For a long time he had been disposed to criticise her; now that this criticism was extended to all that she said or did, the spirit of accusation tinctured her whole life; their joint past seemed altered and debased.

His father’s bent form, in the log chair on the hairless skin, malodorous and dirty, rose up before him, in vivid contrast with his mother in her well appointed, airy, perfumed rooms!

When Rafael stood by his father’s body he had felt the same thing--that the old man had been badly treated.  He himself had been encouraged to neglect his father, to shun him, to evade his orders.  At that time he had laid the blame on the people on the estate; now he put it all down to his mother’s account.  His father had certainly adored her once, and this feeling had changed into wild self-consuming hatred.  What had happened?  He did not know; but he could not but admit that his mother would have tried the patience of Job.

He pictured to himself how Lucie would come running with her flowers, search for him over the whole quay, farther and farther every time, standing still at last.  He could not think of it without tears, and without a feeling of bitterness.

But a child is a child.  It was not a life-long grief.  As the place was new and historically interesting, and as lessons had now begun and his mother was always with him, this feeling wore off, but the mutual restraint was still there.  The critical spirit which had first been roused in England never afterwards left Rafael.

The hours of study which they passed together produced good results.  Beginning as her pupil, he had ended by becoming her teacher.  She was anxious to keep up with him, and this was an advantage to him, on account of her almost too minute accuracy, but still more from her intelligent questions.  Apart from study they passed many pleasant hours together, but they both knew that something was missing in their conversation which could never be there again.

At longer or shorter intervals a shy silence interrupted this intercourse.  Sometimes it was he, sometimes she, who, for some cause or other, often a most trivial one, elected not to reply, not to ask a question, not to see.  When they were good friends he appreciated the best side of her character, the self-sacrificing life which she led for him.  When they were not friends it was exactly the opposite.  When they were friends, he, as a rule, did whatever she wished.  He tried to atone for the past.  He was in the land of courtesy and influenced by its teaching.  When he was not friends with her he behaved as badly as possible.  He early got among bad companions and into dissipated habits; he was the very child of Rebellion.  At times he had qualms of conscience on account of it.

She guessed this, and wished him to guess that she guessed it.

“I perceive a strange atmosphere here, fie!  Some one has mixed their atmosphere with yours, fie!” And she sprinkled him with scent.