Cobwebs and Cables | Page 3

she had been awaiting his coming. There
was a light burning here as well as in the night-nursery adjoining, for it
was his mother who had charge of the children, and who would be the
first the nurse would call if anything was the matter. She awoke as one
who expects to be called upon at any hour; but the light was too dim to
betray the misery on her son's face.
"Roland!" she said, in a slightly foreign accent.
"Were you calling, mother?" he asked. "I was passing by, and I came in
here to see if you wanted anything."
"I did not call, my son," she answered, "but what have you the matter?
Is Felicita ill? or the babies? Your voice is sad, Roland."
"No, no," he said, forcing himself to speak in a cheerful voice, "Felicita
is asleep, I hope, and the babies are all right. But I have been late at
bank-work; and I turned in just to have a look at you, mother, before I
go to bed."
"That's my good son," she said, smiling, and taking his hand between
her own in a fond clasp.
"Am I a good son?" he asked.
His mother's face was a fair, sweet face still, the soft brown hair
scarcely touched with white, and with clear, dark gray eyes gazing up
frankly into his own. They were eyes like these, with their truthful light
shining through them, inherited from her, which in himself had won the

unquestioning trust and confidence of those who were brought into
contact with him. There was no warning signal of disloyalty in his face
to set others on their guard. His mother looked up at him tenderly.
"Always a good son, the best of sons, Roland," she replied, "and a good
husband, and a good father. Only one little fault in my good son: too
spendthrift, too lavish. You are not a fine, rich lord, with large lands,
and much, very much money, my boy. I do my best in the house; but
women can only save pennies, while men fling about pounds."
"But you love me with all my faults, mother?" he said.
"As my own soul," she answered.
There was a profound solemnity in her voice and look, which
penetrated to his very heart. She was not speaking lightly. It was in the
same spirit with which. Paul wrote, after saying, "For I am persuaded
that neither death, nor life, nor angels, nor principalities, nor powers,
nor things present, nor things to come, nor height, nor depth, nor any
other creature shall be able to separate us from the love of God, which
is in Christ Jesus our Lord;" "I could wish that myself were separate
from Christ for my brethren, my kinsmen according to the flesh." His
mother had reached that sublime height of love for him.
He stood silent, looking down on her with dull, aching eyes, as he said
to himself it was perhaps for the last time. It was the last time she
would ever see him as her good son. With her, in her heart and memory,
all his life dwelt; she knew the whole of it, with no break or
interruption. Only this one hidden thread, which had been woven into
the web in secret, and which was about to stand out with such clear and
open disclosure; of this she had no faint suspicion. For a minute or two
he felt as if he must tell her of it; that he must roll off this horrible
weight from himself, and crush her faithful heart with it. But what
could his mother do? Her love could not stay the storm; she had no
power to bid the winds and waves be still. It would be best for all of
them if he could make his escape secretly, and be altogether lost in
impenetrable darkness.

At that moment a clock in the hall below struck one.
"Well," he said wearily, "if I'm to get any sleep to-night I must be off to
bed. Good-by, mother."
"Good-by?" she repeated with a smile.
"Good-night, of course," he replied, bending over her and kissing her
tenderly.
"God bless you, my son," she said, putting both her hands upon his
head, and pressing his face close to her own. He could not break away
from her fond embrace; but in a few moments she let him go, bidding
him get some rest before the night was passed.
Once more he stood in the dimly-lighted passage, listening at his wife's
door, with his fingers involuntarily clasping the handle. But he dared
not go in. If he looked upon Felicita again he could not leave her, even
to escape from ruin and disgrace. An agony of love and of terror took
possession of him.