The next afternoon, when the Signor had bestowed on them his last smile, and with foreign politeness and native feeling kissed their hands at parting, they went to their father’s study to get rid of their ennui.
Mr. Byerley was, fortunately, in particularly good spirits. Much as he esteemed his late guests, and had on the whole enjoyed their society, he preferred his own quiet study, and the liberty to pursue his daily plans. To be gowned and slippered was quite a luxury; and to shut the door on all the world but his children, gave him a satisfaction which he was not unreasonable enough to expect to see reflected in the faces of his young companions. It was well that he was in a bright mood, for all his patience was needed to-day. Virgil could not be made to utter poetry, or even sense, this afternoon; and Fénélon’s French was far less intelligible than Signor Elvi’s. Anna’s memory furnished her with one provoking rhyme,
“The rule of three doth puzzle me,”
which was the only product she could obtain from her sum. Her father took pity on her perplexity, and explained once more what he knew she understood very well. He pointed with his finger to the place where the answer was to be written down, when lo! a huge tear-drop fell on it. Then came another, and another, till the divisor and the quotient became alike indistinguishable.
“What is all this about?” said her father, making her sit on his knee. “What makes you so unhappy this afternoon?”
Anna had so many reasons to give, that she did not know which to produce first. Before she could find voice to reply, her father’s attention was called away by stifled sobs from the other side of the table.
“You too, Mary! Come here, my dear, and tell me what has happened to you both.”
Mary came and, as she was wont, told her father all that she herself knew of what was in her mind; ending by owning, with a half-smile, that she should not have shed any tears if Anna had not; but that now she had once begun, she did not know when she should be able to leave off. Her father, hasty as he was sometimes, was now full of tenderness, though he did not weakly encourage their overflow of melancholy. He said no more about study, but talked to them of the prospect of meeting their friends again, and of much which was to be done in the mean time. He showed that he fully understood the new pleasure of companionship which they had just enjoyed, and that he shared their sympathy with his foreign friend’s misfortunes, and their admiration of his conduct under them; but he led them to perceive how wrong it is to allow inactive sympathy to interfere with active duty.
When the tears had disappeared, and smiles came forth again, he sent them to put on their bonnets, that they might have a walk together once more.
As soon as the fresh air blew on her face, Mary’s impulse was, as usual, to sing; but crying is a bad preparation for singing, and she was obliged to keep her music till her voice, as well as her spirit, had recovered its tone.