Amabel Channice Part 17

Sir Hugh had pulled himself together. He looked at the mother and son.

And he understood her fear.

He went to her, leaned over her, a hand above her shoulder on the door.

He rea.s.sured and protected her; and, truly, in all their story, it had never been with such sincerity and grace.

"Dearest, it's nothing. I've merely had to defend my rights. Will you a.s.sure this young firebrand that my misdemeanours didn't force you to leave me. That there were misdemeanours I don't deny; and of course you are too good for the likes of me; but your coming away wasn't my fault, was it.--That's what I've said.--And that saints forgive sinners, sometimes.--That's all I want you to tell him."

Amabel still gazed into her son's eyes. It seemed to her, now that she must shut herself out from it for ever, that for the first time in all her life she saw his love.

It broke over her; it threatened and commanded her; it implored and supplicated--ah the supplication beyond words or tears!--Selflessness made it stern. It was for her it threatened; for her it prayed.

All these years the true treasure had been there beside her, while she worshipped at the spurious shrine. Only her sorrow, her solicitude had gone out to her son; the answering love that should have cherished and encompa.s.sed him flowed towards its true goal only when it was too late.

He could not love her when he knew.

And he was to know. That had come to her clearly and unalterably while she had leaned, half fallen, half kneeling, against her bed, dying, it seemed to her, to all that she had known of life or hope.

But all was not death within her. In the long, the deadly stupor, her power to love still lived. It had been thrown back from its deep channel and, wave upon wave, it seemed heaped upon itself in some narrow abyss, tormented and shuddering; and at last by its own strength, rather than by thought or prayer of hers, it had forced an outlet.

It was then as if she found herself once more within the church.

Darkness, utter darkness was about her; but she was prostrated before the unseen altar. She knew herself once more, and with herself she knew her power to love.

Her life and all its illusions pa.s.sed before her; by the truth that irradiated the illusions, she judged them and herself and saw what must be the atonement. All that she had believed to be the treasure of her life had been taken from her; but there was one thing left to her that she could give:--her truth to her son. When that price was paid, he would be hers to love; he was no longer hers to live for. He should found his life on no illusions, as she had founded hers. She must set him free to turn away from her; but when he turned away it would not be to leave her in the loneliness and the terror of heart that she had known; it would be to leave her in the church where she could pray for him.

She answered her husband after her long silence, looking at her son.

"It is true, Augustine," she said. "You have been mistaken. I did not leave him for that."

Sir Hugh drew a breath of satisfaction. He glanced round at Augustine.

It was not a venomous glance, but, with its dart of steely intention, it paid a debt of vengeance. "So,--we needn't say anything more about it,"

he said. "And--dearest--perhaps now you'll tell Augustine that he may go and leave us together."

Amabel left her husband's side and went to her chair near the table. A strange calmness breathed from her. She sat with folded hands and downcast eyes.

"Augustine, come here," she said.

The young man came and stood before her.

"Give me your hand."

He gave it to her. She did not look at him but kept her eyes fixed on the ground while she clasped it.

"Augustine," she said, "I want you to leave me with my husband. I must talk with him. He is going away soon. Tomorrow--tomorrow morning early, I will see you, here. I will have a great deal to say to you, my dear son."

But Augustine, clutching her hand and trembling, looked down at her so that she raised her eyes to his.

"I can't go, till you say something, now, Mother;"--his voice shook as it had shaken on that day of their parting, his face was livid and convulsed, as then;--"I will go away tonight--I don't know that I can ever return--unless you tell me that you are not going to take him back." He gazed down into his mother's eyes.

She did not answer him; she did not speak. But, as he looked into them, he, too, for the first time, saw in them what she had seen in his.

They dwelt on him; they widened; they almost smiled; they deeply promised him all--all--that he most longed for. She was his, her son's; she was not her husband's. What he had feared had never threatened him or her. This was a gift she had won the right to give. The depth of her repudiation yesterday gave her her warrant.

And to Amabel, while they looked into each other's eyes, it was as if, in the darkness, some arching loveliness of dawn vaguely shaped itself above the altar.

"Kiss me, dear Augustine," she said. She held up her forehead, closing her eyes, for the kiss that was her own.

Augustine was gone. And now, before her, was the ugly breaking. But must it be so ugly? Opening her eyes, she looked at her husband as he stood before the fire, his wondering eyes upon her. Must it be ugly? Why could it not be quiet and even kind?

Strangely there had gathered in her, during the long hours, the garnered strength of her life of discipline and submission. It had sustained her through the shudder that glanced back at yesterday--at the corruption that had come so near; it had given sanity to see with eyes of compa.s.sion the forsaken woman who had come with her courageous, revengeful story; it gave sanity now, as she looked over at her husband, to see him also, with those eyes of compa.s.sionate understanding; he was not blackened, to her vision, by the shadowing corruption, but, in his way, pitiful, too; all the worth of life lost to him.

And it seemed swiftest, simplest, and kindest, as she looked over at him, to say:--"You see--Lady Elliston came this afternoon, and told me everything."

Sir Hugh kept his face remarkably unmoved. He continued to gaze at his wife with an unabashed, unstartled steadiness. "I might have guessed that," he said after a short silence. "Confound her."

Amabel made no reply.

"So I suppose," Sir Hugh went on, "you feel you can't forgive me."

She hesitated, not quite understanding. "You mean--for having married me--when you loved her?"

"Well, yes; but more for not having, long ago, in all these years, found out that you were the woman that any man with eyes to see, any man not blinded and fatuous, ought to have been in love with from the beginning."

Amabel flushed. Her vision was untroubled; but the shadow hovered. She was ashamed for him.

"No"; she said, "I did not think of that. I don't know that I have anything to forgive you. It is Lady Elliston, I think, who must try and forgive you, if she can."

Sir Hugh was again silent for a moment; then he laughed. "You dear innocent!--Well--I won't defend myself at her expense."

"Don't," said Amabel, looking now away from him.

Sir Hugh eyed her and seemed to weigh the meaning of her voice.

He crossed the room suddenly and leaned over her:--"Amabel darling,--what must I do to atone? I'll be patient. Don't be cruel and punish me for too long a time."

"Sit there--will you please." She pointed to the chair at the other side of the table.

He hesitated, still leaning above her; then obeyed; folding his arms; frowning.

"You don't understand," said Amabel. "I loved you for what you never were. I do not love you now. And I would never have loved you as you asked me to do yesterday."

He gazed at her, trying to read the difficult riddle of a woman's perversity. "You were in love with me yesterday," he said at last.

She answered nothing.

"I'll make you love me again."

"No: never," she answered, looking quietly at him. "What is there in you to love?"

Sir Hugh flushed. "I say! You are hard on me!"