And I fell to dancing up and down the chamber in the effervescence of my mood.
CHAPTER V.
I MIX IN THE HIGH POLITICAL
I was very mystified by the manner of my papa. When I tripped into his presence, I was met with that wonderful sweet politeness that was so much in the marrow of the man that at his decease a tale was put about in town that his death was delayed ten minutes by the elaborate courtesies with which he introduced himself to the Old Gentleman’s attention.
Having paid me a compliment or two and discovered the good condition of my shoulder, he congratulated me on that fact, and then took a chair with such comical solemnity that I burst into laughing at the picture that he made.
“Mr. J. P.,” says I, “that’s excellent. Mr. Custos Rutulorum, my devoir to you! And I am sure your worship hath only to strike that attitude at the Petty Sessions to reform every poacher in the shire.”
I rose and swept three curtseys at him, but he sat more serious than ever.
“Bab,” says he, “there hath been an accident; and, my dear child, I would have given much to have prevented it.”
There was a depth and brevity about these words that startled me out of my lightheartedness. I had never guessed that this old barbarian kept such a chord locked up in his heart. In five-and-twenty years I had not touched it till this instant, and why or how I had done so now I did not know.
Meantime I sat in silent fascination at the fine and sorrowful power that had come into his voice, and hearkened with all my ears to everything he had to say.
“Bab,” says he, with a gentle smile that was intended to conceal his unaccustomed gravity, “man is a whimsical animal, I am aware. But there is one thing in him that even a woman must deal with mercifully. You have perhaps not heard of what he calls his honour. The omission is not yours, my pretty lady; your angelic sex rises superior to honour and little flippancies of that kind. But your papa suffers from his sex, and is, therefore, tainted with their foolish heresies. He hath also what he calls his honour; and a certain young person whom I will not blame, but who, I may say, is as greatly celebrated for her beauty as her wit, hath quite unconsciously put her foot upon it. And that spot is so tender that she must forgive the victim if he groans.”