Again she broke off, and felt her own breath begin to sob in her throat. She buried her face in her hands a moment.
“God forgive me,” said the other. “I—”
“It was about your son Ralph,” said Beatrice bravely, though her lips shook.
“She—she asked whether I had ever loved him at all—and—”
“Mistress Beatrice, Mistress Beatrice, I entreat you not to say more.”
“And I told her—yes; and, yes—still.”
CHAPTER V
THE MUMMERS
It was a strange meeting for Beatrice and Ralph the next morning. She saw him first from the gallery in chapel at mass, kneeling by his father, motionless and upright, and watched him go down the aisle when it was over. She waited a few minutes longer, quieting herself, marshalling her forces, running her attention over each movement or word that might prove unruly in his presence; and then she got up from her knees and went down.
It had been an intolerable pain to tell the dying woman that she loved her son; it tore open the wound again, for she had never yet spoken that secret aloud to any living soul, not even to her own. When the question came, as she knew it would, she had not hesitated an instant as to the answer, and yet the answer had materialised what had been impalpable before.
As she had looked down from the gallery this morning she knew that she hated, in theory, every detail of his outlook on life; he was brutal, insincere; he had lied to her; he was living on the fruits of sacrilege; he had outraged every human tie he possessed; and yet she loved every hair of his dark head, every movement of his strong hands. It was that that had broken down the mother’s reserve; she had been beaten by the girl’s insolence, as a dog is beaten into respect; she had only one thing that she had not been able to forgive, and that was that this girl had tossed aside her son’s love; then the question had been asked and answered; and the work had been done. The dying woman had surrendered wholly to the superior personality; and had obeyed like a child.