teacher."
"Damn me," Burlingame cried, "if thou'rt not fleeing responsibility!"
"Nay. If I flee, I flee to it. 'Twas a coward's act to hide from Father's wrath. I shall ask his pardon and do whate'er he requires of me."
"A pox on his anger! 'Tis not responsibility to him I speak of at all, but responsibility to thyself. 'Twere a noble act, on the fact of't, to beg his pardon and take your birching like a man, but 'tis no more than an excuse for dropping the reins of your own life. 'Sheart, 'tis a manlier matter to set your goal and swallow the consequences!"
Ebenezer shook his head. "Put what face you will upon it, Henry, I must go. Can a son stand by and watch his father fret to an early grave?"
"Think no ill of't, Henry," Anna pleaded.
"Surely you don't believe it a wise move also?" Burlingame asked incredulously.
"I cannot judge the wisdom of't," Anna replied, "but certain 'twere not a wrong thing to do."
"Marry, I have done with the twain of you!" Burlingame cried. "Praise Heav'n I know not my own father, if this be how they shackle one!"
"I pray Heav'n rather you may someday find him," Anna said calmly, "or word of him, at least. A man's father is his link with the past: the bond 'twixt him and the world he's born to."
"Then again I thank Heav'n I'm quit of mine," said Burlingame. "It leaves me free and unencumbered."
"It doth in sooth, Henry," Anna said with some emotion, "for better or worse."
When the time came to leave, Ebenezer asked, "When shall we see you again, Henry? I shall miss you painfully."
But Burlingame only shrugged and said, "Stay here now, if't pain you so."
"I shall visit as often as I can."
"Nay, risk not your father's displeasure. Besides, I may be gone."
"Gone?" asked Anna, with mild alarm. "Gone whither, Henry?"
He shrugged again. "There's naught to keep me here. I care not a fig for any of my pupils, save to pass the time till something else absorbs me."
After making their goodbyes, which their friend's bitterness rendered awkward, Ebenezer and Anna hired a carriage to fetch them to St. Giles in the Fields. The little journey, though uneventful, they both enjoyed, for despite the fact that Anna was disturbed to the point of occasional tears over Burlingame's attitude, and Ebenezer grew more anxious by the mile at the prospect of confronting his father, the carriage-ride was the twins' first opportunity in some time to converse privately and at length. When finally they arrived at the Cooke estate they found to their alarm that Andrew had taken to his bed three days before, at the direction of his physician, and was being cared for by Mrs. Twigg, the housekeeper, like an invalid.
"Dear God!" cried Anna. "And I in London all the while!"
" 'Tis no fault of yours, my dear," said Mrs. Twigg. "He told us not to send for you. Twould do him good to see you, though, I'm certain."
"I shall go too," Ebenezer declared.
"Nay, not just yet," Anna said. "Let me see what state he's in, and how 'twill strike him. 'Twere best to prepare him for it, don't you think?"
Ebenezer agreed, somewhat reluctantly, for he feared his courage would fail him should he postpone the move too long. That same day, however, Andrew's physician paid a call to the estate, and after learning what the situation was and assuring Ebenezer that his father was too weak to make a scene, he took it upon himself to announce to Andrew, as tactfully as possible, that his son had returned.
"He desires to see you at once," the physician reported afterwards to Ebenezer.
"Is he terribly wroth?" Ebenezer asked.
"I think not. Your sister's return raised his spirits, and I recalled to him the story of the prodigal son."
Ebenezer went upstairs and into his father's bedchamber, a room he had entered not more than thrice in his life. He found his father anything but the figure he'd feared: lying wigless and thin in bed, he looked nearer seventy than fifty; his cheeks were hollow, his eyes pale; his hair was turning white, his
"Damn me," Burlingame cried, "if thou'rt not fleeing responsibility!"
"Nay. If I flee, I flee to it. 'Twas a coward's act to hide from Father's wrath. I shall ask his pardon and do whate'er he requires of me."
"A pox on his anger! 'Tis not responsibility to him I speak of at all, but responsibility to thyself. 'Twere a noble act, on the fact of't, to beg his pardon and take your birching like a man, but 'tis no more than an excuse for dropping the reins of your own life. 'Sheart, 'tis a manlier matter to set your goal and swallow the consequences!"
Ebenezer shook his head. "Put what face you will upon it, Henry, I must go. Can a son stand by and watch his father fret to an early grave?"
"Think no ill of't, Henry," Anna pleaded.
"Surely you don't believe it a wise move also?" Burlingame asked incredulously.
"I cannot judge the wisdom of't," Anna replied, "but certain 'twere not a wrong thing to do."
"Marry, I have done with the twain of you!" Burlingame cried. "Praise Heav'n I know not my own father, if this be how they shackle one!"
"I pray Heav'n rather you may someday find him," Anna said calmly, "or word of him, at least. A man's father is his link with the past: the bond 'twixt him and the world he's born to."
"Then again I thank Heav'n I'm quit of mine," said Burlingame. "It leaves me free and unencumbered."
"It doth in sooth, Henry," Anna said with some emotion, "for better or worse."
When the time came to leave, Ebenezer asked, "When shall we see you again, Henry? I shall miss you painfully."
But Burlingame only shrugged and said, "Stay here now, if't pain you so."
"I shall visit as often as I can."
"Nay, risk not your father's displeasure. Besides, I may be gone."
"Gone?" asked Anna, with mild alarm. "Gone whither, Henry?"
He shrugged again. "There's naught to keep me here. I care not a fig for any of my pupils, save to pass the time till something else absorbs me."
After making their goodbyes, which their friend's bitterness rendered awkward, Ebenezer and Anna hired a carriage to fetch them to St. Giles in the Fields. The little journey, though uneventful, they both enjoyed, for despite the fact that Anna was disturbed to the point of occasional tears over Burlingame's attitude, and Ebenezer grew more anxious by the mile at the prospect of confronting his father, the carriage-ride was the twins' first opportunity in some time to converse privately and at length. When finally they arrived at the Cooke estate they found to their alarm that Andrew had taken to his bed three days before, at the direction of his physician, and was being cared for by Mrs. Twigg, the housekeeper, like an invalid.
"Dear God!" cried Anna. "And I in London all the while!"
" 'Tis no fault of yours, my dear," said Mrs. Twigg. "He told us not to send for you. Twould do him good to see you, though, I'm certain."
"I shall go too," Ebenezer declared.
"Nay, not just yet," Anna said. "Let me see what state he's in, and how 'twill strike him. 'Twere best to prepare him for it, don't you think?"
Ebenezer agreed, somewhat reluctantly, for he feared his courage would fail him should he postpone the move too long. That same day, however, Andrew's physician paid a call to the estate, and after learning what the situation was and assuring Ebenezer that his father was too weak to make a scene, he took it upon himself to announce to Andrew, as tactfully as possible, that his son had returned.
"He desires to see you at once," the physician reported afterwards to Ebenezer.
"Is he terribly wroth?" Ebenezer asked.
"I think not. Your sister's return raised his spirits, and I recalled to him the story of the prodigal son."
Ebenezer went upstairs and into his father's bedchamber, a room he had entered not more than thrice in his life. He found his father anything but the figure he'd feared: lying wigless and thin in bed, he looked nearer seventy than fifty; his cheeks were hollow, his eyes pale; his hair was turning white, his
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