"I will not ask you to forgive me," she said, plaintively.
"Mother," he answered, "were I to say that I forgave you my words would be a mockery. I have no right either to condemn or to forgive. I accept my position as it has been made for me, and will endeavour to do my duty."
It would have been almost better for her that he should have upbraided her for her wickedness. She would then have fallen again prostrate before him, if not in body at least in spirit, and her weakness would have stood for her in place of strength. But now it was necessary that she should hear his words and bear his looks,—bear them like a heavy burden on her back without absolutely sinking. It had been that necessity of bearing and never absolutely sinking which, during years past, had so tried and tested the strength of her heart and soul. Seeing that she had not sunk, we may say that her strength had been very wonderful.
And then she stood up and came close to him. "But you will give me your hand, Lucius?"
"Yes, mother; there is my hand. I shall stand by you through it all." But he did not offer to kiss her; and there was still some pride in her heart which would not allow her to ask him for an embrace.
"And now," he said, "it is time that you should prepare to go. Mrs. Orme thinks it better that I should not accompany you."
"No, Lucius, no; you must not hear them proclaim my guilt in court."
"That would make but little difference. But nevertheless I will not go. Had I known this before I should not have gone there. It was to testify my belief in your innocence; nay, my conviction—"
"Oh, Lucius, spare me!"
"Well, I will speak of it no more. I shall be here to-night when you come back."