Blackwood's; the awful, aching
longing that I have so often to fight down has taught me something of
what my father must suffer. If I could only have expressed what was in
my heart! but all I could manage to get out was, "Very well, sir," and
my voice sounded so cold and indifferent that I was ashamed.
I'm not afraid of the _pater_,--I can talk easily enough to him on
ordinary subjects; but when it comes to anything about which I feel
very deeply, Nannie is the only person to whom I can bear to speak, now
that _she_ is gone. And even to Nannie I can't say much; I wish I
could,--it would be a relief sometimes. I envy the others that they can
talk of--mother; it is a comfort to me to listen, but it cuts me to the
heart to even say her name. So this afternoon I sat quietly at Nannie's
table, and went on sorting the references I had been making for the
Fetich, until my father got up from his desk and began pacing up and
down the study floor, with his hands clasped behind his back. His head
was bent forward, and he had evidently entirely forgotten that I was in
the room; for he sighed heavily several times, and then, with a sudden
straightening of his whole body, as if in acute physical pain, he threw
back his head, and a low, quivering "_A-a-h!_" that was like a groan,
broke from his lips.
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