His child made no answer in words, but she slipped from his knee, and darting to her mother, clasped her little arms tight round her neck, and hid her glowing cheeks and tearful eyes in her bosom. And from that hour, as she felt her mother's fond return of that passionate embrace, her love became religion, though she knew it not. Her thoughts flew to her cousins and many others, who had no mother, and to others whose mothers left them to nurses and governesses, and seemed always to keep them at a distance. And she felt, How could she thank and love God enough? Nor was it the mere feeling of the moment, it became part of her being, for the right moment had been seized to impress it.
CHAPTER VIII.
AN UNPLEASANT PROPOSAL.—THE MYSTERY SOLVED.—A FATHER'S GRIEF FROM A MOTHER'S WEAKNESS.—A FATHER'S JOY FROM A MOTHER'S INFLUENCE.
Meanwhile the young heir of Oakwood had passed no very pleasant day. His thoughts since Mr. Howard's return had been so pre-occupied, that his studies had been unusually neglected; so much so, as rather to excite the displeasure of his gentle and forbearing preceptor. The emotion of the morning had not tended to steady his ideas, and a severe reproof and long imposition was the consequence. Not one word did he deign to address Herbert and Edward, who, perceiving him leave the Vicarage with every mark of irritation, endeavored, during their walk home, to soothe him. His step was even more rapid than that in which he had left home, and he neither stopped nor spoke till he had reached his father's library, which, fortunately for the indulgence of his ire in words, was untenanted. He dashed his cap from his brow, flung his books with violence on the ground, and burst forth—
"Am I not a fool—an idiot, thus to torment myself, and for one act of folly, when hundreds of boys, at my age, are entirely their own masters? do what they please—spend what they please—neither questioned nor reproved—and that poem—how many would glory in its authorship, and not care a whit whom it might wound. Why am I such a fool, as to reproach myself about it, and then be punished, like a school-boy, with an imposition to occupy me at home, because I did not choose to learn in the hours of study?—Not choose! I wish Mr. Howard could feel as I have done to-day, nay, all this week; and I challenge him to bore his head with Greek and Latin! But why am I so cowed as to feel so? Why can not I have the same spirit as others—instead of being such a slave—such a—"
"Percy!" exclaimed Mrs. Hamilton, who, having sought him the moment she heard the hall-door close, had heard nearly the whole of his violent speech, and was almost alarmed at the unusual passion it evinced. Her voice of astonished expostulation checked his words, but not his agitation; he threw himself on a chair, leaning his arms upon the table, buried his face upon them, while his whole frame shook. His mother sat down by him, and laying her hand on his arm, said gently—
"What is it that has so irritated you, my dear Percy? What has made you return home in such a very different mood to that in which you left it? Tell me, my boy."
Percy tried to keep silence, for he knew if he spoke he should, as he expressed it, be a child again, and his pride tried hard for victory. Even his father or Herbert at that moment would have chafed him into increased anger, but the almost passionate love and reverence which he felt for his mother triumphed over his wrath, and told him he was much more unhappy than angry; and that he longed for her to comfort him, as she always had done in his childish griefs; and so he put his arms round her, and laid his head on her shoulder and said, in a half-choked voice:—
"I am very unhappy, mother; I feel as if I had been every thing that was bad, and cruel, and foolish, and so it was a relief to be in a passion; but I did not mean you to hear it, and cause you more grief than I have done already."