Domestic fiction; Education -- Fiction; England -- Fiction; Political fiction; Social problems -- Fiction; Utilitarianism -- Fiction
He had a jaded anxious look upon him, and his hand, usually steady,
trembled in hers. He sat down at the side of the bed, tenderly asking
how she was, and dwelling on the necessity of her keeping very quiet
after her agitation and exposure to the weather last night. He spoke in
a subdued and troubled voice, very different from his usual dictatorial
manner; and was often at a loss for words.
‘My dear Louisa. My poor daughter.’ He was so much at a loss at that
place, that he stopped altogether. He tried again.
‘My unfortunate child.’ The place was so difficult to get over, that he
tried again.
‘It would be hopeless for me, Louisa, to endeavour to tell you how
overwhelmed I have been, and still am, by what broke upon me last night.
The ground on which I stand has ceased to be solid under my feet. The
only support on which I leaned, and the strength of which it seemed, and
still does seem, impossible to question, has given way in an instant. I
am stunned by these discoveries. I have no selfish meaning in what I
say; but I find the shock of what broke upon me last night, to be very
heavy indeed.’
She could give him no comfort herein. She had suffered the wreck of her
whole life upon the rock.
‘I will not say, Louisa, that if you had by any happy chance undeceived
me some time ago, it would have been better for us both; better for your
peace, and better for mine. For I am sensible that it may not have been
a part of my system to invite any confidence of that kind. I had proved
my—my system to myself, and I have rigidly administered it; and I must
bear the responsibility of its failures. I only entreat you to believe,
my favourite child, that I have meant to do right.’
He said it earnestly, and to do him justice he had. In gauging
fathomless deeps with his little mean excise-rod, and in staggering over
the universe with his rusty stiff-legged compasses, he had meant to do
great things. Within the limits of his short tether he had tumbled
about, annihilating the flowers of existence with greater singleness of
purpose than many of the blatant personages whose company he kept.
‘I am well assured of what you say, father. I know I have been your
favourite child. I know you have intended to make me happy. I have
never blamed you, and I never shall.’
He took her outstretched hand, and retained it in his.
‘My dear, I have remained all night at my table, pondering again and
again on what has so painfully passed between us. When I consider your
character; when I consider that what has been known to me for hours, has
been concealed by you for years; when I consider under what immediate
pressure it has been forced from you at last; I come to the conclusion
that I cannot but mistrust myself.’
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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