“Constance,” she said, speaking in a constrained tone and with studied words, “I fully deserved your reproach the other day. I should not have let you go from home without a shilling in your purse. I spoke hastily, in anger, that day, and I hope you will forgive me. Miss Starbrow's agent has just sent the eighteen pounds for the last quarter; I cannot do less than hand it over to you, and only wish that I had it in my power to give you more.”
“Thank you, mother; but I would much rather that you kept part of it. I do not require as much as that.”
“You will find it little enough—in London among strangers. We need not speak any more about it, and you owe me no thanks. It is only right that you should have one quarter's money of the four I have received.” After an interval of silence, and when her daughter was about to leave the room, she continued, “Before you go, Constance, let me ask a favour of you. If you are going away soon this will be our last conversation.”
“Our last! What favour, mother?”
“When you go, do so without coming to say goodbye to me. I do not feel very strong, and—would prefer it if you went away quietly without any leave-takings.”
“If that is your wish, mother,” she returned, and then remained standing, her face full of distress. Then she moved a little nearer and said, “Mother, if there is to be no good-bye, will you let me kiss you?”
Mrs. Churton's lips moved but made no sound. Constance after a moment's hesitation came nearer still, and bending forward kissed her cheek, not in a perfunctory way, but with a lingering, loving kiss; and after the kiss she still lingered close, so that the breath from her lips came warm and fragrant on the other's cold pale cheek. But her mother spoke no word, and remained cold and motionless as a statue, until with a slight sigh and lingering step the other left the room. Scarcely had she gone before the unhappy mother dropped on to a chair, and covering her face with her hands began to shed tears. Why, why, she asked herself again and again, had she not returned that loving kiss, and clasped her lost daughter once more to her heart? Too late! too late! She had restrained her heart and made herself cold as stone, and now that last caress, that sweet consolation was lost for ever! Ah, if her cold cheek might keep for all the remaining days of her life the sensation of those warm caressing lips, of that warm sweet breath! But her bitter tears of regret were in vain; that dread eternal parting was now practically over, and out of the infinite depths of her love no last tender word had risen to her lips!