And then the queer feeling went over him, as if all the sunshine had gone out of him, and it was all shadow. He dropped the bag and ran upstairs. Hesitating, he opened the door. His mother sat up in bed, wearing a dressing-gown of old rose colour. She looked at him almost as if she were ashamed of herself, pleading to him, humble. He saw the ashy look about her.
“Mother!” he said.
“I thought you were never coming,” she answered gaily.
But he only fell on his knees at the bedside, and buried his face in the bedclothes, crying in agony, and saying:
“Mother—mother—mother!”
She stroked his hair slowly with her thin hand.
“Don’t cry,” she said. “Don’t cry it’s nothing.”
But he felt as if his blood was melting into tears, and he cried in terror and pain.
“Don’t—don’t cry,” his mother faltered.
Slowly she stroked his hair. Shocked out of himself, he cried, and the tears hurt in every fibre of his body. Suddenly he stopped, but he dared not lift his face out of the bedclothes.
“You are late. Where have you been?” his mother asked.
“The train was late,” he replied, muffled in the sheet.
“Yes; that miserable Central! Is Newton come?”
“Yes.”
“I’m sure you must be hungry, and they’ve kept dinner waiting.”
With a wrench he looked up at her.
“What is it, mother?” he asked brutally.
She averted her eyes as she answered:
“Only a bit of a tumour, my boy. You needn’t trouble. It’s been there—the lump has—a long time.”
Up came the tears again. His mind was clear and hard, but his body was crying.
“Where?” he said.
She put her hand on her side.
“Here. But you know they can sweal a tumour away.”
He stood feeling dazed and helpless, like a child. He thought perhaps it was as she said. Yes; he reassured himself it was so. But all the while his blood and his body knew definitely what it was. He sat down on the bed, and took her hand. She had never had but the one ring—her wedding-ring.
“When were you poorly?” he asked.
