"Mother, will you not give me your hand?" he asked, in a low and broken voice.
"No," she answered sternly. "Why have you come here?"
"To tell you my brother's story," said Paul, drawing himself up and facing her. When he entered the room he had felt sorrow and pity for her, in spite of Cutter's account, and he would willingly have kneeled and kissed her hand. But her rough refusal brought vividly to his mind the situation.
"You have told me already, by your letter," she replied. "Have you found him, that you come here? Do you think I want to see you—you?" she repeated, with rising emphasis.
"I might think it natural that you should," said Paul, very coldly. "Be calm. I am going to-morrow. Had I supposed that you would meet me as you have, I should have spared myself the trouble of coming here."
"Indeed you might!" she exclaimed scornfully. "Have you come here to tell me how you did it?" Her voice trembled hysterically.
"Did what?" asked Paul, in the same cold tone. "Do you mean to accuse me to my face of my brother's death, as your doctor says you do behind my back? And if you dare to do so, do you think I will permit it without defending myself?"
His mother looked at him for one moment; then, clasping her hands to her forehead, she staggered across the room, and hid her face in the cushions of the sofa, moaning and crying aloud.
"Alexis, Alexis!" she sobbed. "Ah—my beloved son—if only I could have seen your dear face once more—to close your eyes—and kiss you—those sweet eyes—oh, my boy, my boy! Where are you—my own child?"
She was beside herself with grief, and ceased to notice Paul's presence for some minutes, moaning, and tossing herself upon the sofa, and wringing her hands as the tears streamed down. Paul could not look unmoved on such a sight. He came near and touched her shoulder.