She had lived in this house for some four-and-twenty years, but it seemed to her in no way like her home. Was it not the property of her enemy, Joseph Mason? and did she not know that it must go back into that enemy’s hands? How then could it be to her like a home? The room in which her bed was laid was that very room in which her sin had been committed. There in the silent hours of the night, while the old man lay near his death in the adjoining chamber, had she with infinite care and much slow preparation done that deed, to undo which, were it possible, she would now give away her existence—ay, her very body and soul. And yet for years she had slept in that room, if not happily at least tranquilly. It was matter of wonder to her now, as she looked back at her past life, that her guilt had sat so lightly on her shoulders. The black unwelcome guest, the spectre of coming evil, had ever been present to her; but she had seen it indistinctly, and now and then the power had been hers to close her eyes. Never again could she close them. Nearer to her, and still nearer, the spectre came; and now it sat upon her pillow, and put its claw upon her plate; it pressed upon her bosom with its fiendish strength, telling her that all was over for her in this world:—ay, and telling her worse even than that. Her return to her old home brought with it but little comfort.
And yet she was forced to make an effort at seeming glad that she had come there—a terrible effort! He, her son, was not gay or disposed to receive from her a show of happiness; but he did think that she should compose herself and be tranquil, and that she should resume the ordinary duties of her life in her ordinarily quiet way. In all this she was obliged to conform herself to his wishes—or to attempt so to conform herself, though her heart should break in the struggle. If he did but know it all, then he would suffer her to be quiet—suffer her to lie motionless in her misery! Once or twice she almost said to herself that she would make the effort; but when she thought of him and his suffering, of his pride, of the respect which he claimed from all the world as the honest son of an honest mother, of his stubborn will and stiff neck, which would not bend, but would break beneath the blow. She had done all for him—to raise him in the world; and now she could not bring herself to undo the work that had cost her so dearly!
That evening she went through the ceremony of dinner with him, and he was punctilious in waiting upon her as though bread and meat could comfort her or wine could warm her heart. There was no warmth for her in all the vintages of the south, no comfort though gods should bring to her their banquets. She was heavy laden—laden to the breaking of her back, and did not know where to lay her burden down.
“Mother,” he said to her that night, lifting his head from the books over which he had been poring, “There must be a few words between us about this affair. They might as well be spoken now.”
“Yes, Lucius; of course—if you desire it.”
“There can be no doubt now that this trial will take place.”
“No doubt;” she said. “There can be no doubt.”
“Is it your wish that I should take any part in it?”
She remained silent, for some moments before she answered him, thinking—striving to think, how best she might do him pleasure. “What part?” she said at last.
“A man’s part, and a son’s part. Shall I see these lawyers and learn from them what they are at? Have I your leave to tell them that you want no subterfuge, no legal quibbles—that you stand firmly on your own clear innocence, and that you defy your enemies to sully it? Mother, those who have sent you to such men as that cunning attorney have sent you wrong—have counselled you wrong.”
“It cannot be changed now, Lucius.”
“It can be changed, if you will tell me to change it.”
And then again she paused. Ah, think of her anguish as she sought for words to answer him! “No, Lucius,” she said, “it cannot be changed now.”
“So be it, mother; I will not ask again,” and then he moodily returned to his books, while she returned to her thoughts. Ah, think of her misery!
LIV
Telling All That Happened Beneath the Lamppost
When Felix Graham left Noningsby and made his way up to London, he came at least to one resolution which he intended to be an abiding one. That idea of a marriage with a moulded wife should at any rate be abandoned. Whether it might be his great destiny to be the husband of Madeline Staveley, or whether he might fail in achieving this purpose,
