Mrs. Ross endeavored to toss her head as contemptuously as was her wont—it would not do; the motion was spasmodic. She was reaping the fruit of her own training, and the ingratitude and rude anger of her only son, from whom, indeed, she did not deserve this, stung her to the heart.
“Lewis,” said Anne, “you are behaving very unjustly to your mother. Be calm, and do not give way to anger so unseemly.”
“Oh! do not interrupt him,” said Mrs. Ross, “let him go on; it is pleasant to insult his mother.”
Lewis turned from her angrily.
“This is not a time for any absurd punctilio, Anne. Let me hear you say this is not true—this story—this scheme. I will not submit to it. Am I a boy, I wonder, that I am to be frightened by such a—”
Mrs. Ross rose. The darling son—the only child—to turn on his mother thus!
“Lewis!” she said, her features twitching, her voice husky. “Beware!”
“Lewis!” said Anne; “I cannot bear this either; it is mere madness; sit down quietly and listen. Mother, I beg of you to sit down; forgive him this; he does not know—he cannot comprehend. Lewis, when your mother told you this very terrible story, she believed it true.”
Mrs. Ross had been regarding Anne, whose support she deserved as little as she did the insults of her son, with a face in which wonder and shame were strangely blended. Now she darted up a sharp, keen glance.
“Believed it true! This from you, Anne Ross—this from you!”