CHAPTER XXII.

A MYSTERIOUS APPOINTMENT.

Mrs. Savage was in a state of continual unhappiness. When a really good-hearted woman swerves from the right path, either from policy or interest, she is sure to be the greatest sufferer of all the parties in interest. She saw her son come in and go out with that restless, dejected air which often follows a great disappointment. He took no interest in his old pursuits; and all the sweet confidence which had existed between the mother and son was swept away from their lives. This sprung mostly out of her own self-consciousness. She knew that her own ruthless influence had broken up the best hope of his young life; and remembering that cruel interview with Anna Burns, would not look her son squarely in the face, or soften his melancholy with sweet caresses, as a good mother loves to give while comforting her son. Horace felt this, and it made him feel still more desolate. He congratulated himself that his mother was ignorant of the humiliating attachment he had formed, and gathered up all the strength of his manhood to meet the life which lay before him divested of half its bloom.

Better than he thought Mrs. Savage understood all this. She saw that it was no capricious liking that her son had to deal with; and, spite of herself, the sweet face of Anna Burns, in its sad, pleading humility, which was, after all, more dignified than pride, would present itself to her memory; and in spite of the intellect which still protested that she had done right, the heart in her bosom rose up against her, and called her a household traitor, an unnatural mother, a hard woman, and some other harsh names, that she would have been glad to forget.

Then there was the certainty that Georgiana Halstead never would be her son’s wife. Mrs. Savage had loved this bright-faced girl with unusual tenderness; and this conviction was a bitter disappointment. Altogether, things were taking an unsatisfactory course with her—and she was a most unhappy woman.

One day when Horace came in from business, and was going, as usual, to his own room, Mrs. Savage called to him with a quiver of suffering in her voice, that made him pause half way up the stairs and turn back.

“Is there any thing the matter, mother?” he said, entering her pretty sitting-room, stiffly, as if he had been a stranger.

Mrs. Savage remembered the time when he would have come in with a laugh, thrown himself on the stool at her feet, and with both arms folded on her lap, told her of any thing that was uppermost in his heart. She sighed heavily, and a weary look of pain came into her eyes.

“Oh, Horace! why is it that we seem so strange to each other?”

“Strange are we? I had not thought of it, mother.”

He was surprised and touched by her manifest unhappiness. Absorbed in his own thoughts, he had scarcely noticed that she was not as cheerful as usual.

“Dear old pet,” he said, making a strained effort at playfulness, “what has come over you? Is it because her inhuman son has been making a wretch of himself? Come, give him a kiss, he is sadly in want of it.”

Mrs. Savage kissed him on the forehead with quivering lips; and flinging herself back in the chair burst into a passion of tears.

The startled son threw his arms around her.

“Why, mother, mother! what is the meaning of this?”

Mrs. Savage, superior woman as she was, answered like the most commonplace female in the world.

“Oh, Horace! I am sure you hate me!”

“Hate you? Why, mother, what have I have done?”

“Nothing! Nothing in the world! It is I that am to blame!”

“But there is no blame between us. If all this is about Georgiana Halstead, do understand, once for all, she does not want me, and never cared for me in the least, only as a playmate and sort of brother. In fact, she is almost engaged to young Gould.”

“I know it, I know it! She told me. Every thing goes wrong! I am the most unhappy woman in the world!”

“Who makes you so unhappy, dear mother?”

She looked at him earnestly through her tears, gave a hysterical sob, and sat upright in her chair, resolute and proud of look as he had seen her of old.

“Horace, do you love that girl, Anna Burns?”

Savage started up, and his face flushed scarlet.

“Mother!”

“I knew all about it almost from the first, Horace.”

“You? And said nothing. That was kind. Is it this which has troubled you so much?”

“Yes, it has troubled me—I am so sorry.”

“Do not reproach me, mother. It is the first time I ever went against what I knew would be your wishes. You are right, there can be no happiness in going beneath our own grade in life; but she seemed so refined, so innocent, and good. I think a wiser man than I ever was would have been interested. I had hoped that this little shame of my life would never reach you or my father.”

“He does not know it; but I do—I do! Tell me, Horace, for you have not answered my question yet. Do you love this girl?”

“I did love her dearly—better than my own life!”

“And now?”

“If you know all, mother, why wound me with that question?”

“Because I wish to know—because I must know.”

“She has the power to give me terrible pain, mother; beyond that I will say nothing.”

“But you did love her?”

“I have said so.”

“And but for her unworthiness would love her yet?”

“We need not speak of what will be. There is misery enough in what is.”

“Sit down, my son, in the old place, at my feet; then turn your eyes away. I do not like you to look at me so. Now say, if this girl were all you first thought her to be, would you marry her?”

“What! against your consent, mother?”

