I waited anxiously for what he might say to me next.
For the moment, the Minister disappointed me.
Without speaking, without even looking up, he took out his pocketbook, and began to write in it. Constantly interrupted either by a trembling in the hand that held the pencil, or by a difficulty (as I imagined) in expressing thoughts imperfectly realized--his patience gave way; he dashed the book on the floor.
“My mind is gone!” he burst out. “Oh, Father in Heaven, let death deliver me from a body without a mind!”
Who could hear him, and be guilty of the cruelty of preaching self-control? I picked up the pocketbook, and offered to help him.
“Good fellow! What should I do without you? See now; here is my difficulty. I have got so many things to say, I want to separate them--or else they will all run into each other. Look at the book,” my poor friend said mournfully; “they have run into each other in spite of me.”
The entries proved to be nearly incomprehensible. Here and there I discovered some scattered words, which showed themselves more or less distinctly in the midst of the surrounding confusion. The first word that I could make out was “Education.” Helped by that hint, I trusted to guess-work to guide me in speaking to him. It was necessary to be positive, or he would have lost all faith in me.
“Well,” I answered, “you have something to say to me about the education which you have given to your daughters.”
“Don’t put them together!” he cried. “Dear, patient, sweet Eunice must not be confounded with that she-devil--”
“Hush, hush, Mr. Gracedieu! Badly as Miss Helena has behaved, she is your own child.”
“I repudiate her, sir! Think for a moment of what she has done--and then think of the religious education that I have given her. Heartless! Deceitful! The most ignorant creature in the lowest dens of this town could have done nothing more basely cruel. And this, after years on years of patient Christian instruction on my part! What is religion? What is education? I read a horrible book once (I forget who was the author); it called religion superstition, and education empty form. I don’t know; upon my word I don’t know that the book may not--Oh, my tongue! Why don’t I keep a guard over my tongue? Are you a father, too? Don’t interrupt me. Put yourself in my place, and think of it. Heartless, deceitful, and _my_ daughter. Give me the pocketbook; I want to see which memorandum comes first.”