He
dipped his handkerchief in it; and alternately bathed Madame
d'Argeles's temples and chafed her hands. It was not long before
the cold water revived her. She trembled, a convulsive shudder
shook her from head to foot, and at last she opened her eyes,
murmuring: "Wilkie!"
"I have sent him away," replied the baron.
Poor woman! with returning life came the consciousness of the
terrible reality. "He is my son!" she moaned, "my son, my
Wilkie!" Then with a despairing gesture she pressed her hands to
her forehead as if to calm its throbbings. "And I believed that
my sin was expiated," she pursued. "I thought I had been
sufficiently punished. Fool that I was! This is my chastisement,
Jacques. Ah! women like me have no right to be mothers!"
A burning tear coursed down the baron's cheek; but he concealed
his emotion as well as he could, and said, in a tone of assumed
gayety: "Nonsense! Wilkie is young--he will mend his ways! We were
all ridiculous when we were twenty. We have all caused our
mothers many anxious nights. Time will set everything to rights,
and put some ballast in this young madcap's brains. Besides, your
friend Patterson doesn't seem to me quite free from blame. In
knowledge of books, he may have been unequalled; but as a guardian
for youth, he must have been the worst of fools. After keeping
your son on a short allowance for years, he suddenly gorges him
with oats--or I should say, money--lets him loose; and then seems
surprised because the boy is guilty of acts of folly.
Pages:
146
147
148
149
150
151
152
153
154
155
156
157
158
159
160
161
162
163
164
165
166
167
168
169
170