“No burden, but my only joy and hope. Tell me, therefore, my son, have you so lived since we parted that I can still have joy and hope in you? Look me in the face and tell me if you have led a clean life and an upright life, for I know you cannot deceive my eyes, even if you would.”
Gavin looked at her honestly, clearly, unflinchingly.
“I have not been perfect, mother,” he replied. “No one is that, you have always told me; but there is not one hour of my life since we parted that you cannot know all about, if you wish to hear it. Remember, the ways and talk of private soldiers, of whom I was one for two years, are not the ways and talk in which you bred me; but these soldiers were honest, brave fellows, if they were uncouth and coarse. I have felt, however, much more at home in the company which St. Arnaud made possible to me than I ever did among the soldiers; and in one thing, at least, I obeyed your commands”—here Gavin laughed—“I was often ragged and always cold and hungry, but I never was a moment without a piece of soap, a comb, and a razor.”
At which Lady Hamilton smiled and said:
“You are my own true boy. My father and my brothers were always clean and well-shaven, as becomes gentlemen. I don’t know how I should feel toward a son who neglected those things.”
Gavin grew serious enough the next moment, for he said:
“And do you know that my—that Sir Gavin Hamilton is in Vienna?”
A deep flush rose instantly in Lady Hamilton’s pale face. Gavin went on and described his adventure with Sir Gavin Hamilton at the imperial palace and everything connected with him, and especially the possibility that he and Lady Hamilton might meet if Lady Hamilton went to the Empress Queen’s levee, which she, no doubt, would.
“And after her Majesty receives you, mother,” cried Gavin exultingly, “Sir Gavin can no longer insult you by saying you were not his wife.”
“But will her Majesty receive me?”