long,' he said; 'but I
am willing to die when I think how comfortably I have arranged your
future.' He was talking of death, and anything but grief at that moment
was doubtless impious and monstrous; but there came into my heart for the
first time a throbbing sense of being over-governed. I said nothing, and
he thought my silence was all sorrow. 'I shall not live to see you
married,' he went on, 'but since the foundation is laid, that little
signifies; it would be a selfish pleasure, and I have never thought of
myself but in you. To foresee your future, in its main outline, to know
to a certainty that you will be safely domiciled here, with a wife
approved by my judgment, cultivating the moral fruit of which I have sown
the seed--this will content me. But, my son, I wish to clear this bright
vision from the shadow of a doubt. I believe in your docility; I believe
I may trust the salutary force of your respect for my memory. But I must
remember that when I am removed you will stand here alone, face to face
with a hundred nameless temptations to perversity. The fumes of
unrighteous pride may rise into your brain and tempt you, in the interest
of a vulgar theory which it will call your independence, to shatter the
edifice I have so laboriously constructed. So I must ask you for a
promise--the solemn promise you owe my condition.' And he grasped my
hand. 'You will follow the path I have marked; you will be faithful to
the young girl whom an influence as devoted as that which has governed
your own young life has moulded into everything amiable; you will marry
Isabel Vernor.' This was pretty 'steep,' as we used to say at school. I
was frightened; I drew away my hand and asked to be trusted without any
such terrible vow. My reluctance startled my father into a suspicion
that the vulgar theory of independence had already been whispering to me.
He sat up in his bed and looked at me with eyes which seemed to foresee a
lifetime of odious ingratitude. I felt the reproach; I feel it now. I
promised! And even now I don't regret my promise nor complain of my
father's tenacity. I feel, somehow, as if the seeds of ultimate repose
had been sown in those unsuspecting years--as if after many days I might
gather the mellow fruit. But after many days! I will keep my promise, I
will obey; but I want to _live_ first!"

"My dear fellow, you are living now. All this passionate consciousness
of your situation is a very ardent