Bull Garnet sighed from the depths of his heart. His children seemed to be driven from him, and to crouch together in fear of him.
“It serves me right. I know that, of course. That only makes it the worse to bear.”
“Father, what is it?” cried Bob, leaping up, and dropping his cork–slice and gum–bottle; “whatever the matter is, father, tell me, that I may stand by you.”
“You cannot stand by me in this. When you know what it is, you will fly from me.”
“Will I, indeed! A likely thing. Oh, father, you think I am such a soft, because I am fond of little things.”
“Would you stand by your father, Bob, if you knew that he was a murderer?”
“Oh come,” said Bob, “you are drawing it a little too strong, dad. You never could be that, you know.”
“I not only can be, but am, my son.”
Father and son looked at one another. The governor standing square and broad, with his shoulders thrown well back, and no trace of emotion in form or face, except that his quick wide nostrils quivered, and his lips were white. The stripling gazing up at him, seeking for some sign of jest, seeking for a ray of laughter in his fatherʼs eyes; too young to comprehend the power and fury of large passion.
Ere either spoke another word—for the father was hurt at the sonʼs delay, and the son felt all abroad in his head—between them glided Pearl, the daughter, the sister, the gentle woman—the one most wronged of all, and yet the quickest to forgive it.