That same evening, when I was alone in my room, Cress tapped and entered. He had on his gloomy look—a look which far too often spoilt his otherwise handsome face. I was mending a shirt of my husband’s, and I stood beside the dressing-table, needle in hand. Cress flung himself into a chair, and said—
“Mother, I want to go away.”
My heart sank low; for Cress, with all his faults, was very dear to me; and I had counted on keeping him at home for many years. I do not think mothers love their children less on account of their faults; and perhaps it is only mothers of whom this can be said. Unrestrained tempers, selfish and unpleasant ways, do chill the love of husbands and wives, of sisters, brothers, and friends; but, as a rule, not the love of mothers.
“Go where, Cress?” I asked, though in a moment I seemed to understand what he had in his mind.
“I don’t care. Anywhere, so long as it is away from here. I’m sick of home. I can’t stay any longer, and see Jack go on as he does with Maimie.”
“I do not really think you have any just cause of complaint with Jack.”
“Oh, Jack is perfect, of course,—never does wrong, and never did! That does not touch the question. Maimie likes him best.”
I made no answer. Cress turned more fully towards me, repeating in a fierce tone, “Maimie likes him best.”
“Yes, I think she does,” I said. “And I do not wonder. It is partly your own fault. Why do you not behave differently?”
“Behave differently! I behave as I choose,” Cress answered; and the tone was the rudest he had ever addressed to his mother.