee wish to go?"
"Wherefore?" the answer seemed hard to find. "Oh! Mr Fletcher, were you never young like me?"
My father made no reply; John gathered courage.
"It was, as I say, all my fault. It might have been wrong—I think now that it was—but the temptation was hard. My life here is dull; I long sometimes for a little amusement—a little change."
"Thee shall have it."