"Surely," he said, "I should be a scoundrel of the meanest order if I touched this small sum of yours. Far be it from me to do such a thing;" and he put the money back into my hand. "It is true," he added, "that you have shown great tactlessness again, but I will forgive you this time."
Almost immediately he was gone, and although I was standing in the street, I began to cry most piteously, regretting my poverty, my lack of nobleness, even my very existence. I felt convinced that my brother was not only an artist, but also a hero and a martyr.
Chapter VII
The situation in which I started soon after these events differed somewhat from my first one. There were only three children, a second maid—the cook—and instead of eight shillings I was promised ten shillings a month. My duties were the same as before. I had to wash up the dishes, to scrub the floor, and to take out the children as soon as I had finished the housework. My new charges behaved much better than the children of the manager, and I liked them all very much. The cook, too, was nice. Neither in speech nor in manner was she objectionable, and sometimes I used to read out my poems to her. She seemed to be very fond of the verses, and often asked to hear them again. That made me very happy.
But after some months had passed away, and I became used to the change, I was conscious again of the old well-known feeling of dissatisfaction and loneliness. Frequently I used to sit down in a corner and sob without knowing what was the matter. I was careful not to let the mistress see my tears, but could not always hide them from the cook, who was nearly always with me. She had asked me already what I was crying for, but I could give no explanation.
One Saturday afternoon, when we were busily scrubbing the floor and all the different meat-boards in the kitchen, the cook noticed my swollen eyelids again.
"What is the matter with you, I should like to know," she said. "You are home-sick perhaps."