"My lamb! my treasure!" murmured the loving though rugged sire. He said no more for the moment; indeed, those two words were hoarse.
The room was now darkening. I heard a movement, a step without. Thinking it might be a servant coming with candles, I gently opened, to prevent intrusion. In the ante-room stood no servant: a tall gentleman was placing his hat on the table, drawing off his gloves slowly--lingering, waiting, it seemed to me. He called me neither by sign nor word; yet his eye said:--"Lucy, come here." And I went.
Over his face a smile flowed, while he looked down on me: no temper, save his own, would have expressed by a smile the sort of agitation which now fevered him.
"M. de Bassompierre is there--is he not?" he inquired, pointing to the library.
"Yes."
"He noticed me at dinner? He understood me?"
"Yes, Graham."
"I am brought up for judgment, then, and so is she?"
"Mr. Home" (we now and always continued to term him Mr. Home at times) "is talking to his daughter."
"Ha! These are sharp moments, Lucy!"
He was quite stirred up; his young hand trembled; a vital (I was going to write mortal, but such words ill apply to one all living like him)--a vital suspense now held, now hurried, his breath: in all this trouble his smile never faded.
"Is he very angry, Lucy?"
"She is very faithful, Graham."
"What will be done unto me?"
"Graham, your star must be fortunate."
"Must it? Kind prophet! So cheered, I should be a faint heart indeed to quail. I think I find all women faithful, Lucy. I ought to love them, and I do. My mother is good; she is divine; and you are true as steel. Are you not?"
"Yes, Graham."
"Then give me thy hand, my little god-sister: it is a friendly little hand to me, and always has been. And now for the great venture. God be with the right. Lucy, say Amen!"
He turned, and waited till I said "Amen!"--which I did to please him: the old charm, in doing as he bid me, came back. I wished him success; and successful I knew he would be. He was born victor, as some are born vanquished.
"Follow me!" he said; and I followed him into Mr. Home's presence.
"Sir," he asked, "what is my sentence?"
The father looked at him: the daughter kept her face hid.
"Well, Bretton," said Mr. Home, "you have given me the usual reward of hospitality. I entertained you; you have taken my best. I was always glad to see you; you were glad to see the one precious thing I had. You spoke me fair; and, meantime, I will not say you robbed me, but I am bereaved, and what I have lost, you, it seems, have won."