'Do not be so miserable; whatever you have done, you are our father, and we will be good to you.' This is what he would have said; but he only looked at Cyril and held his peace.
Cyril had felt himself strangely attracted from the first. This was not the father whom he had dreaded to see, and on whose countenance he had feared to behold the stamp of the felon. Mat's worn, gentle face and deep-set, sorrowful eyes only inspired him with pity; the haggard weariness, the utter despondency of the man before him told their own story. True, there was weakness, moral weakness; but, at least, there was no glorying in his wrong-doing. The prodigal had come home weary of his husks, and craving for more wholesome food.
'If I have done wrong, I have suffered for it,' his looks seemed to say; and Cyril's generosity responded to the appeal.
'We are all in a difficult position,' he said; 'but there is no need to make things worse than they are. It is not for us to judge our parents, neither is it our fault that all these years we have believed that we had but one. Now I know all, I feel you have not been treated fairly.'
'I thought you would have taken your mother's part, my boy,' replied Mat humbly.
Cyril's words brought him some amount of consolation, only he could not quite bring himself to believe them.
'I hope that I shall always be on the side where the right lies,' was Cyril's answer. 'I do not wish to blame my mother. I think it is best and wisest to be silent. You are a stranger to us, and we have not even your memory to aid us. My own childish reminiscences are very vague: I can just remember a big man who used to play with us, and whom we called daddy; but I have no special recollection of him.'
'I hardly expected you to say as much as that,' and Mat's eyes brightened; 'but, after all, I doubt if I am better off in that respect than you. How am I to find my little chaps again when I look at you both—a fine grown man, and that poor sickly lad beside you? Why,' he continued in a tender, musing tone, 'the little chaps I remember had rosy cheeks and curly heads. I can feel their bare legs swarming up me now. "Give us a ride, dad!" It was always Kester who said that. He was never still a moment unless he was asleep, and then he used to look so pretty; but where shall I find him?—there is not a trace of the little rogue left in him; and when I see my girl Mollie, it will be the same.'
Kester could stand no more; he started up so hastily that his crutch slipped from under his arm, and he would have lost his balance if his father had not caught him and held him fast.
'Why did you do that, boy? You have given me quite a fright? There! there! I will pick up your stick for you, while you stop quietly in your chair.'