He turned hastily from the room, with a face on which the deep emotion of an aroused spirit was depicted strongly.
In the lobby he met his son, Henry Lawson. The young man paused, something struck by the excited appearance of his father.
"Henry," said the father, abruptly, "I want some money; there is a poor woman whom I wish to relieve—will you give me some money for her?"
"Willingly, my dear father; but have you asked Augusta? You know I have given her the management of the money-matters of the establishment, she is so very clever and economical."
"She has neither charity, nor pity, nor kindness; she saves from me—she saves from the starving poor—she saves, that she may waste large sums on parties and dresses. I shall never more ask her for money—give me a few shillings. My God! the father begs of the son for what was his own—for what he toiled all his youth—for what he gave up out of trusting love to that son. Henry, my son, I am sick of asking and begging—ay, sick—sick; but give me some shillings now."
"You asked Augusta, then," said Henry, drawing out his purse, and glancing with some apprehension to the drawing-room door.
"Henry," cried Mrs. Lawson, appearing at that instant with a face inflamed with anger—"Henry, I would not give your father any money to-day, because he is so very extravagant in giving it all away."
Henry was in the act of opening his purse; he glanced apprehensively to Mrs. Lawson; his face had a mild and passive expression, which was a true index of his yielding and easily-governed nature. His features were small, delicate, and almost effeminately handsome; and in every lineament a want of decision and force of character was visible.
"Henry, give me some shillings, I say—I am your father—I have a just right."