The Crossing [197]
declare to you that, since meeting your son, my chief anxiety has been lest he should run across you.''
``You are very considerate of others,'' she said. ``Let us admit for the sake of argument that you come here by accident.''
It was the opening I had sought for, but despaired of getting.
``Then put yourself for a moment in my place, Madame, and give me credit for a little kindliness of feeling, and a sincere affection for your son.''
There was a new expression on her face, and the light of a supreme effort in her eyes.
``I give you credit at least for a logical mind,'' she answered. ``In spite of myself you have put me at the bar and seem to be conducting my trial.''
``I do not see why there should be any rancor between us,'' I answered. ``It is true that I hated you at Temple Bow. When my father was killed and I was left a homeless orphan you had no pity for me, though your husband was my mother's brother. But you did me a good turn after all, for you drove me out into a world where I learned to rely upon myself. Furthermore, it was not in your nature to treat me well.''
``Not in my nature?'' she repeated.
``You were seeking happiness, as every one must in their own way. That happiness lay, apparently, with Mr. Riddle.''
``Ah,'' she cried, with a catch of her breath, ``I thought you would be judging me.''
``I am stating facts. Your son was a sufficient embarrassment in this matter, and I should have been an additional one. I blame you not, Mrs. Temple, for anything you have done to me, but I blame you for embittering Nick's life.''
``And he?'' she said. It seemed to me that I detected a faltering in her voice.
``I will hide nothing from you. He blames you, with what justice I leave you to decide.''
She did not answer this, but turned her head away towards the bayou. Nor could I determine what was in her mind.
``And now I ask you whether I have acted as your friend in begging you to meet me.''
She turned to me swiftly at that.
``I am at a loss to see how there can be friendship between us, Mr. Ritchie,'' she said.
``Very good then, Madame; I am sorry,'' I answered. ``I have done all that is in my power, and now events will have to take their course.''
I had not gone two steps into the wood before I heard her voice calling my name. She had risen, and leaned with her hand against the oak.
``Does Nick--know that you are here?'' she cried.
``No,'' I answered shortly. Then I realized suddenly what I had failed to grasp before,--she feared that I would pity her.
``David!''
I started violently at the sound of my name, at the new note in her voice, at the change in the woman as I turned. And then before I realized what she had done she had come to me swiftly and laid her hand upon my arm.
``David, does he hate me?''
All the hope remaining in her life was in that question, was in her face as she searched mine with a terrible scrutiny. And never had I known such an ordeal. It seemed as if I could not answer, and as I stood staring back at her a smile was forced to her lips.
``I will pay you one tribute, my friend,'' she said; ``you are honest.''
But even as she spoke I saw her sway, and though I could not be sure it were not a dizziness in me, I caught her. I shall always marvel at the courage there was in her, for she straightened and drew away from me a little proudly, albeit gently, and sat down on the knee of the oak, looking across the bayou towards the mist of the swamp. There was the infinite calmness of resignation in her next speech.
``Tell me about him,'' she said.
She was changed indeed. Were it not so I should have heard of her own sufferings, of her poor, hunted life from place to place, of countless nights made sleepless by the past. Pride indeed was left, but the fire had burned away the last vestige of selfishness.
I sat down beside her, knowing full well that I should be judged by what I said. She listened, motionless, though something of what that narrative cost her I knew by the current of sympathy that
``You are very considerate of others,'' she said. ``Let us admit for the sake of argument that you come here by accident.''
It was the opening I had sought for, but despaired of getting.
``Then put yourself for a moment in my place, Madame, and give me credit for a little kindliness of feeling, and a sincere affection for your son.''
There was a new expression on her face, and the light of a supreme effort in her eyes.
``I give you credit at least for a logical mind,'' she answered. ``In spite of myself you have put me at the bar and seem to be conducting my trial.''
``I do not see why there should be any rancor between us,'' I answered. ``It is true that I hated you at Temple Bow. When my father was killed and I was left a homeless orphan you had no pity for me, though your husband was my mother's brother. But you did me a good turn after all, for you drove me out into a world where I learned to rely upon myself. Furthermore, it was not in your nature to treat me well.''
``Not in my nature?'' she repeated.
``You were seeking happiness, as every one must in their own way. That happiness lay, apparently, with Mr. Riddle.''
``Ah,'' she cried, with a catch of her breath, ``I thought you would be judging me.''
``I am stating facts. Your son was a sufficient embarrassment in this matter, and I should have been an additional one. I blame you not, Mrs. Temple, for anything you have done to me, but I blame you for embittering Nick's life.''
``And he?'' she said. It seemed to me that I detected a faltering in her voice.
``I will hide nothing from you. He blames you, with what justice I leave you to decide.''
She did not answer this, but turned her head away towards the bayou. Nor could I determine what was in her mind.
``And now I ask you whether I have acted as your friend in begging you to meet me.''
She turned to me swiftly at that.
``I am at a loss to see how there can be friendship between us, Mr. Ritchie,'' she said.
``Very good then, Madame; I am sorry,'' I answered. ``I have done all that is in my power, and now events will have to take their course.''
I had not gone two steps into the wood before I heard her voice calling my name. She had risen, and leaned with her hand against the oak.
``Does Nick--know that you are here?'' she cried.
``No,'' I answered shortly. Then I realized suddenly what I had failed to grasp before,--she feared that I would pity her.
``David!''
I started violently at the sound of my name, at the new note in her voice, at the change in the woman as I turned. And then before I realized what she had done she had come to me swiftly and laid her hand upon my arm.
``David, does he hate me?''
All the hope remaining in her life was in that question, was in her face as she searched mine with a terrible scrutiny. And never had I known such an ordeal. It seemed as if I could not answer, and as I stood staring back at her a smile was forced to her lips.
``I will pay you one tribute, my friend,'' she said; ``you are honest.''
But even as she spoke I saw her sway, and though I could not be sure it were not a dizziness in me, I caught her. I shall always marvel at the courage there was in her, for she straightened and drew away from me a little proudly, albeit gently, and sat down on the knee of the oak, looking across the bayou towards the mist of the swamp. There was the infinite calmness of resignation in her next speech.
``Tell me about him,'' she said.
She was changed indeed. Were it not so I should have heard of her own sufferings, of her poor, hunted life from place to place, of countless nights made sleepless by the past. Pride indeed was left, but the fire had burned away the last vestige of selfishness.
I sat down beside her, knowing full well that I should be judged by what I said. She listened, motionless, though something of what that narrative cost her I knew by the current of sympathy that