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.