I said, “Yes. God bless thee! Thou art the real son,” and we entered.
Then it was sweet to see her; she said no word of reproach except, “Il ne faut pas me donner ton baiser du soir. No, no; I am not to be kissed.” And so I went, sorrowful and still dizzy, up to my sleepless couch.
At the first gray light of dawn I rose, and was soon away half a mile from shore in my boat. As I came up from my first plunge in the friendly river, and brushed the water from my eyes, I do assure you the world seemed different. The water was very cold, but I cared nothing for that. I went home another and a better man, with hope and trust and self-repose for company. That hour in the water at early morn forever after seemed to me a mysterious separation between two lives, like a mighty baptismal change. Even now I think of it with a certain awe.
I pulled home as the sun rose, and lingered about until our servants came in for the early worship of the day. Soon I had the mother’s kiss, and underwent a quick, searching look, after which she nodded gaily, and said, “Est-ce que tout est bien, mon fils? Is all well with thee, my son?” I said, “Yes—yes.” I heard her murmur a sweet little prayer in her beloved French tongue. Then she began to read a chapter. I looked up amazed. It was the prodigal’s story.
I stood it ill, thinking it hard, that she should have made choice of that reproachful parable. I stared sideways out at the stream and the ships, but lost no word, as, with a voice that broke now and then, she read the parable to its close. After this should have come prayer, silent or spoken; but, to my surprise, she said, “We will not pray this morning,” and we went in to breakfast at once.
As for me, I could not eat. I went out alone to the garden and sat down. I knew she would come to me soon. It seemed to me a long while. I sat on the grass against a tree, an old cherry, as I remember, and waited.
I can see her coming toward me under the trees, grave and quiet and sweet. The great beauty, Sarah Lukens, who married in mid-war the gallant Lennox, used to say of my mother that she put some sugar into all her moods; and it was true. I have seen her angry. I had rather have faced my father in his wildest rage than her. Why was she not angry now? She had vast reason for displeasure. After men have become wise enough to understand woman, I protest there will remain the mother, whom no man will ever comprehend.
“What a beautiful day, Hugh! And you had a good swim? was it cold f Why may not girls swim? I should love it.”
Next she was beside me on the grass, my head on her bosom, saying, with a little sob, as if she had done some wrong thing:
“I-I did not choose it, dear; indeed I did not. It came in order with the day, as your father reads; and I—I did not think until I began it, and then I would not stop. It is strange for it to so chance. I wonder where that prodigal’s mother was all the while? Oh, you are better than that wicked, wicked prodigal. I never would have let him go at all—never if I could have helped it, I mean. Mon Dieu! I think we women were made only for prayer or for forgiveness; we can stop no sin, and when it is done can only cry, ‘Come back! come back! I love you!’”