Bessie was resolved, at all costs, to divert the wrath of her father from Anthony, if possible to turn his thoughts into another channel; so she said, stooping to his ear,
"Father; dear father! We met to-day our grandmother in the churchyard."
The old man looked inquiringly at her.
"Madame Penwarne," exclaimed Bessie.
He had forgotten for the moment that she could have a grandmother on any other side than his own, and he knew that his mother was long dead.
"Yes, father," said Bessie. "And she says Anthony is the living image of our dear, dear mother."
The old man turned his eyes slowly on his son. The light of the candle was on his face, bold, haughty, defiant, and wonderfully handsome. Yes! he was the very image of his mother, and that same defiant smile he had inherited from her. The old man in a moment recalled many a wild scene of mutual reproach and stormy struggle. It was as though the dead woman's spirit had risen up against him to defy him once more, and to strike him to the heart.
Then Anthony said, "It is true, father. We both of us met her; and it is unfit that she should find a shelter elsewhere than in this house. Something must be done for her."
"Oh! you will teach me my duty! She is naught to me."
"But to us she is. She is the mother of our mother," answered Anthony, looking straight into his father's eyes, and the old man lowered his; he felt the reproach in his son's words and glance.