Did I think that your life would be
passed here, I should say that it were better for you not to read a book
which gives a picture of a life so different from what yours would be;
but none can say what your lot may be. And, although I have heard much
about the wickedness of the stage, I can see no line in this book which
could do harm to you. I do not see it can do you much good, John, but
neither do I see that it can do you any harm; therefore, if you have set
your mind on it, read it, my boy."
It was a stormy evening in the first week of November, 1688. The wind was
blowing in fierce gusts, making every door and casement quiver in
Davenant Castle, while, between the gusts, the sound of the deep roar of
the sea on the rocks far below could be plainly heard. Mrs. Davenant was
sitting in a high-backed chair, on one side of the great fireplace, in
which a pile of logs was blazing. Her son had just laid down a book,
which he could no longer see to read, while her daughter-in-law was
industriously knitting. Walter was wandering restlessly between the fire
and the window, looking out at the flying clouds, through which the moon
occasionally struggled.
"Do sit down, Walter," his mother said at last. "You certainly are the
most restless creature I ever saw.
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