mother, 'Mind, Mary, don't be set against the lad. That's the way
to make 'em desperate, and he is a mere boy, after all.'

Poor mother, it was not so much hardness as a wounded spirit that
made her look so rigid. It might have been better if the return
could have been delayed so as to make her yearn after her son, but
there was nowhere for him to go, and the coach was already on its
way. How strange it was to feel the wonted glow at Clarence's
return coupled with a frightful sense of disgrace and depression.

The time was far on in October, and it was thus quite dark when the
travellers arrived, having walked from Charing Cross, where the
coach set them down. My father came in first, and my mother clung
to him as if he had been absent for weeks, while all the joy of
contact with my brother swept over me, even though his hand hung
limp in mine, and was icy cold like his cheeks. My father turned to
him with one of the little set speeches of those days. 'Here is our
son, Mary, who has promised me to do his utmost to retrieve his
character, as far as may be possible, and happily he is still
young.'

My mother's embrace was in a sort of mechanical obedience to her
husband's gesture, and her voice was not perhaps meant to be so
severe as it sounded when she said, 'You are very cold--come and
warm yourself.'

They made room for him by the fire, and my father stood up in front
of it, giving particulars of the journey. Emily and Martyn were at
tea in the nursery, in a certain awe that hindered them from coming
down; indeed, Martyn seems to have expected to see some strange