"To Saratoga, of course."
"Oh!" It seemed new to him. Then he repeated my words, in a questioning
kind of a way, as if his mind were not altogether satisfied on the
subject.
"To Saratoga?"
"Yes, sir. To Saratoga. We always go there. We shall close the season
at Newport this year."
"Who else is going?" My father's manner was strange. I had never seen
him just in the mood he then appeared to be.
"Jane is going, of course; and so is Emily. And we are trying to
persuade mother, also. She didn't go last year. Won't you spend a week
or two with us? Now do say yes."
My father shook his head at this last proposal, and said, "No, child!"
very decidedly.
"Why?" I asked.
"Because I have something of more importance to think about than
Saratoga and its fashionable follies."
"Business! business!" said I, impatiently. "It is the Moloch, father,
to which you sacrifice every social pleasure, every home delight, every
good! Already you have laid health and happiness upon the bloody altars
of this false god!"
A few quick flushes went over his pale face, and then its expression
became very sad.
"Anna," he said, after a brief silence, during which even my
unpracticed eyes could see that an intense struggle was going on in his
mind, "Anna, you will have to give up your visit to Saratoga this year."
"Why, father!" It seemed as if my blood were instantly on fire. My face
was, of course, all in a glow. I was confounded, and, let me confess
it, indignant; it seemed so like a tyrannical outrage.
"It is simply as I say, my daughter." He spoke without visible
excitement. "I cannot afford the expense this season, and you will,
therefore, all have to remain in the city."
"That's impossible!" said I. "I couldn't live here through the summer."
"_I_ manage to live!" There was a tone in my father's voice, as he
uttered these simple words, partly to himself, that rebuked me. Yes, he
did manage to live, but _how_? Witness his pale face, wasted form,
subdued aspect, brooding silence, and habitual abstraction of mind!
"_I_ manage to live!" I hear the rebuking words even now--the tones in
which they were uttered are in my ears. Dear father! Kind, tender,
indulgent, long-suffering, self-denying! Ah, how little were you
understood by your thoughtless, selfish children!
"Let my sisters and mother go," said I, a new regard for my father
springing up in my heart; "I will remain at home with you."
"Thank you, dear child!" he answered, his voice suddenly veiled with
feeling. "But I cannot afford to let any one go this season."
"The girls will be terribly disappointed. They have set their hearts on
going," said I.
"I'm sorry," he said. "But necessity knows no law. They will have to
make themselves as contented at home as possible."