That voice, slow and quiet as it was, struck us both dumb.
"And how long hast thee planned this, John Halifax?"
"Not a day—not an hour! it was a sudden freak of mine." (My father shook his head with contemptuous incredulity.) "Sir!—Abel Fletcher—did I ever tell you a lie? If you will not believe me, believe your own son. Ask Phineas—No, no, ask him nothing!" And he came in great distress to the sofa where I had fallen. "Oh, Phineas! how cruel I have been to you!"
I tried to smile at him, being past speaking—but my father put John aside.
"Young man, I can take care of my son. Thee shalt not lead him into harm's way any more. Go—I have been mistaken in thee!"
If my father had gone into a passion, had accused us, reproached us, and stormed at us with all the ill-language that men of the world use! but that quiet, cold, irrevocable, "I have been mistaken in thee!" was ten times worse.
John lifted to him a mute look, from which all pride had ebbed away.
"I repeat, I have been mistaken in thee! Thee seemed a lad to my mind; I trusted thee. This day, by my son's wish, I meant to have bound thee 'prentice to me, and in good time to have taken thee into the business. Now—"
There was silence. At last John muttered, in a low broken-hearted voice, "I deserve it all. I can go away. I might perhaps earn my living elsewhere; shall I?"
Abel Fletcher hesitated, looked at the poor lad before him (oh, David! how unlike to thee), then said, "No—I do not wish that. At least, not at present."