When I got back, just in time for dinner, Roland had not returned,
nor did he return till late in the evening. All our eyes were
directed towards him, as we rose with one accord to give him
welcome; but his face was like a mask--it was locked, and rigid, and
unreadable.
Shutting the door carefully after him, he came to the hearth, stood
on it, upright and calm, for a few moments, and then asked--
"Has Blanche gone to bed?"
"Yes," said my mother, "but not to sleep, I am sure; she made me
promise to tell her when you came back."
Roland's brow relaxed.
"To-morrow, sister," said he slowly, "will you see that she has the
proper mourning made for her? My son is dead."
"Dead!" we cried with one voice, and surrounding him with one
impulse.
"Dead! impossible--you could not say it so calmly. Dead!--how do you
know? You may be deceived. Who told you?--why do you think so?"
"I have seen his remains," said my uncle, with the same gloomy calm.
"We will all mourn for him. Pisistratus, you are heir to my name
now, as to your father's. Good-night; excuse me, all--all you dear
and kind ones; I am worn out."
Roland lighted his candle and went away, leaving us thunderstruck;
but he came back again--looked round--took up his book, open in
the favourite passage--nodded again, and again vanished. We looked
at each other, as if we had seen a ghost. Then my father rose and
went out of the room, and remained in Roland's till the night was
wellnigh gone. We sat up--my mother and I--till he returned. His
benign face looked profoundly sad.
"How is it, sir Can you tell us more?"
My father shook his head.
"Roland prays that you may preserve the same forbearance you have
shown hitherto, and never mention his son's name to him. Peace be to
the living, as to the dead. Kitty, this changes our plans; we must
all go to Cumberland--we cannot leave Roland thus!"
"Poor, poor Roland!" said my mother, through her tears. "And to
think that father and son were not reconciled. But Roland forgives
him now--oh, yes! _now!_"
"It is not Roland we can censure," said my father, almost fiercely;
"it is--but enough. We must hurry out of town as soon as we can:
Roland will recover in the native air of his old ruins."
We went up to bed mournfully.
"And so," thought I, "ends one grand object of my life!--I had hoped
to have brought those two together. But, alas! what peacemaker like
the grave!"