"Mother, forgive me that as your son I venture to judge you; but this is unworthy, most unworthy."
She seemed almost awed by his rebuke, but hastily throwing her arms round him, she said more gently:
"Hubert, forgive me; but I cannot—cannot part with you, the last shattered fragment of my ruined happiness. You do not know what it is to me to see you; to hear your voice coming to me like an echo from the grave, telling of departed love; to find in your eyes at times a glance as from the light of the past. It was such joy, such deep, deep joy when he lived, and my happiness was hid in his true heart, that often I think I never, never could have been so blest: and in truth that it is all a dream, too unutterably sweet to have been true; life seems to faint within me at that thought, for it is something to feel, barren and desolate as my existence is now, that I have loved and been loved as once I was; and, Hubert, it is your presence alone that makes all this reality to me. His kiss has been upon your lips—his voice has called you his dear son. Ah! take not from me those last relics of him."
She laid her head upon his breast in a passion of weeping. He raised her tenderly, and said with a calm voice:
"Mother, it is not my vocation in this world to give pain to others for the sake of my own will or pleasure: take comfort, I will never more trouble you concerning this matter; I will not ask again to leave you."
Silently she pressed her lips to his forehead, and then, as if ashamed that even her own son should have seen her so moved, she rose up without speaking and left the room.
FOOTNOTES:
[8] Continued from page 387.