My father came in first, and my mother clung
to him as if he had been absent for weeks, while all the joy of
contact with my brother swept over me, even though his hand hung
limp in mine, and was icy cold like his cheeks. My father turned to
him with one of the little set speeches of those days. 'Here is our
son, Mary, who has promised me to do his utmost to retrieve his
character, as far as may be possible, and happily he is still
young.'
My mother's embrace was in a sort of mechanical obedience to her
husband's gesture, and her voice was not perhaps meant to be so
severe as it sounded when she said, 'You are very cold--come and
warm yourself.'
They made room for him by the fire, and my father stood up in front
of it, giving particulars of the journey. Emily and Martyn were at
tea in the nursery, in a certain awe that hindered them from coming
down; indeed, Martyn seems to have expected to see some strange
transformation in his brother. Indeed, there was alteration in the
absence of the blue and gold, and, still more, in the loss of the
lightsome, hopeful expression from the young face.
There is a picture of Ary Scheffer's of an old knight, whose son had
fled from the battle, cutting the tablecloth in two between himself
and the unhappy youth. Like that stern baron's countenance was that
with which my mother sat at the head of the dinner-table, and we
conversed by jerks about whatever we least cared for, as if we could
hide our wretchedness from Peter.
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