He went slowly up the winding staircase which was so remarkable a feature of the finer Georgian houses. Suddenly he was aware in the darkness of Margaret on the landing above him.
"Don't stop me," she said.
"What is wrong!" he asked.
"Everything. I told thee thy mother would know. She sent for me. I went. She was cruel—cruel—hard."
"What, dear, did she say?"
"I shall not tell thee. She insulted me and my mother. Ah, but she said—no, I shall not tell thee, nor mother. She sent for me, and I went. I had to tell her. Oh, I said that—that—I told her—I do not know what I told her." She was on the edge of her first almost uncontrollable loss of self-government. It alarmed her pride, and at once becoming calm, she added, "I told her that it was useless to talk to me, to say that it must end, that thou wouldst obey her. I—I just laughed; yes, I did. And I told her she did not yet know her own son—and—that some day she would regret what she had said to me, and, René, of my mother. I do not care—"
"But I care, Margaret. I was this moment on my way to tell her."
"Let me pass. I hope thou art worth what I have endured for thy sake. Let me pass." He went by her, troubled and aware that he too needed to keep himself in hand. When he entered his mother's room he found her seated by the feeble candle-light, a rose of the never-finished embroidery growing under her thin, skilful fingers.
For her a disagreeable matter had been decisively dealt with and put aside; no trace of emotion betrayed her self-satisfaction at having finally settled an unpleasant but necessary business.
In the sweet, low voice which seemed so out of relation to her severity of aspect, she said: "Sit down. I have been left to learn from the young woman of this entanglement. I should have heard it from you, or never have had to hear it at all."