These sentences, evidently the ripened grain of many dark hours, took Gerald by surprise.
“I don’t think it’s any good going away now, mother, at the last minute,” he said, coldly.
“You take care,” replied his mother. “You mind yourself—that’s your business. You take too much on yourself. You mind yourself, or you’ll find yourself in Queer Street, that’s what will happen to you. You’re hysterical, always were.”
“I’m all right, mother,” he said. “There’s no need to worry about me, I assure you.”
“Let the dead bury their dead—don’t go and bury yourself along with them—that’s what I tell you. I know you well enough.”
He did not answer this, not knowing what to say. The mother sat bunched up in silence, her beautiful white hands, that had no rings whatsoever, clasping the pommels of her arm-chair.
“You can’t do it,” she said, almost bitterly. “You haven’t the nerve. You’re as weak as a cat, really—always were. Is this young woman staying here?”
“No,” said Gerald. “She is going home tonight.”
“Then she’d better have the dog-cart. Does she go far?”
“Only to Beldover.”