There are some pauses which are illustrated to the day of a man’s death, by a vivid impression on his memory of the surroundings.

The heavy, painted beams crossing and re-crossing the lofty roof; the black staircase lighted with wax candles, that made a brilliancy which threw into deeper relief the darkness of every recess and corner; the full-length, Early Victorian portraits of men and women of his own race—­inartistic daubs, that were yet horribly lifelike in the semi-illumination; the uncurtained mullioned windows,—­all formed a background for the central figure in his thoughts; the slender womanly form in the armchair; the little brown head supported on the white hand; the delicate face, robbed of its youthful freshness, and yet so lovely still.

“John,” said Lady Mary, in a voice from which all passion and strength had died away, “tell me what I ought to do.”

“Remain with your husband.”

“And let my boy go?” said Lady Mary, weeping.  “I had thought, when he was leaving me, perhaps for ever, that—­that his heart would be touched—­that I should get a glimpse once more of the Peter he used to be.  Oh, can’t you understand?  He—­he’s a little—­hard and cold to me sometimes—­God forgive me for saying so!—­but you—­you’ve been a young man too.”

“Yes,” John said, rather sadly, “I’ve been young too.”

“It’s only his age, you know,” she said.  “He couldn’t always be as gentle and loving as when he was a child.  A young man would think that so babyish.  He wants, as he says, to be independent, and not tied to a woman’s apron-string.  But in his heart of hearts he loves me best in the whole world, and he wouldn’t have been ashamed to let me see it at such a moment.  And I should have had a precious memory of him for ever.  You shake your head.  Don’t you understand me?  I thought you seemed to understand,” she said wistfully.

“Peter is a boy,” said John, “and life is just opening for him.  It is a hard saying to you, but his thoughts are full of the world he is entering.  There is no room in them just now for the home he is leaving.  That is human nature.  If he be sick or sorry later on—­as I know your loving fancy pictures him—­his heart would turn even then, not to the mother he saw waving and weeping on the quay, amid all the confusion of departure, but to the mother of his childhood, of his happy days of long ago.  It may be “—­John hesitated, and spoke very tenderly—­“it may be that his heart will be all the softer then, because he was denied the parting interview he never sought.  The young are strangely wayward and impatient.  They regret what might have been.  They do not, like the old, dwell fondly upon what the gods actually granted them.  It is you who will suffer from this sacrifice, not Peter; that will be some consolation to you, I suppose, even if it be also a disappointment.”

“Ah, how you understand!” said Peter’s mother, sadly.