Gaffer saw it, too, in so far as that he was moved when he set foot on shore, to stare around him. But, he promptly set to work to haul up his boat, and make her fast, and take the sculls and rudder and rope out of her. Carrying these with Lizzie’s aid, he passed up to his dwelling.
“Sit close to the fire, father, dear, while I cook your breakfast. It’s all ready for cooking, and only been waiting for you. You must be frozen.”
“Well, Lizzie, I ain’t of a glow; that’s certain. And my hands seemed nailed through to the sculls. See how dead they are!” Something suggestive in their colour, and perhaps in her face, struck him as he held them up; he turned his shoulder and held them down to the fire.
“You were not out in the perishing night, I hope, father?”
“No, my dear. Lay aboard a barge, by a blazing coal-fire. — Where’s that boy?”
“There’s a drop of brandy for your tea, father, if you’ll put it in while I turn this bit of meat. If the river was to get frozen, there would be a deal of distress; wouldn’t there, father?”
“Ah! there’s always enough of that,” said Gaffer, dropping the liquor into his cup from a squat black bottle, and dropping it slowly that it might seem more; “distress is for ever a going about, like sut in the air — Ain’t that boy up yet?”
“The meat’s ready now, father. Eat it while it’s hot and comfortable. After you have finished, we’ll turn round to the fire and talk.”
But, he perceived that he was evaded, and, having thrown a hasty angry glance towards the bunk, plucked at a corner of her apron and asked:
“What’s gone with that boy?”
“Father, if you’ll begin your breakfast, I’ll sit by and tell you.”
He looked at her, stirred his tea and took two or three gulps, then cut at his piece of hot steak with his case-knife, and said, eating:
“Now then. What’s gone with that boy?”
“Don’t be angry, dear. It seems, father, that he has quite a gift of learning.”
“Unnat’ral young beggar!” said the parent, shaking his knife in the air.
“— And that having this gift, and not being equally good at other things, he has made shift to get some schooling.”
“Unnat’ral young beggar!” said the parent again, with his former action.
“— And that knowing you have nothing to spare, father, and not wishing to be a burden on you, he gradually made up his mind to go seek his fortune out of learning. He went away this morning, father, and he cried very much at going, and he hoped you would forgive him.”
“Let him never come a nigh me to ask me my forgiveness,” said the father, again emphasizing his words with the knife. “Let him never come within sight of my eyes, nor yet within reach of my arm. His own father ain’t good enough for him. He’s disowned his own father. His own father therefore, disowns him for ever and ever, as a unnat’ral young beggar.”