I listened with a stricken heart. Had she been so much to blame after all, since some subtle instinct in her, unconscious of itself, had fore-read the truth? God knew, indeed, she could not help it.
“And now,” she went on dully, “have you not revenge enough? Look at me—think of me; my position, my example, my—my motherhood—and all at his mercy! You have me at your feet at last, Richard. You have watched to some purpose, as you say.”
“Yes, to some purpose,” I answered, “if only I can save you from the consequences of that deceit.”
She seemed to listen in wonder; then shook her head, working her hands together feverishly.
“I don’t know what you mean. These are the wages of sin. Death is the only thing that can cure my shame and my disgrace. O, where is the atonement in long years of lip service, if while we speak the penitence we live the lie! I told you once your touch contaminated your little brother—I told you that! It was a wicked spite, and God has punished me for it. But you haven’t forgiven me.”
I stooped and seized her hands fiercely into mine. She made no resistance, only hiding her face from me.
“If I have watched you through these long years,” I said, “what was it for but to study how to win your love? Did it never strike you how the little cold soul was shivering outside the window, crying for that warmth and comfort within? ‘Mother!’ Never to have spoken it—not once! Never to have the right to speak it now. Yes, it was a wicked, cruel word. I thought I should never forgive you for it—once I thought it; and now——”
Her tears ran hot over my hands. I felt a savage exultation in their flowing. Was she not melting to me at last? I clutched her still the fiercer.
“Now,” I said, “you are wretched and alone, and what you have refused to give to me I will give to you—love, and pity, and forgiveness most of all. You cannot claim them of me now, and now I will give them to you freely. Because you are in need, I will come to you; because in name you have had that right to my reverence and protection, I will honour that ghostly trust. I cannot put you from my heart so easily. Your shame is still my shame; your cause my cause. Be comforted. If, being bred to tenderness and recognition, I had not learned to watch, to spy, you would be without an arm well nerved to help you now. All things, I suppose, work to their appointed end. This man, at least—I say it—shall not have his damned way with you. Confide in me for once. Has he attempted to bleed you a second time?”
She made a very slight negative motion with her head.