"Mother, are you mad?" said her son, passionately. "Why do you talk to me in this way? I swear to you that I would give every hope and every joy that I ever possessed--I would give my life--to have Richard back again! Do you think I ever wanted to be rich through his death?"
"I do not know what you wanted," said Mrs. Luttrell, sternly. "I have no means of guessing."
"Is this what you wished me to say?" said Brian, whose voice was hoarse and changed. "I said that I would listen--but, you might spare me these taunts, at least."
"I do not taunt you. I wish only to draw attention to the difference between your position and my own. Richard's death brings wealth, ease, comfort to you; to me nothing but desolation. I am willing to allow the house of which I have been the mistress for so many years, of which I am legally the mistress still, to pass into your hands. I have lost my home as well as my sons. I am desolate."
"Your sons! You have not lost both your sons, mother," pleaded Brian, with a note of bitter pain in his voice, as he came closer to her and tried in vain to take her icy hand. "Why do you think that you are no longer mistress of this house? You are as much mistress as you were in my father's time--in Richard's time. Why should there be a difference now?"
"There is this difference," said Mrs. Luttrell, coldly, "that I do not care to live in any house with you. It would be painful to me; that is all. If you desire to stay, I will go."
Brian staggered back as if she had struck him in the face.
"Do you mean to cast me off?" he almost whispered, for he could not find strength to speak aloud. "Am I not your son, too?"
"You fill the place that a son should occupy," said Mrs. Luttrell, letting her hand rise and fall upon her lap, and looking away from Brian. "I can say no more. My son--my own son--the son that I loved"--(she paused, and seemed to recollect herself before she continued in a lower voice)--"the son that I loved--is dead."
There was a silence. Brian seated himself and bowed his head upon his hands. "God help me!" she heard him mutter. But she did not relent.
Presently he looked up and fixed his haggard eyes upon her.
"Mother," he said, in hoarse and unnatural tones, "you have had your say; now let me have mine. I know too well what you believe. You think, because of a slight dispute which arose between us on that day, that I had some grudge against my brother. I solemnly declare to you that that is not true. Richard and I had differed; but we met--in the wood"--(he drew his breath painfully)--"a few minutes only before that terrible mistake of mine; and we were friends again. Mother, do you know me so ill as to think that I could ever have lifted my hand against Richard, who was always a friend to me, always far kinder than I deserved? It was a mistake--a mistake that I'll never, never forgive myself for, and that you, perhaps, never will forgive--but, at any rate, do me the justice to believe that it was a mistake, and not--not--that I was Richard's murderer!"