It mattered not that he was silent, for he had spoken the
truth; that he was as motionless as a stone, for the cold hand had been
swift to thrust and smite, and had dealt unforgotten blows in a good
cause; that he was deaf, for he had heard the cry of the weak, and had
forborne; that he was blind, for his eyes had seen the light of victory
and had looked unflinching upon an honourable death. Loyal, true,
brave, strong, he lay in his son's heart, still at all points himself.
And Gilbert turned his mind's eyes to the darkness on the other side,
and many a time, as the unwept tears burned in his brain, he wished
that his mother were lying there too, beside his father, dead in the
body but alive forever to him in that which is undying in woman; to be
cherished still, still honoured; to be loved, and still obeyed in the
memory of precept and teaching; to be his mother always, and he to be
in thought her child, even until the grey years should be upon him, and
the Bridge of Fear in sight.
Instead, as his thoughts went back to his home, the woman herself faced
him, not as he had always seen her, but as she had been sometimes seen
by others. The deed she had done--the greatest, the worst, the most
irrevocable--was in her face, and Gilbert's unconscious memory brought
back the details his love of her had once rejected. The cold face was
as hard as flint, the deep blue eyes were untrue and unbelieving, the
small red lips were scornfully parted to show the cruel little teeth,
and there were dashes of flame in the russet hair.
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