"To think that he should turn up again!" he said to himself. "And I thought he was dead! But no, here he is again, and in the same deplorable plight. A pretty sort of a brother!"
And Michael knew that in his heart, he wished that his brother were dead.
"Of course, it's the same old story," he continued. "He's a sorry scamp, and always will be. It's all gammon about his becoming a teetotaler and trying to lead a better life. I don't believe a word of it. No, that won't go down with me. I only hope he'll keep away from me, as he says!"
Thinking thus, Michael arrived at his shop. It could hardly be called his home. He drew out his key, unlocked the door, and went in. He struck a match and kindled a lamp which he had placed just inside the door. Seen by its dim light the shop looked gloomy indeed. He passed through to the little room at the back. This, too, was littered with books. The fire had fallen out, and the place looked unhomelike and cheerless. Michael shivered. He became conscious of weariness and depression. He placed the lamp on the table and looked about for some means of rekindling the fire. The flame flickered feebly. Mrs. Wiggins had forgotten to replenish the oil.
As he looked about him in the dim light, Michael's eyes fell on the old leathern armchair which stood beside the fireplace. He had known that ancient piece of furniture as long as he had known anything. His mother, as her health grew feeble, had sat in it constantly, and now, as Michael glanced at it in the uncertain light, it suddenly appeared to him that he saw her form seated again in the old armchair. Most vividly, he seemed to see her sitting there with her white muslin cap resting on the dark hair which had been untouched by silver when she died, her little grey shawl upon her shoulders, and her hands busied with the socks she was perpetually knitting for her sons. Only an instant, it was ere the lamp flame leaped up, and he knew that he had been deceived by his fancy, but that instant left its impression. He sank on to a chair, shaken in body and mind.
How his mother would have grieved if she could have foreseen what Frank's future would be! Her darling son, a poverty-stricken tramp wandering about in search of a job! And he, Michael, had promised her that he would always be good to Frank. Had he kept that promise? Was he keeping it when he turned away from his brother on the bridge, telling him that he had made his bed and he must lie on it?
Michael sat for some minutes absorbed in painful thought. Then, resolutely turning his back on the old armchair which had awakened such unwelcome reflections, he began to pace to and fro the floor, for his limbs had grown benumbed by the chill of that fireless room.
"No," he said, half aloud, "I have not failed in my duty towards my brother. I have done all that could be expected of me. No one would do more. I've helped him again and again, only to be repaid by the basest ingratitude. Now, I will do no more."
[CHAPTER VII]
IN THE GRIP OF PAIN