“Jack,” he said, endeavoring to be dignified,—“there has been a misunderstanding for some time between us, but now that you are a man, all this should cease. I offer you my hand, my child.”
Jack shrugged his shoulders. “Of what use are these theatricals between us, sir? You detest me, and I return the compliment!”
“And since when have we been such enemies, Jack?”
“Ever since we knew each other! My earliest recollection is of absolute hatred toward you. Besides, why should we not hate each other like the bitterest of foes? By what other name should I call you? Who and what are you? Believe me that if ever in my life I have thought of you without anger, it has never been without a blush of shame.”
“It is true, Jack, that our position toward each other has been entirely false. But, my dear friend, life is not a romance.”
But Jack cut short this discourse.
“You are right, sir, life is not a romance: it is, on the contrary, a very serious and positive matter. In proof of which, permit me to say that every instant of my time is occupied, and that I cannot lose one of them in useless discussions. For ten years my mother has been your slave. All that I suffered in this time my pride will never let you know. My mother now belongs to me, and I mean to keep her. What do you want of her? Her hair is gray, and your treatment of her has made great wrinkles on her forehead. She is no longer a pretty woman, but she is my mother!”
They looked each other straight in the face as they stood in that narrow, squalid corridor. It was a fitting frame for a scene so humiliating.
“You strangely mistake the sense of my words,” said the poet, deadly pale. “I know that your resources must be very moderate; I come, as an old friend, to see if I can serve you in any way.”
“We need nothing. The work of my hands supplies us with all we require.”