That it might prove a blessing, he would
have spurned as a suggestion equally degrading and absurd. "What is done
is done," he would have said, in the mingled despair of pride and pride
of despair; "and all the power of God cannot make the thing otherwise.
We can hold up our heads no more for ever. My own son has not only
disgraced but fooled me, giving men good cause to say, 'Physician, heal
thyself.'"
He rose, and treading softly lest he should wake the only being he
_felt_ love for now, and whom he was loving less than before, for
self-love and pride are antagonistic to all loves, left the room and
went to his study. The fire was not yet out; he stirred it and made it
blaze, lighted his candles, took a book from a shelf, sat down, and
tried to read. But it was no use; his thoughts were such that they could
hold no company with other thoughts: the world of his kind was shut out;
he was a man alone, because a man unforgiving and unforgiven. His soul
slid into the old groove of miserable self-reiteration whose only result
was more friction-heat; and so the night slid away.
The nominal morning, if not the dawn was near, when, behold, a wonder of
the night! The door between the study and the old library opened so
softly that he heard nothing, and ere he was aware a child in long white
gown stood by his side.
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