She interrupted me with a bitter laugh, in sickening contrast with her usual hollow-hearted loftiness.
“The picture of your mother, and in Lord Clare’s escritoir!” she exclaimed; “upon my word, George, this impudence is sublime.”
“It was my mother!” I answered firmly, but with a swelling heart. “Mr. Irving, you believe me.”
I reached forth my hand to the young man, and he took it—held it—pressed his cold lips upon it, and thus proclaimed the noble trust that was in him, while she looked on.
“Mother!” and the words burst like fire through his white lips—“mother, I do believe the child innocent as God’s angels!”
These words bereft me of all strength. My limbs gave way as if they had been moulded from snow. I fell at his feet, and winding my arms about his knees, gave myself up to a passion of tears.
“George Irving, undo the coil of that serpent, spurn her away, or henceforth you are no child of mine!” burst on my ears.
I saw that wicked glare of her eyes, the white rage that shook her from head to foot. There was something horrid in this fiendish rage in a mother, and addressed to her only child. I took away my arms and arose.
“Madam, calm yourself,” I said gently, for his faith had filled my soul with solemn peace, “I shall touch him no more—see him, probably, never again. You can separate us, but I know that he believes me—it is enough!”
I left the room without another word or look, and went home.