“I did not say that. Ask your own heart, Horace; was the love you felt for this girl such as runs through a man’s whole life; such as leads him to make all sacrifices in its attainment?”

“Yes; if ever a man loved honestly and devotedly I did. But it is all over now.”

“But you are very unhappy?”

“Very.”

“Will you never forget her? Oh, Horace! will the old times never come back to us?”

“I cannot tell, mother. When the heart has been betrayed into giving itself up entirely, the reaction, if it ever comes, must be slow and painful.”

“Horace!”

“Mother!”

“I—I wish to see you happy. My heart aches for you. I would do any thing rather than see you looking so dispirited.”

“But you can do nothing. Yes, yes; I should not say that. Love me, and bear with me awhile; this cannot last forever.”

“With you, perhaps, not; but with me it will last forever. My son, it is your mother who has done this. She is the person you ought to hate. Anna Burns is guiltless as an angel. I, your mother, says this; and you must believe it.”

“Mother, mother! are you getting insane?”

“No, Horace; I heard of this attachment, and condemned it. My pride was wounded, my ambition thwarted. I thought Georgiana loved you, and that this girl had come in her way to cause all sorts of unhappiness. I appealed to her generosity. I told her that nothing on this earth should win our consent to your marriage with her. She told me how young Ward had persecuted her; and I, unwomanly, ungenerous woman that I was, bade her leave you in doubt, that you might be shocked out of your love. She pleaded, she wept, she protested, but gave way at last, and pledged her word to avoid you, and leave the suspicions in your mind to rest there.”

“Oh, mother, mother! this is terrible!”

“I know it, boy; but it is all true. God forgive me!”

Savage was standing before his mother, white as death, but with a glow of deep thoughtfulness in his eyes.

“And she is innocent?”

“As an angel, I do believe. Innocent even of guessing the evil thoughts you had of her. The worst she dreamed of was, that you supposed her capable of marrying that young scapegrace.”

“Thank heaven for that! She will not have felt the insult so deeply! But I was cruel with her, the innocent darling.”

“No, it was I who was most cruel. I, who forbade her to explain; I, who left her, broken-hearted, to struggle against her honest affection, and the shame of which she was unconscious. Can you ever forgive me, Horace?”

“Forgive you! mother? Is that a question which you should ask of your son? The question is, will Anna Burns ever forgive me?”

“She will—she must. I will go to her. I will humble myself as is befitting one who has given way to her pride cruelly as I have. But first, Horace, say that you will forget this, and love me in the old way?”

Bright tears were in those fine eyes, the sympathetic mouth worked with emotion. That look of yearning entreaty went to the son’s heart; he knelt by her side, kissed her hands, her forehead, and the eyes which were still heavy with repentant dew.

“Forget it? Oh, mother! how can I forget this nobility of soul which gives back the bloom to my life. It was love for me that made you, for a time, less than yourself. That I will forget.”

“And love me dearly, as of old?”

“Indeed, and indeed, I will.”

“This love of Anna Burns must not make you forget me.”

The lady said this with a piteous smile. It was hard to give him up.

“Mother, do you love my father less because of me?”

“No, no! How should I?”

“Love, like mercy, is not strained, mother. The heart that can feel it at all in its perfection, grows larger and grander with each new object of affection.”

The mother’s face became luminous with one of those smiles which flood all the features with sunshine. She fell forward upon her son’s bosom, sighing away the last remnants of her unhappiness.

“God bless you, my son! I will love Anna Burns dearly for your sake!”

“May I go to her now, mother?”

“Not yet. Wait a little till I have prepared your father. He knows nothing. When you see her again it must be with full authority.”

“You are right, mother. I am happy and I can wait!”

A servant opened the door, bringing in a card.

“Mr. Gould—what can he want of me, I wonder?” exclaimed the lady, looking at the card.

“I will leave you to find out,” answered Horace, kissing his mother’s hand.

Scarcely had the son disappeared from one door, when old Mr. Gould came in through another. He was grave and quiet, not to say stern, in his manner toward the lady who came forward to receive him. With that old-fashioned formality which is so pleasant in a gray-headed man, he led Mrs. Savage back to the seat she had left, and drew a chair close to it. Then he began conversing with her in a low, earnest voice. She heard him at first with a little surprise; then her interest deepened, the hot color came and went in her face; and more than once she broke out into exclamations that seemed half pleasure, half disappointment. When the old gentleman arose she gave him her hand, which he bowed over with a reverence which was not without grace.

“I rejoice that you come too late,” she said, smiling upon him.

“And so do I. Such things bring back one’s old trust in human nature.”

“I, at least, ought to be thankful that all the atonement in my power was made in time,” she said, graciously.

“You will all be punctual. I am an old business man, remember, and shall expect you at the moment.”

“You can depend on us.”

They shook hands at the door with great cordiality, and the old man smiled as he went down the steps.