“Ah-h!” he made a strangling noise in his throat and tore at his collar. “In God’s name! Please!” There was a silence.
“Well,” said Eliza gravely, plucking at her chin, “I want you to be a good boy and study hard, son. Take care of your money—I want you to have plenty of good food and warm clothes—but you mustn’t be extravagant, boy. This sickness of your papa’s has cost a lot of money. Everything is going out and nothing’s coming in. Nobody knows where the next dollar’s coming from. So you’ve got to watch out.”
Again silence fell. She had said her say; she had come as close as she could, but suddenly she felt speechless, shut out, barred from the bitter and lonely secrecy of his life.
“I hate to see you go, son,” she said quietly, with a deep and indefinable sadness.
He cast his arms up suddenly in a tortured incomplete gesture.
“What does it matter! Oh God, what does it matter!”
Eliza’s eyes filled with tears of real pain. She grasped his hand and held it.
“Try to be happy, son,” she wept, “try to be a little more happy. Poor child! Poor child! Nobody ever knew you. Before you were born,” she shook her head slowly, speaking in a voice that was drowned and husky with her tears. Then, huskily, clearing her throat, she repeated, “Before you were born—”
