Then it was sweet to see her; she said no word of reproach except,
“_Il ne faut pas me donner ton baiser du soir._ No, no; I am not to be
kissed.” And so I went, sorrowful and still dizzy, up to my sleepless
couch.
At the first gray light of dawn I rose, and was soon away half a mile
from shore in my boat. As I came up from my first plunge in the friendly
river, and brushed the water from my eyes, I do assure you the world
seemed different. The water was very cold, but I cared nothing for
that. I went home another and a better man, with hope and trust and
self-repose for company. That hour in the water at early morn forever
after seemed to me a mysterious separation between two lives, like a
mighty baptismal change. Even now I think of it with a certain awe.
I pulled home as the sun rose, and lingered about until our servants
came in for the early worship of the day. Soon I had the mother’s kiss,
and underwent a quick, searching look, after which she nodded gaily, and
said, “_Est-ce que tout est bien, mon fils?_ Is all well with thee, my
son?” I said, “Yes--yes.” I heard her murmur a sweet little prayer in
her beloved French tongue. Then she began to read a chapter. I looked up
amazed. It was the prodigal’s story.
I stood it ill, thinking it hard, that she should have made choice of
that reproachful parable. I stared sideways out at the stream and the
ships, but lost no word, as, with a voice that broke now and then,
she read the parable to its close. After this should have come prayer,
silent or spoken; but, to my surprise, she said, “We will not pray this
morning,” and we went in to breakfast at once.
As for me, I could not eat. I went out alone to the garden and sat down.
I knew she would come to me soon. It seemed to me a long while. I sat on
the grass against a tree, an old cherry, as I remember, and waited.
I can see her coming toward me under the trees, grave and quiet and
sweet. The great beauty, Sarah Lukens, who married in mid-war the
gallant Lennox, used to say of my mother that she put some sugar into
all her moods; and it was true. I have seen her angry. I had rather have
faced my father in his wildest rage than her. Why was she not angry now?
She had vast reason for displeasure. After men have become wise enough
to understand woman, I protest there will remain the mother, whom no man
will ever comprehend.
“What a beautiful day, Hugh! And you had a good swim? was it cold f Why
may not girls swim? I should love it.”
Next she was beside me on the grass, my head on her bosom, saying, with
a little sob, as if she had done some wrong thing:
“I-I did not choose it, dear; indeed I did not. It came in order with
the day, as your father reads; and I--I did not think until I began it,
and then I would not stop. It is strange for it to so chance. I wonder
where that prodigal’s mother was all the while? Oh, you are better
than that wicked, wicked prodigal. I never would have let him go at
all--never if I could have helped it, I mean. _Mon Dieu!_ I think we
women were made only for prayer or for forgiveness; we can stop no sin,
and when it is done can only cry, ‘Come back! come back! I love you!’”
If I cried on that tender heart, and spoke no word, and was but a child
again, I am sure that it was of all ways the best to tell her that never
again should she be hurt by any act of mine.
“See, there is Judith at the door, wondering where I am,” she said, “and
what is to be for dinner. I must go and get ready the fatted calf. Ah,
I would not have left one alive. Yes, yes, I can jest, because I am no
more afraid, _mon fils_, nor ever shall be.”
Upon this I would have said something of my deep shame, and of the swine
among whom I had wallowed.
“No,” she cried; “_c’est fini, mon cher_. It is all over. The swine will
eat alone hereafter.” She would hear no more, only adding, “As for me,
I want to be told once how brave I was. Jack said so; indeed he did. I
_was_ brave, was I not?”
“Don’t, dear mother! please! I cannot bear it.” Somehow this plea, so
childlike, to be praised for what must have cost so much, quite overcame
me.
“Yes, yes,” she said; “I understand thee, and I shall always. How strong
thou art, _mon fils!_ I was proud of thee, even in that sty of pigs
in red coats. And he behaved like a gentleman, and hath wondrous
self-command. I would see him again; who is he?”