Amabel was sitting beside her window when her son came in and the face
she turned on him was white and rigid.
"My dear mother," said Augustine, coming up to her, "how pale you are."
She had been sitting there for all that time, tearless, in a stupor of
misery. Yes, she answered him, she was very tired.
Augustine stood over her looking out of the window. "A little walk
wouldn't do you good?" he asked.
No, she answered, her head ached too badly.
She could find nothing to say to him: the truth that lay so icily upon
her heart was all that she could have said: "I am your guilty mother. I
robbed you of your father. And your father is dead, unmourned, unloved,
almost forgotten by me." For that was the poison in her misery, to know
that for Paul Quentin she felt almost nothing. To hear that he had died
was to hear that a ghost had died.
What would Augustine say to her if the truth were spoken? It was now a
looming horror between them. It shut her from him and it shut him away.
"Oh, do come out," said Augustine after a moment: "the evening's so
fine: it will do you good; and there's still a bit of sunset to be
seen."
She shook her head, looking away from him.
"Is it really so bad as that?"
"Yes; very bad."
"Can't I do anything? Get you anything?"
"No, thank you."
"I'm so sorry," said Augustine, and, suddenly, but gravely,
deliberately, he stooped and kissed her.
"Oh--don't!--don't!" she gasped. She thrust him away, turning her face
against the chair. "Don't: you must leave me.--I am so unhappy."
The words sprang forth: she could not repress them, nor the gush of
miserable tears.
If Augustine was horrified he was silent. He stood leaning over her for
a moment and then went out of the room.
She lay fallen in her chair, weeping convulsively. The past was with
her; it had seized her and, in her panic-stricken words, it had thrust
her child away. What would happen now? What would Augustine say? What
would he ask? If he said nothing and asked nothing, what would he think?
She tried to gather her thoughts together, to pray for light and
guidance; but, like a mob of blind men locked out from sanctuary, the
poor, wild thoughts only fled about outside the church and fumbled at
the church door. Her very soul seemed shut against her.
She roused herself at last, mechanically telling herself that she must
go through with it; she must dress and go down to dinner and she must
find something to say to Augustine, something that would make what had
happened to them less sinister and inexplicable.
--Unless--it seemed like a mad cry raised by one of the blind men in the
dark,--unless she told him all, confessed all; her guilt, her shame, the
truths of her blighted life. She shuddered; she cowered as the cry came
to her, covering her ears and shutting it out. It was mad, mad. She had
not strength for such a task, and if that were weakness--oh, with a long
breath she drew in the mitigation--if it were weakness, would it not be
a cruel, a heartless strength that could blight her child's life too, in
the name of truth. She must not listen to the cry. Yet strangely it had
echoed in her, almost as if from within, not from without, the dark,
deserted church; almost as if her soul, shut in there in the darkness,
were crying out to her. She turned her mind from the sick fancy.
Augustine met her at dinner. He was pale but he seemed composed. They
spoke little. He said, in answer to her questioning, that he had quite
liked Lady Elliston; yes, they had had a nice talk; she seemed very
friendly; he should go and see her when he next went up to London.
Amabel felt the crispness in his voice but, centered as she was in her
own self-mastery, she could not guess at the degree of his.
After dinner they went into the drawing-room, where the old, ugly lamp
added its light to the candles on the mantel-piece.
Augustine took his book and sat down at one side of the table. Amabel
sat at the other. She, too, took a book and tried to read; a little time
passed and then she found that her hands were trembling so much that she
could not. She slid the book softly back upon the table, reaching out
for her work-bag. She hoped Augustine had not seen, but, glancing up at
him, she saw his eyes upon her.
Augustine's eyes looked strange tonight. The dark rims around the iris
seemed to have expanded. Suddenly she felt horribly afraid of him.
They gazed at each other, and she forced herself to a trembling,
meaningless smile. And when she smiled at him he sprang up and came to
her. He leaned over her, and she shrank back into her chair, shutting
her eyes.
"You must tell me the truth," said Augustine. "I can't bear this. _He_
has made you unhappy.--_He_ comes between us."
She lay back in the darkness, hearing the incredible words.
"He?--What do you mean?"
"He is a bad man. And he makes you miserable. And you love him."
She heard the nightmare: she could not look at it.
"My husband bad? He is good, more good than you can guess. What do you
mean by speaking so?"
With closed eyes, shutting him out, she spoke, anger and terror in her
voice.
Augustine lifted himself and stood with his hands clenched looking at
her.
"You say that because you love him. You love him more than anything or
anyone in the world."
"I do. I love him more than anyone or anything in the world. How have
you dared--in silence--in secret--to nourish these thoughts against the
man who has given you all you have."
"He hasn't given me all I have. You are everything in my life and he is
nothing. He is selfish. He is sensual. He is stupid. He doesn't know
what beauty or goodness is. I hate him," said Augustine.
Her eyes at last opened on him. She grasped her chair and raised
herself. Whose hands were these, desecrating her holy of holies. Her
son's? Was it her son who spoke these words? An enemy stood before her.
"Then you do not love me. If you hate him you do not love me,"--her
anger had blotted out her fear, but she could find no other than these
childish words and the tears ran down her face.
"And if you love him you cannot love me," Augustine answered. His
self-mastery was gone. It was a fierce, wild anger that stared back at
her. His young face was convulsed and livid.
"It is you who are bad to have such false, base thoughts!" his mother
cried, and her eyes in their indignation, their horror, struck at him,
accused him, thrust him forth. "You are cruel--and hard--and
self-righteous.--You do not love me.--There is no tenderness in your
heart!"--
Augustine burst into tears. "There is no room in your heart for me!--"
he gasped. He turned from her and rushed out of the room.
* * * * *
A long time passed before she leaned forward in the chair where she had
sat rigidly, rested her elbows on her knees, buried her face in her
hands.
Her heart ached and her mind was empty: that was all she knew. It had
been too much. This torpor of sudden weakness was merciful. Now she
would go to bed and sleep.
It took her a long time to go upstairs; her head whirled, and if she had
not clung to the baluster she would have fallen.
In the passage above she paused outside Augustine's door and listened.
She heard him move inside, walking to his window, to lean out into the
night, probably, as was his wont. That was well. He, too, would sleep
presently.
In her room she said to her maid that she did not need her. It took her
but a few minutes tonight to prepare for bed. She could not even braid
her uncoiled hair. She tossed it, all loosened, above her head as she
fell upon the pillow.
She heard, for a little while, the dull thumping of her heart. Her
breath was warm in a mesh of hair beneath her cheek; she was too sleepy
to put it away. She was wakened next morning by the maid. Her curtains
were drawn and a dull light from a rain-blotted world was in the room.
The maid brought a note to her bedside. From Mr. Augustine, she said.