Tom Valentine dropped my hands.
Chapter Twenty Three.
The Dearest Bond.
My cousin, Tom Valentine, stayed to supper. We had a very merry, rapturous sort of evening. There was an unexplained mystery that no one spoke of; but that did not make our spirits the lower, or our laughter the less frequent. We laughed a good deal; we made witty remarks; we joked each other; we criticised each other; we even alluded, lightly and gracefully, to the old days of poverty.
We were all present at the board—all except my mother. Her room was overhead. Our gay voices must have floated up to her through the big windows which were partly open. My father took the foot of the table; his face looked quite handsome; his brow was smooth; he made the wittiest remarks of any one present.
Looking down the long table—for I poured out coffee at the farthest end—I perceived at a glance that poverty had all his life acted as a sort of umbrella over my father’s head, shutting away the genial rays of the sun, and causing his nature to wither as a plant does when removed from the light and air. Now the umbrella was shut, and my father’s nature was expanding genially.
George too was very much the better for his good food, cheerful home, and well-made clothes. (I had sent him to a West End tailor a week ago, and when he returned home in the suit of clothes which that tailor had given him, I discovered for the first time that George was a remarkably well-made man.)
As to Jack and Hetty, this was their first taste of the good things of life. They were still poorly clad, their faces were thin, and in each pair of eyes anxiety was not dead, but only lulled to sleep.