“All? your tones mean more than your words— they are candid, at least! Have I feared the worst, and yet not feared as I ought? Basil!—do you hear me, Basil? You are trembling very strangely; you are growing pale!”
“I shall be better directly, Sir. I am afraid I am not quite so strong yet as I thought myself. Father! I am heartbroken and spirit-broken: be patient and kind to me, or I cannot speak to you.”
I thought I saw his eyes moisten. He shaded them a moment with his hand, and sighed again—the same long, trembling sigh that I had heard before. I tried to rise from my chair, and throw myself on my knees at his feet. He mistook the action, and caught me by the arm, believing that I was fainting.
“No more tonight, Basil,” he said, hurriedly, but very gently; “no more on this subject till tomorrow.”
“I can speak now, Sir; it is better to speak at once.”
“No: you are too much agitated; you are weaker than I thought. Tomorrow, in the morning, when you are stronger after a night’s rest. No! I will hear nothing more. Go to bed now; I will tell your sister not to disturb you tonight. Tomorrow, you shall speak to me; and speak in your own way, without interruption. Good night, Basil, good night.”
Without waiting to shake hands with me, he hastened to the door, as if anxious to hide from my observation the grief and apprehension which had evidently overcome him. But, just at the moment when he was leaving the room, he hesitated, turned round, looked sorrowfully at me for an instant, and then, retracing his steps, gave me his hand, pressed mine for a moment in silence, and left me.
After the morrow was over, would he ever give me that hand again?