She had forgotten Martin.It is true that she had written to him every week during his long absence, but her letters had been all part of the "dear old lady" habit which was put on by her just as an actress prepares herself, nightly, for a character in which she knows she is the greatest possible success."Thank you very much, Mrs.Smith...No, we've not heard from Martin now for three weeks.Careless boy! I always write myself every week so that he may have at any rate one little word from home..."She had never felt that she had any real share in his life; he had always belonged to his father; nor was she a woman who cared about children.Martin had long ago become to her simply an opportunity for further decoration.Since his return it had been quite another affair.In one moment she had seen her power over her husband shrivel and disappear.Martin was home again.Martin must be here, Martin must be there; Martin must see this, Martin must do this.She had seen before in earlier days the force of her husband's passion when it was roused.There was something now in his reception of their son that terrified her.She had at once perceived that Amy was as deeply moved as she.The girl, plain, awkward, silent, morose, had always adored her father, but she had never known how to approach him.She was not clever, she had not been able to enter into his life although she would have done anything that he desired of her.What she had suffered during those early years when, as a little ugly girl, she had watched her brother, accepted, received into the Brotherhood, praised for his wisdom, his intimacy with God, his marvellous saintly promise, praised for these things when she had known all his weaknesses, how he had slipped away to a music-hall when he was only fourteen and smoked and drank there, how he had laughed at Mr.Thurston's dropping of his "h's" or at Miss Avies' prayer meetings! No one ever knew what in those years she had thought of her brother.Then, after Martin had flung it all away and escaped abroad, she had begun, slowly, painfully, but with dogged persistence, to make herself indispensable to her father; Martin she had put out of her mind.He would never return, or, at least, the interval of his departure should have been severe enough to separate him for ever from his father...
In a moment's glance, in a clasp of the hand, in a flash of the eye, she had seen that love leap up in her father's heart as strong as ever it had been.Every day of Martin's residence in the house had added fire to that love.She was a good woman; she struggled hard to beat down her jealousy.She prayed.She lay for hours at night struggling with her sins.If Martin had been worthy, if he had shown love in return, but, from the bottom of her soul, as the days increased she despised him--despised him for his light heart, his care of worldly things, his utter lack of comprehension of their father, his scorn, even now but badly concealed, of all the sanctities that she had in reverence.
Therefore she drew near to her mother and the two of them watched and waited...
His mother was knitting.She lifted to him her pink wrinkled face and, her spectacles balanced on the end of her nose, smiled the smile of the dearest old lady in the world.
"Well, dear, and have you had a pleasant day?""All right, mother, thank you.Funny thing; met a man in the street, hadn't seen for five years.Saw him last in Rio--Funny thing.Well, we lunched together.Not a bad fellow--Seen a thing or two, he has."Mrs.Warlock counted her stitches."Fourteen, fifteen, sixteen...
How nice for you, dear.What was his name?""Thompson...I say," Martin suddenly raised his head as though he heard something, "where's Amy?""Changing.She's been paying a call on the Miss Cardinals.Thought it would be polite because of the new niece.--Six, seven, eight and nine...""What did she think of her?"
"Of whom, dear?"
"Of the niece."
"Oh, I don't think she liked her very much.She said that she was plain and silent--and looked cross, Amy thought.""Oh yes, Amy would." His face, as was his way when he was vexed, flushed very slowly, the deeper red rising through the red-brown until, ceasing in the middle of his forehead, it left a white line beneath his hair."She isn't cross a bit.""I don't know, dear.It isn't my opinion.I only tell you what Amy said.People here don't seem to like her.Mrs.Smith was telling me yesterday that she's so difficult to talk to and seems to know nothing about anything, poor girl.""Mrs.Smith!" He swung his body on his hips indignantly."A lot she knows about anything! I hate that woman and her chattering daughter.""Well, dear, I don't know, I'm sure; Mrs.Smith always seems to me very kind."He looked at her as though he had suddenly remembered something.
"I say--is it true what Amy says, that I woke you up this morning when I went out by banging my door?""I'm sure you didn't.--Amy shouldn't say such things.And if you did what does it matter? I sleep so badly that half an hour more or less makes very little difference.""Well, she says so--" He went on, dropping his voice: "I say, mother, what's the matter with Amy? Why's she so sick with me? Ihaven't done anything to offend her, have I?""Of course not.What a silly boy you are, Martin! Nine, ten, eleven...There! that's enough for this evening.I'll finish it in another day.You mustn't mind Amy, Martin.She isn't always very well."The door opened and Amy came in.She was a tall gaunt woman who looked a great deal older than her brother.She did not make the best of herself, brushing her thin black hair straight back from her bony forehead.She had a habit of half closing her eyes when she peered at some one as though she could not see.She should, long ago, have worn spectacles, but from some strange half-conscious vanity had always refused to do so.Every year her sight grew worse.
