"Do you mean to cast me off?" he almost whispered, for he could not find strength to speak aloud. "Am I not your son, too?"
"You fill the place that a son should occupy," said Mrs. Luttrell, letting her hand rise and fall upon her lap, and looking away from Brian. "I can say no more. My son—my own son—the son that I loved"—(she paused, and seemed to recollect herself before she continued in a lower voice)—"the son that I loved—is dead."
There was a silence. Brian seated himself and bowed his head upon his hands. "God help me!" she heard him mutter. But she did not relent.
Presently he looked up and fixed his haggard eyes upon her.
"Mother," he said, in hoarse and unnatural tones, "you have had your say; now let me have mine. I know too well what you believe. You think, because of a slight dispute which arose between us on that day, that I had some grudge against my brother. I solemnly declare to you that that is not true. Richard and I had differed; but we met—in the wood"—(he drew his breath painfully)—"a few minutes only before that terrible mistake of mine; and we were friends again. Mother, do you know me so ill as to think that I could ever have lifted my hand against Richard, who was always a friend to me, always far kinder than I deserved? It was a mistake—a mistake that I'll never, never forgive myself for, and that you, perhaps, never will forgive—but, at any rate, do me the justice to believe that it was a mistake, and not—not—that I was Richard's murderer!"
Mrs. Luttrell sat silent, motionless, her white hands crossed before her on the crape of her black gown. Brian threw himself impetuously on his knees before her and looked up into her face.
"Mother, mother!" he said, "do you not believe me?"
It seemed to him a long time—it was, in reality, not more than ten or twelve seconds—before Mrs. Luttrell answered his question. "Do you not believe me?" he had said. And she answered—
"No."
The shock of finding his passionate appeal so utterly disregarded restored to Brian the composure which had failed him before. He rose to his feet, pale, stricken, indeed, but calm. For a moment or two he averted his face from the woman who judged him so harshly, so pitilessly; but when he turned to her again, he had gained a certain pride of bearing which compelled her unwilling respect.