Erema; Or, My Father's SinBlackmore, R. D. (Richard Doddridge)
History
Erema; Or, My Father's Sin
Blackmore, R. D. (Richard Doddridge)
California -- History -- 19th century -- Fiction; Fathers and daughters -- Fiction; Young women -- Fiction
“Open it?” he cried; “why, of course I can; there is never any
difficulty about that. The finest workmanship in the world is that of
the Indian jewelers. I have been among them often; I know all their
devices and mechanism, of which the European are bad copies. I have only
to look round this thing twice, and then pronounce my Sesame.”
“My dear, then look round it as fast as you can,” said his wife, with
a traitorous smile at me, “and we won't breathe a Sess till it flies
asunder.”
“Mary, Miss Castlewood makes you pert, although herself so well
conducted. However, I do not hesitate to say that I will open this case
in two minutes.”
“Of course you will, dear,” Mrs. Hockin replied, with provoking
acquiescence. “The Major never fails, Erema, in any thing he is so sure
about; and this is a mere child's toy to him. Well, dear, have you done
it? But I need not ask. Oh, let us see what is inside of it!”
“I have not done it yet, Mrs. Hockin; and if you talk with such
rapidity, of course you throw me out. How can I command my thoughts, or
even recall my experience?”
“Hush! now hush, Erema! And I myself will hush most reverently.”
“You have no reverence in you, and no patience. Do you expect me to do
such a job in one second? Do you take me for a common jeweler? I beg you
to remember--”
“Well, my dear, I remember only what you told us. You were to turn it
round twice, you know, and then cry Sesame. Erema, was it not so?”
“I never said any thing of the sort. What I said was simply
this--However, to reason with ladies is rude; I shall just be off to my
study.”
“Where you keep your tools, my darling,” Mrs. Hockin said, softly, after
him: “at least, I mean, when you know where they are.”
I was astonished at Aunt Mary's power of being so highly provoking, and
still more at her having the heart to employ it. But she knew best what
her husband was; and to worship forever is not wise.
“Go and knock at his door in about five minutes,” Mrs. Hockin said to
me, with some mischief in her eyes. “If he continues to fail, he may
possibly take a shorter way with it. And with his tools so close at
hand--”
“Oh,” I exclaimed, “his geological hammer--that dreadful crusher! May I
go at once? I detest that thing, but I can not have it smashed.”
“He will not break it up, my dear, without your leave. He never would
think of such a thing, of course. However, you may as well go after
him.”
It was wrong of Mrs. Hockin to make me do this; and I felt quite
ashamed of myself when I saw the kind old Major sitting by his lamp, and
wrinkling his forehead into locks and keys of puzzle, but using violence
to his own mind alone. And I was the more ashamed when, instead of
resenting my intrusion, he came to meet me, and led me to his chair, and
placed the jeweled trinket in my hand, and said, “My dear, I give it
up. I was wrong in taking it away from you. You must consult some one
wiser.”
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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