At breakfast he drove Betty distracted with orders and counter-orders about egg-boiling and toast-making, after eating which, he drew on a pair of creaking boots and an overcoat, and mounted to his wife's room, to go through the ceremony of inquiring "how she was," holding the door open for the cold wind to blow upon the invalid, while he received the faint "Easy, thank you," from lips that contracted with pain, as the door closed after him in no gentle manner.
No thought of his children disturbed Mr. Wade's equanimity. He did not see, day by day, the sorrowful face of his daughter lifted to his, as if in search of sympathy; nor notice the tip-toe steps of the playful little Neddy, as he passed to and fro, with messages from Mrs. Hereford to Betty.
"It's infamous!" said the latter, slamming herself down in one of the kitchen chairs. "_Is_ that man made of flesh and blood, or is he not? All last night, Mrs. Wade sat up in bed, with that dreadful distress for breath, tossing her arms up over her head, and that man snoring away like the seven sleepers. It's infamous! Now, I'm no eaves-dropper: I scorn it; but I was in the kitchen this morning, and the slide was open through the closet into the basement, and I heard Mrs. Hereford say to her husband, who had called to inquire after Mrs. Wade: 'Oh, James, James, how can I love or respect my father?' and she sobbed as if her heart would break; and then she told him that the doctor had ordered some kind of drugs to be burned in Mrs. Wade's room to help her breathing--something expensive--I don't remember the name, and Mr. Wade said the doctor was an old granny, and it was a useless expense, and wouldn't give his daughter the money for it. When Mrs. Hereford had finished telling, I heard her husband say a word I never expected to hear out of his mouth, and he kissed his wife, and handing her his pocket-book, told her to get whatever was necessary. Oh, dear; the Bible says, 'Honor your parents;' but whether such a man as that _is_ a parent? that's the question. Some of the ministers must settle it; I can't. But it never will be clear to me that bringing a child into the world makes a parent. I don't care what they say; it's clear as day-light that the Lord meant that after that they should see 'em safe through it, no matter how much trouble turns up for 'em. When I'm married, if I ever am, I'll say this to my young ones: 'Now look here; tell me every thing. If you are sorry, tell me; if you are glad, tell me; if you are wicked, tell me; and I never, never, will turn away from you, no more than I want God to turn away from me. And if you break God's laws and man's laws, as I hope you won't--if you love Him and me--still, I never will shut my door in your face, _no matter what you do_, no more than I want my Maker to shut heaven's door in mine.' Now, that's my notion of a parent. Whether I shall ever have a chance to carry it out or not--that's another thing; but as sure as I do, there's where you'll find me; and it's my belief that many a man has swung on a gibbet, and many a woman has cursed God and man with her last breath, for want of just that. As if food, and drink, and clothes was all a child wanted, or a wife either, for that matter; as if that was all a husband or a father was bound to furnish; as if that was all the Lord would hold him accountable for; as if that was--gracious Gradgrind, there's my toast burnt all to a crisp."