“Eat,” she said, putting the basket before him; “and Ben will be at the gates with his tax-cart. He will take you to Whitehaven.”
“Can I trust Ben?”
She looked at him sadly. “You must have been much wronged, Antony, to doubt the Cravens.”
“I have.”
“God pity and pardon you.”
He ate in silence, glancing furtively at his sister, who sat white and motionless opposite him. There was no light but the fire-light; and the atmosphere of the room had that singular sensitiveness that is apparent enough when the spiritual body is on the alert. It felt full of “presence;” was tremulous, as if stirred by wings; and seemed to press heavily, and to make sighing a relief.
After Antony had eaten he lay down upon a couch and fell into an uneasy sleep, and so continued, until Elizabeth touched him, and said, softly, “It is time, my dear. Ben will be waiting.” Then he stood up and looked at her. She took his hands, she threw her arms around his neck, she sobbed great, heavy, quiet sobs against his breast. She felt that it was a last farewell—that she would never see his face again.
And Antony could not restrain himself. He kissed her with despairing grief. He made passionate promises of atonement. He came back three times to kiss once more the white cold face so dear to him, and each time he kissed a prayer for his safety and pardon off her lips. At the last moment he said, “Your love is great, Elizabeth. My little boy! I have wronged him shamefully.”
“He shall be my child. He shall never know shame. I will take the most loving care of his future. You may trust him to me, Antony.”
Then he went away. Elizabeth tried to see him from the window, but the night was dark, and he kept among the shrubbery. At such hours the soul apprehends and has presentiments and feelings which it obeys without analyzing them. She paced the long corridor, feeling no chill and no fear, and seeming to see clearly the pictured faces around her. She was praying; and among them she did not feel as if she was praying aloud. She remembered in that hour many things that her father had said to her about Antony. She knew then the meaning of that strange cry on her mother’s dying lips—“A far country! Bring my son home!”