"Ask your own heart. Although there is an apparent change in you, you are still the same, I see, in cunning and duplicity. But I will listen to no subterfuges; there is no possibility of your justifying yourself, and your power over me is gone. Towards you my heart is cold as stone."
"You are labouring under some singular delusion," said Basil, "and I can but listen to you in wonder."
"Still the same, still the same," said the woman. "You used to boast of your superior powers, and that you were so perfect an actor that you could make the cleverest believe that black was white. See what it has brought you to"--she pointed to his rags. "I have no pity for you; as you have sown, so have you reaped. So might I have reaped had I not seen the pit you treacherously dug for me; so might I have reaped had I not repented before it was entirely too late. I owe you this much gratitude--that it was your base desertion of me that showed me my sin. Had you remained I might have sunk lower and lower till grace and redemption were lost to me for ever. What expiation was possible for me I have made, with sincere repentance, with sincere sorrow for my error. It would be well for you if you could say the same. You saw my mother downstairs. She cast me off, as you know, but she opened her arms to me when I convinced her of my sincerity, when I vowed to her to live a pure life. I am again her daughter. You see these drawn blinds, you see my dress, you see that this is a house of mourning. Can you guess what for?"
"Indeed I cannot," said Basil, "except that you have lost one who is dear to you. What comfort can I, a stranger, offer you that you cannot find for yourself? It is small consolation to say that your loss is a common human experience. Be faith your solace. There is a hereafter."
Her scorn and horror of him, now plainly expressed in her face, so overpowered her that she allowed him to finish without interruption.
"You, a stranger to me!" she cried. "Will you still wear the mask--or is it, is it possible that the rank selfishness and callousness of your nature can have made you forget? All was over between us--but a link remained, a link of sweet and beautiful love which the good Lord has taken from me. I bow my head; I will not, I must not rebel!" She folded her hands, and, moving to the darkened window, stood for a few moments there engaged in silent prayer. Presently she spoke again. "My fond hopes pictured a bright and happy future for her. I, her mother, would be for ever by her side, guiding her from the pitfalls which lay before young and confiding innocence. Her life should be without stain, without reproach. She did not know, she would never have known the stain which rests upon mine. It is revealed to her now. Forgive me, my darling, and look down with pity upon me! Yes, out of my sin I created a garden of love--for her, who was to me what sight would be to the blind, through whose sweet and pure influence I was led to the Divine throne. My fond hopes have been dashed to the ground--they are dead, never to be revived. Come with me."
With noiseless footsteps she walked out of the room, and Basil followed her to another on the same landing. Softly, tenderly, as though fearful of disturbing what was therein, she turned the handle, and she and Basil stood in the presence of death.
Of death in its fairest form. Upon the bed lay the body of a young girl whose age might be ten. The sweet beauty, the peace, the perfect rest in the child's face, moved Basil to tears; she looked like a sleeping angel.
"Oh, my darling, my darling!" sobbed the bereaved mother, sinking to her knees. "Pray for me; intercede for me. Unconsciously I strayed; I saw not my sin. Oh, child of shame and love, bring peace to my breaking heart, and do not turn from me when we meet above!"
Basil spoke no word; some consciousness of the truth was slowly coming to him. There was a silence in the room for several minutes; then the woman rose to her feet.