On his side,
as he knew, he had made no effort either, or if he had they had been but
childish efforts, easily repulsed. He had not troubled about it, and if
she was to blame, the blame was his also. She had been slow to show the
mother-instinct, but he had been just as wanting in the tenderness of
the son.
He was profoundly touched by this humble timidity, by the sincerity,
vague but unquestionable, that lay behind it.
"It's never too late, is it?" he said, bending down and kissing the thin
white hands that held his. "We are in time, after all, aren't we?"
She gave a little shiver.
"Oh, don't kiss my hands, Michael," she said. "It hurts me that you
should do that. But it is sweet of you to say that I am not too late,
after all. Michael, may I just take you in my arms--may I?"
He half rose.
"Oh, mother, how can you ask?" he said.
"Then let me do it. No, my darling, don't move. Just sit still as you
are, and let me just get my arms about you, and put my head on your
shoulder, and hold me close like that for a moment, so that I can
realise that I am not too late."
She got up, and, leaning over him, held him so for a moment, pressing
her cheek close to his, and kissing him on the eyes and on the mouth.
Pages:
213
214
215
216
217
218
219
220
221
222
223
224
225
226
227
228
229
230
231
232
233
234
235
236
237