Her
face was pale, her lips closely compressed and her forehead
contracted with pain. She stood looking anxiously through the room
until she saw her son leaning against the wall, with a young lady
standing in front of him holding a glass in her hand which she was
trying to induce him to take. One glance at the face of Ellis told
her too plainly his sad condition.
To go to him and endeavor to get him away Mrs. Whitford feared might
arouse his latent pride and make him stubborn to her wishes.
"You see that young man standing against the wall?" she said to one
of the waiters.
"Mr. Whitford do you mean?" asked the waiter.
"Yes," she replied. "Go to him quietly, and say that his mother is
going home and wants him. Speak low, if you please."
Mrs. Whitford stood with a throbbing heart as the waiter passed down
the room. The tempter was before her son offering the glass of wine,
which he yet refused. She saw him start and look disconcerted as the
waiter spoke to him, then wave the glass of wine aside. But he did
not stir from him place.
The waiter came back to Mrs. Whitford:
"He says don't wait for him, ma'am."
The poor mother felt an icy coldness run along her nerves. For some
moments she stood irresolute, and then went back to the parlor. She
remained there for a short time, masking her countenance as best she
could, and then returned to the dining-room, where noise and
merriment still prevailed.
Pages:
95
96
97
98
99
100
101
102
103
104
105
106
107
108
109
110
111
112
113
114
115
116
117
118
119