“Mother,” he said, putting out his hand and touching her arm, “things between us are not as they should be.”
She shuddered, not at the touch, but at the words. Things were not as they should be between them. “No,” she said. “But I am sure of this, Lucius, that you never had an unkind thought in your heart towards me.”
“Never, mother. How could I—to my own mother, who has ever been so good to me? But for the last three months we have been to each other nearly as though we were strangers.”
“But we have loved each other all the same,” said she.
“But love should beget close social intimacy, and above all close confidence in times of sorrow. There has been none such between us.”
What could she say to him? It was on her lips to promise him that such love should again prevail between them as soon as this trial should be over; but the words stuck in her throat. She did not dare to give him so false an assurance. “Dear Lucius,” she said, “if it has been my fault, I have suffered for it.”
“I do not say that it is your fault;—nor will I say that it has been my own. If I have seemed harsh to you, I beg your pardon.”
“No, Lucius, no; you have not been harsh. I have understood you through it all.”
“I have been grieved because you did not seem to trust me;—but let that pass now. Mother, I wish that there may be no unpleasant feeling between us when you enter on this ordeal tomorrow.”
“There is none;—there shall be none.”
“No one can feel more keenly—no one can feel so keenly as I do, the cruelty with which you are treated. The sight of your sorrow has made me wretched.”
“Oh, Lucius!”
“I know how pure and innocent you are—”
“No, Lucius, no.”
“But I say yes; and knowing that, it has cut me to the quick to see them going about a defence of your innocence by quips and quibbles, as though they were struggling for the escape of a criminal.”
“Lucius!” And she put her hands up, praying for mercy, though she could not explain to him how terribly severe were his words.
“Wait a moment, mother. To me such men as Mr. Chaffanbrass and his comrades are odious. I will not, and do not believe that their services are necessary to you—”
“But, Lucius, Mr. Furnival—”
“Yes; Mr. Furnival! It is he that has done it all. In my heart I wish that you had never known Mr. Furnival;—never known him as a lawyer that is,” he added, thinking of his own strong love for the lawyer’s daughter.
“Do not upbraid me now, Lucius. Wait till it is all over.”
“Upbraid you! No. I have come to you now that we may be friends. As things have gone so far, this plan of defence must of course be carried on. I will say no more about that. But, mother, I will go into the court with you tomorrow. That support I can at any rate give you, and they shall see that there is no quarrel between us.”
But Lady Mason did not desire this. She would have wished that he might have been miles away from the court had that been possible. “Mrs. Orme is to be with me,” she said.
Then again there came a black frown upon his brow—a frown such as there had often been there of late. “And will Mrs. Orme’s presence make the attendance of your own son improper?”
“Oh, no; of course not. I did not mean that, Lucius.”
“Do you not like to have me near you?” he asked; and as he spoke he rose up, and took her hand as he stood before her.
She gazed for a moment into his face while the tears streamed down from her eyes, and then rising from her chair, she threw herself on to his bosom and clasped him in her arms. “My boy! my boy!” she said. “Oh, if you could be near me, and away from this—away from this!”
She had not intended thus to give way, but the temptation had been too strong for her. When she had seen Mrs. Orme and Peregrine together—when she had heard Peregrine’s mother, with words expressed in a joyful tone, affect to complain of the inroads which her son made upon her, she had envied her that joy. “Oh, if it could be so with me also!” she always thought; and the words too had more than once been spoken. Now at last, in this last moment, as it might be, of her life at home, he had come to her with kindly voice, and she could not repress her yearning.
“Lucius,” she said; “dearest Lucius! my own boy!” And then the tears from her eyes streamed hot on to his bosom.
“Mother,” he said, “it shall be so. I will be with you.”
But she was now thinking of more than this—of much more. Was it possible for her to tell him now? As she held him in her arms, hiding her face upon his breast, she struggled hard to speak the word. Then in the midst of that struggle, while there was still something like a hope within her that it might be done, she raised her head and looked up into his face. It was not a face pleasant to look at, as was that of Peregrine Orme. It was hard in its outlines, and perhaps too manly for his age. But she was his mother, and she loved it well. She looked up at it, and raising her hands she stroked his cheeks. She then kissed him again and again, with warm, clinging kisses. She clung to him, holding him close to her, while the sobs which she had so long repressed came forth from her with a violence that
