The Works of George W. M. Reynolds — page 241: what you’re looking at

Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.

224 REYNOLDS’ WORKS from torturing apprehensions. But he had yet two terrors to-look in the face. His mother was coming, and the night was coming. At least, the longer he reflected upon the course which Lady Saxondale was likely to pursue, the more con- vinced was he that she would come. And why did he dread to meet her? Because he shrank from the thought of looking in the face any one who could say to him, ‘‘ Thou art a murderer! ”’ Bue his midther wast not she also stained with crime, and did he not know it? Ah, yes, but the knowledge thereof mitigated little, if at all, the dread feeling which he himselt must experience of having put it in the power of any living soul to say, “‘ Thou art a murderer! ”’ An hour passed; it was ten o’clock. Lady Saxondale must have received the letter at about nine in the morning. If she set off immediately, she might be at the castle now. Ah, no sooner had the young nobleman made this reflection, when the sounds of an equipage dashing up to the gateway reached his ears. No doubt it was his mother. In a few minutes he would know; and during those few minutes he experienced the acutest suspense, for, as above stated, it was with him a horrible dread to look in the face of, any one who even by a glance seemed to say, “ Thou art a mur- derer! ”’ Footsteps were ascending the stairs; the door opened, and Lady Saxondale made her appearance. For the sake of show in the presence of the domestic who had attended her thither, she threw her arms about Edmund’s neck, and from her lips sent forth sounds which passed well enough for sobs. ‘The door closed, the domestic had retired, there was no longer need for hypocrisy; and therefore, abruptly withdrawing herself from Edmund, she flung her gaze upon him. ‘Their eyes met, and the conscience-stricken young man thought that as plain as eyes could speak those of his mother said to him, ‘‘ Thou art a murderer! ”’ He staggered back, and sank on a chair as if annihilated. His feelings were at that moment horrible. Crime had looked crime in the face, and crime had seemed to make crime its own self-reproach. Lady Saxondale, comprehending toler- ably well what was passing in Edmund’s soul, smiled scorn- fully for an instant, as 1f to be thus overcome by the sense of crime was a weakness deserving contempt. But as that Gomichbooks O)