His step at last! She heard him, even while she thought she was

finishing a sentence; while her eye did pass over it, and her

memory could mechanically have repeated it word for word, she

heard him come in at the hall-door. Her quickened sense could

interpret every sound of motion: now he was at the hat-stand--now

at the very room-door. Why did he pause? Let her know the worst.

Yet her head was down over the book; she did not look up. He came

close to the table, and stood still there, waiting till she

should have finished the paragraph which apparently absorbed her.

By an effort she looked up. Well, John?' He knew what that little speech meant. But he had steeled

himself. He longed to reply with a jest; the bitterness of his

heart could have uttered one, but his mother deserved better of

him. He came round behind her, so that she could not see his

looks, and, bending back her gray, stony face, he kissed it,

murmuring: 'No one loves me,--no one cares for me, but you, mother.' He turned away and stood leaning his head against the

mantel-piece, tears forcing themselves into his manly eyes. She

stood up,--she tottered. For the first time in her life, the

strong woman tottered. She put her hands on his shoulders; she

was a tall woman. She looked into his face; she made him look at

her.

'Mother's love is given by God, John. It holds fast for ever and

ever. A girl's love is like a puff of smoke,--it changes with

every wind. And she would not have you, my own lad, would not

she?' She set her teeth; she showed them like a dog for the whole

length of her mouth. He shook his head.

'I am not fit for her, mother; I knew I was not.' She ground out words between her closed teeth. He could not hear

what she said; but the look in her eyes interpreted it to be a

curse,--if not as coarsely worded, as fell in intent as ever was

uttered. And yet her heart leapt up light, to know he was her own

again.

'Mother!' said he, hurriedly, 'I cannot hear a word against her.

Spare me,--spare me! I am very weak in my sore heart;--I love her

yet; I love her more than ever.' 'And I hate her,' said Mrs. Thornton, in a low fierce voice. 'I

tried not to hate her, when she stood between you and me,

because,--I said to myself,--she will make him happy; and I would

give my heart's blood to do that. But now, I hate her for your

misery's sake. Yes, John, it's no use hiding up your aching heart

from me. I am the mother that bore you, and your sorrow is my

agony; and if you don't hate her, I do.' 'Then, mother, you make me love her more. She is unjustly treated

by you, and I must make the balance even. But why do we talk of

love or hatred? She does not care for me, and that is

enough,--too much. Let us never name the subject again. It is the

only thing you can do for me in the matter. Let us never name

her.' 'With all my heart. I only wish that she, and all belonging to

her, were swept back to the place they came from.' He stood still, gazing into the fire for a minute or two longer.

Her dry dim eyes filled with unwonted tears as she looked at him;

but she seemed just as grim and quiet as usual when he next

spoke.




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