He took off his coat, and pushing his hand under the bed-clothes, sat rubbing the poor old woman’s limb patiently, slowly, for some time. She watched him for a moment, then without her turning her eyes from him, he passed out of her vision and she lay staring at nothing, in his direction.
“There,” he said at last, “is that any better then, mother?”
“Ay, that’s a bit better,” she said slowly.
“Should I gi’e thee a drink?” he asked, lingering, wishing to minister all he could to her before he went.
She looked at him, and he brought the cup. She swallowed a few drops with difficulty.
“Doesn’t it make you miserable to have her always there?” I asked him, when we were in the next room. He sat down on the large white bed and laughed shortly.
“We’re used to it—we never notice her, poor old gran’ma.”
“But she must have made a difference to you—she must make a big difference at the bottom, even if you don’t know it,” I said.
“She’d got such a strong character,” he said musing, “—she seemed to understand me. She was a real friend to me before she was so bad. Sometimes I happen to look at her—generally I never see her, you know how I mean—but sometimes I do—and then—it seems a bit rotten——”
He smiled at me peculiarly, “—it seems to take the shine off things,” he added, and then, smiling again with ugly irony—“She’s our skeleton in the closet.” He indicated her large bulk.