“Monte!” I said, grasping his arm tightly, “that’s C’lotta; I know her, I raised her. Lem’me go and speak to her!”
“Wait, Smith, don’t be a fool!” he said, impatiently shaking me off, and making his way across the room, as the music had now ceased.
I turned to the others of our party and kept repeating, “That’s our C’lotta, I know her ‘s well ‘s I want to. She knows me soon ‘s she sees me.”
An elderly gentleman, who had been much annoyed by our noise, and who had been looking very steadily at us for several minutes, now got up from his seat and approached. I looked at him now for the first time, and oh, shade of Hamlet! I recognized my father. The most fervent wish of my heart was that there might be a Samson underneath that floor with his hands already on the pillars.
He did not smile as I pressed his hand, but said, “Come, go with me up to our room, John.”
His presence, and my chagrin and surprise did one good thing—it effectually sobered me.
As we walked out of the room he left me for a moment, and when he rejoined me a lady was on his arm—my mother. There was as much sorrow as joy in her kiss, and we proceeded in silence to their rooms. I took the proffered seat, and no one spoke for some time; then mother burst into tears and said:
“Oh, my child! my child! you have almost broken my heart. To think that I left you such a pure, noble boy, and return to meet you drunk, and in a disorderly crowd. Oh, John, how cruelly you have deceived us!”
I threw myself on my knees, as I used to do when a child, and buried my face in her lap.
“Mother,” I said, humbly, “I have not deceived you; let me explain.”