"Yes. Well?"
"In those days I was of--of somewhat hasty temper."
"So I have heard," said Dr, Lavendar, Benjamin Wright glared. "When I was young, listening to gossip was not
thought becoming in the cloth. When he came, I learned that he had
stayed over in Mercer--without my consent, mark you--to go to the
theatre!"
"Well?" said Dr, Lavendar. "He was twenty-four. Why should he have
your consent?"
Mr., Wright waved this question aside. "When he came home, I spoke
with some severity," "This quarrel," said Dr. Lavendar, "is not built on such folly as
that."
Benjamin Wright shook his head, and made a careless gesture with his
trembling hand. "Not--entirely. I reproved him, as I say. And he was
impertinent. Impertinent, mind you, to his father! And I--in those
days my temper was somewhat quick--I--"
"Yes?"
But Mr. Wright seemed unable to proceed, except to say again, "I--
reproved him," "But," Dr. Lavendar protested, "you don't mean to tell me that Samuel,
just for a reproof, an unkind and unjust reproof, would--why, I cannot
believe it!"
"It was not unjust!" Benjamin Wright's melancholy eyes flamed angrily.
"I know, Samuel," said Dr. Lavendar. "He is obstinate; I've told him
so a hundred times. And he's conceited--so's everybody, more or less;
if in nothing else, we're conceited because we're not conceited. But
he's not a fool. So, whether he is right or not, I am sure he thinks
he had something more to complain of than a good blowing-up?"
"In a way," said the old man, examining his ridgy finger-nails and
speaking with a gasp, "he had. Slightly."
Dr. Lavendar's stern lip trembled with anxiety. "What?"
"I--chastised him; a little."
"You--what?"
Benjamin Wright nodded; the wrinkled pouches under his eyes grew dully
red. "My God!" he said plaintively; "think of that--a hasty moment!
Thirty-two years; my God! I--spanked him."
Dr. Lavendar opened his lips to speak, but found no words.
"And he was offended! Offended? What right had he to be offended?
I was the offended party. He went to a low theatre. Apparently
you see nothing wrong in that? Well, I've always said that every
parson had the making of an actor in him. It's a toss-up--the stage or
the pulpit. Same thing at bottom. But perhaps even you won't approve
of his staying away all night? Smoking! Drinking! He'd been drunk. He
confessed it. And there was a woman in it. He confessed that. Said
they'd all 'gone to supper together.' Said that he was 'seeing the
world'--which a man ('man,' if you please!) of his years had a
right to do. Well; I suppose you'd have had me smile at him, and tuck
him up in bed to sleep off his headache, and give him a stick of
candy? That wasn't my way. I reproved him. I--chastised him. Perfectly
proper. Perhaps--unusual. He was twenty-four, and I laid him across my
knee, and--well; I got over it in fifteen minutes. I was, perhaps,
hasty My temper in those days was not what it is now. But I forgave
him in fifteen minutes; and he had gone! He's been gone--for thirty-
two years. My God!"