‘I had your happiness in view, my dear.’
‘My happiness! that’s your view of things; that’s why I couldn’t really like you, from the first. You think of nothing but money. Why you objected to Fanny French at first was because you wished me to marry some one richer. I don’t thank you for that kind of happiness; I had rather marry a woman I can love.’
‘And you can love such a creature as that?’
Again she lost her self-command; the mere thought of Fanny’s possible triumph exasperated her.
‘I won’t hear her abused,’ cried Horace, with answering passion. ‘You are the last person who ought to do it. Comparing her and you, I can’t help saying—’
An exclamation of pain checked his random words; he looked at Mrs. Damerel, and saw her features wrung with anguish.
‘You mustn’t speak to me like that!’ Once more she approached him. ‘If you only knew—I can’t bear it—I’ve always been a worldly woman, but you are breaking my heart, Horace! My dear, my dear, if only out of pity for me—’
‘Why should I pity you?’ he cried impatiently.
‘Because—Horace—give me your hand, dear; let me tell you something.—I am your mother.’
She sobbed and choked, clinging to his arm, resting her forehead against it. The young man, stricken with amazement, stared at her, speechless.