“Are you never going to forget the past, mother?”
She wheeled round toward him almost shouting,
“No—no—no! Never! Never! Make your mind up to that.”
They looked at each other across the open space, the angry defiance in their faces not hiding the love and appeal that spoke in their eyes. The mother longed to take her son in her arms; the son longed to lay his head on her shoulder and forget the wretchedness and humiliations of the last two years. But they were held apart, not only by the specter of the absent woman, but on the one side by a fierce, unbendable pride, and on the other by an unforgettable sense of obligation and duty.
“Oh, mother!” he exclaimed, half-turning away with a movement of despair.
His mother looked at him from under her lowered brows, her under lip thrust out, her face unrelenting.
“Come here whenever you like,” she said, “as often as you want. It’s your home, Dominick, mine and yours. But it’s not your wife’s. Understand that.”
She turned away and again moved slowly toward the corner, her rich skirts trailing fanwise over the parquet. He stood, sick at heart, looking at the tip of his cane as it rested on the floor.
“Dominick,” said his sister’s voice beside him, “go; that’s the only thing to do. You see it’s no use.” She made a backward jerk of her head toward their mother, and then, struck by the misery of the eyes he lifted to her face, said tenderly, “I’m so sorry. You know I’d have sent it if I could. But it’s no use. It’s just the same old fight over again and nothing gained. Tell your wife it’s hopeless. Make her give it up.”
He turned slowly, his head hanging.