We came back to my father's house, and on the stairs we met my
mother, whom Roland's grave looks, and her Austin's strange absence,
had alarmed. My father quietly led the way to a little room, which
my mother had appropriated to Blanche and herself; and then, placing
my hand in that which had helped his own steps from the stony path,
down the quiet vales of life, he said to me,--"Nature gives you here
the soother;"--and, so saying, he left the room.
And it was true, O my mother! that in thy simple loving breast
nature did place the deep wells of comfort! We come to men for
philosophy--to women for consolation. And the thousand weaknesses
and regrets--the sharp sands of the minutiæ that make up
_sorrow_--all these, which I could have betrayed to no _man_--not
even to him, the dearest and tenderest of all men--I showed without
shame to thee! And thy tears, that fell on my cheek, had the balm
of Araby; and my heart, at length, lay lulled and soothed under thy
moist gentle eyes.
I made an effort, and joined the little circle at dinner; and
I felt grateful that no violent attempt was made to raise my
spirits--nothing but affection, more subdued, and soft, and
tranquil. Even little Blanche, as if by the intuition of sympathy,
ceased her babble, and seemed to hush her footstep as she crept
to my side. But after dinner, when we had reassembled in the
drawing-room, and the lights shone bright, and the curtains were
let down--and only the quick roll of some passing wheels reminded
us that there was a world without--my father began to talk. He had
laid aside all his work; the younger, but less perishable child was
forgotten,--and my father began to talk.
"It is," said he musingly, "a well-known thing, that particular
drugs or herbs suit the body according to its particular diseases.
When we are ill, we don't open our medicinechest at random, and take
out any powder or phial that comes to hand. The skilful doctor is he
who adjusts the dose to the malady."
"Of that there can be no doubt," quoth Captain Roland. "I remember
a notable instance of the justice of what you say. When I was in
Spain, both my horse and I fell ill at the same time; a dose was
sent for each; and, by some infernal mistake, I swallowed the
horse's physic, and the horse, poor thing, swallowed mine!"
"And what was the result?" asked my father.
"The horse died!", answered Roland mournfully--"a valuable
beast--bright bay, with a star!"
"And you?"
"Why, the doctor said it ought to have killed me; but it took a
great deal more than a paltry bottle of physic to kill a man in my
regiment."
"Nevertheless, we arrive at the same conclusion," pursued my
father,--"I with my theory, you with your experience,--that the
physic we take must not be chosen hap-hazard; and that a mistake
in the bottle may kill a horse. But when we come to the medicine
for the mind, how little do we think of the golden rule which
common-sense applies to the body."
"Anon," said the Captain, "what medicine is there for the mind?
Shakspeare has said something on that subject, which, if I recollect
right, implies that there is no ministering to a mind diseased."
"I think not, brother; he only said physic (meaning boluses and
black draughts) would not do it. And Shakspeare was the last man
to find fault with his own art; for, verily, he has been a great
physician to the mind."
"Ah! I take you now, brother,--books again! So you think that,
when a man breaks his heart, or loses his fortune, or his
daughter--(Blanche, child, come here)--that you have only to clap
a plaster of print on the sore place, and all is well. I wish you
would find me such a cure."
"Will you try it?"
"If it is not Greek," said my uncle.