How can I ever forget the first sight which I had of my father, who before I saw him had become to me as abhorrent as a demon! I came up in the coach to the door of the Hall and looked out. On the broad piazza there were two men; one was sitting, the other standing.
The one who was standing was somewhat elderly, with a broad, fat face, which expressed nothing in particular but vulgar good-nature. He was dressed in black; and looked like a serious butler, or perhaps still more like some of the Dissenting ministers whom I have seen. He stood with his hands in his pockets, looking at me with a vacant smile.
The other man was younger, not over thirty. He was thin, and looked pale from dissipation. His face was covered with spots, his eyes were gray, his eyelashes white. He was smoking a very large pipe, and a tumbler of some kind of drink stood on the stone pavement at his feet. He stared at me between the puffs of his pipe, and neither moved nor spoke.
If I had not already tasted the bitterness of despair I should have tasted it as I saw these men. Something told me that they were my father and brother. My very soul sickened at the sight—the memory of Despard’s words came back—and if it had been possible to have felt any tender natural affection for them, this recollection would have destroyed it.
“I wish to see Mr. Potts,” said I, coldly.
My father stared at me.
“I’m Mr. Potts,” he answered.
“I am Beatrice,” said I; “I have just arrived from China.”
By this time the driver had opened the door, and I got out and walked up on the piazza.
“Johnnie,” exclaimed my father, “what the devil is the meaning of this?”