'Mother,' said Barnaby, as they heard the man approaching to close the
cells for the night,' when I spoke to you just now about my father you
cried "Hush!" and turned away your head. Why did you do so? Tell me why,
in a word. You thought HE was dead. You are not sorry that he is alive
and has come back to us. Where is he? Here?'
'Do not ask any one where he is, or speak about him,' she made answer.
'Why not?' said Barnaby. 'Because he is a stern man, and talks roughly?
Well! I don't like him, or want to be with him by myself; but why not
speak about him?'
'Because I am sorry that he is alive; sorry that he has come back;
and sorry that he and you have ever met. Because, dear Barnaby, the
endeavour of my life has been to keep you two asunder.'
'Father and son asunder! Why?'
'He has,' she whispered in his ear, 'he has shed blood. The time has
come when you must know it. He has shed the blood of one who loved him
well, and trusted him, and never did him wrong in word or deed.'
Barnaby recoiled in horror, and glancing at his stained wrist for an
instant, wrapped it, shuddering, in his dress.
'But,' she added hastily as the key turned in the lock, 'although we
shun him, he is your father, dearest, and I am his wretched wife.
Pages:
949
950
951
952
953
954
955
956
957
958
959
960
961
962
963
964
965
966
967
968
969
970
971
972
973