“You fool!” said he, coming one heavy step nearer, and frowning down upon her; “I warned you away; I told you to be silent.  You’ve meddled with what was no concern of yours; you’ve thrust yourself where you had no right to come—­”

“No right!” she interrupted, with an intensity of indignant emphasis that seemed adequate to smite to the ground the towering figure that faced her.  Then, clasping her hands, and in a voice of yearning, ineffable tenderness, she added, “Oh, I have prayed for you, and wept for you, and loved you so!  For your own sake, my darling, do not use such words to me!” Here she held out her arms, and tears ran hot down her faded cheeks.  “Am I not your mother?  Are you not my son?”

“No!” answered Bressant.

He threw so tremendous a weight of malignant energy into the utterance of this single word, although not raising his voice higher than his usual tone, that the moral effect upon the woman was as if he had dealt her a furious blow on the breast.  Completely stunned at first, she stood as if dead, except that her body, upright and rigid, vibrated slightly from side to side, like a column about to fall.  So sudden, too, had been the shock, that her arms still remained outstretched, and the track of her tears still glistened upon her cheeks, tears shed so utterly in vain as to acquire a trait of ghastly absurdity.

As sense and reflection began to dawn again, the first instinctive defence she attempted was that of incredulity.  It was to gain breathing-space rather than from any hope in its efficacy.  But afterward, following the ability to hear and the capacity to comprehend, the grim reality settled darkly down.  Her life for the last twenty-five years, then, had been a miserable blunder; her love, hopes, and fears wasted, and turned to ridicule; her self-sacrifice, a wretched self-deception, a throwing of all possibilities of happiness into the bottomless pit, whence no return could ever come to her; every thought, aspiration, and desire, which had visited her heart had been a mockery—­meaningless and empty.  This was the reality to which she was awakened.  And, lest this should not be sufficient, here stood one before whom she had abased and humbled herself, whose insolence she had borne meekly and lovingly, whose feet she had set upon her neck.  Here he stood, insolent and unfeeling still; a false impostor, whom might God refuse to pardon!

And who and what was he?  Oh, what punishment was terrible enough for him?  Surely—­surely God would not allow him to escape!  What was he?

These thoughts must have written themselves in the woman’s eyes, which were now awful to behold—­eager, questioning, and malevolent.  Bressant forced a harsh laugh, as men will when they find themselves opposed by impotent rage.  Certainly Abbie had no other claim to be considered an amusing spectacle.  Had not her revengeful rage upheld her, she must have swooned.  But it was a hideous kind of vitality, unwholesome to contemplate.  Bressant laughed by main strength.