David found a servant to point "Madam's" room out to him, and tapped timidly. Ownie had thrown herself on the bed, and at his entrance she turned, in the hope that it was his brother's.
"Oh, it's you," she said. "Has he gone?"
"No, he's downstairs. He—I'm sure he's sorry he hurt you, mother."
"He's hard," she faltered, "hard as nails. He doesn't care; he doesn't care for me a bit. You heard how he talked to me. 'What have I ever done for him?' he asked. What have I ever done for him? You know, you know very well how good I've always been to Vivian. When he was a child I never refused him anything—I studied him in every way—he was always first to me. And this is how he treats me. He talks to me as if I were a stranger. It wouldn't trouble him for a minute if he never saw me again."
"Oh, you shouldn't say that," he murmured; "it isn't true. He's got a rough tongue, but his heart is good. He doesn't show what he feels. He's just as unhappy now as you are, but he—it isn't easy for him to find the right words. You understand that really, only you're too sore to remember it yet."
"He only thinks of that girl," she sobbed. "'Jealous,' he called me. If I am jealous, what of it? He's all I've got, and she's taking him away from me. I'm not young any more, I haven't the interests that I used to have; I don't want to be left alone. He doesn't care a snap of his fingers for me now. He never cared much, but I wouldn't see it, and now he cares nothing. Nobody cares for me; there's not a soul to mind whether I live or die. Oh, it was nice of you to come up—it's more than he did—but you're not fond of me, David; you never were. I'm not blaming you—I'm not unjust—it's my own fault, that. But it isn't my fault with him, God knows it isn't! If I deserve anything I deserve to be loved by Vivie. I don't ask for much, I don't expect miracles; but I did expect to be treated well by Vivie when I was old, when I was lonely, and I had nobody else to turn to."
The tears had streaked the rouge on her quivering face; her yellow hair, disordered by the pillow, showed the lines of age that it was trained to hide. Timeworn and desolate, she lay huddled on the bed, making her moan while he sought pityingly to comfort her; and it pained him that he could not speak of his own affection for her—that she could not believe him if he did.
When she was more tranquil he left her. She had not asked for her elder son to be sent to her, nor did he inquire whether he was wanted.
"You've been long enough!" he said. "Well, is she better?"
"Yes," David answered coldly, "she is better. Have you anything to do? What time do you go back?"