“It’s not much, mother,” he said. “It was Baxter Dawes.”
“Tell me where it hurts you,” she said quietly.
“I don’t know—my shoulder. Say it was a bicycle accident, mother.”
He could not move his arm. Presently Minnie, the little servant, came upstairs with some tea.
“Your mother’s nearly frightened me out of my wits—fainted away,” she said.
He felt he could not bear it. His mother nursed him; he told her about it.
“And now I should have done with them all,” she said quietly.
“I will, mother.”
She covered him up.
“And don’t think about it,” she said—“only try to go to sleep. The doctor won’t be here till eleven.”
He had a dislocated shoulder, and the second day acute bronchitis set in. His mother was pale as death now, and very thin. She would sit and look at him, then away into space. There was something between them that neither dared mention. Clara came to see him. Afterwards he said to his mother:
“She makes me tired, mother.”
“Yes; I wish she wouldn’t come,” Mrs. Morel replied.
Another day Miriam came, but she seemed almost like a stranger to him.
“You know, I don’t care about them, mother,” he said.
“I’m afraid you don’t, my son,” she replied sadly.
It was given out everywhere that it was a bicycle accident. Soon he was able to go to work again, but now there was a constant sickness and gnawing at his heart. He went to Clara, but there seemed, as it were, nobody there. He could not work. He and his mother seemed almost to avoid each other. There was some secret between them which they could not bear. He was not aware of it. He only knew that his life seemed unbalanced, as if it were going to smash into pieces.
Clara did not know what was the matter with him. She realized that he seemed unaware of her. Even when he came to her he seemed unaware of her; always he was somewhere else. She felt she was clutching for him, and he was somewhere else. It tortured her, and so she tortured him.
