Richard ground his heel upon the stone without reply, while his mother looked at him in gravest sorrow.
"Your time is almost up, ma'am," said the warder; "there's only a minute more."
"You told her how much depended on her, mother, did you?" said Richard, rousing himself in the effort.
"Yes, dear. She will not fail us, never fear. Keep heart and hope; and as for me, you will be sure that not a moment of my waking thoughts is wasted upon aught but you. I shall see you again, once more at least, before your—before the trial comes on; and Mr. Weasel will be here next week again. Is there any thing, my own dear boy, that I can do for you?"
"One moment, mother. Carew has not punished you on my account, I trust? He has not cut off—"
"The annuity? Yes; he has stopped that."
"May he rot on earth, and perish everlastingly!"
"Hush, hush, dear; pray be calm; there is no need to fret. I can support myself without his aid; indeed I can; and perhaps he may relent when he gets sane, for he was like a madman at my coming to Crompton. Mr. Whymper will do all he can, I am sure. How cruel it was of me to heed your words, and tell you—Look to him, warder, look to my son!" she screamed.
Richard had indeed turned deadly pale, and though his fingers still mechanically clutched the iron rail, was swaying to and fro; the warder unlocked the passage-gate, and ran to him just in time to save his falling headlong on the pavement.
"Are you a man," said the agonized woman, "or iron like this"—and she beat against the railing passionately—"that you will not let a mother kiss her son when he is dying?"