A new trouble filled David's heart. Through the open doorway he could
see Allen, twisting on the couch; his mother was older, more worn, than
he had realized. She had failed a great deal in the past few days. She
was suddenly stripped of her aspect of authority, force; suddenly she
appeared negative, dependent. A sharp pity for her arose through his
other contending emotions.
"I don't know how you figure you will be helping Allen by stepping off
to be shot instead of putting food in his mouth," she spoke again.
"He's got nobody at all but you, David."
That was so; and yet--
"How can I let those skunks set their hell on us?" he demanded
passionately. "Why, all Greenstream will think I'm afraid, that I let
the Hatburns bust Allen and kill my father. I couldn't stand up in
Priest's store; I couldn't bear to look at anybody. Don't you
understand how men are about those things?"
She nodded.
"I can see, right enough--with Hunter in the graveyard and Allen with
both hips broke. What I can't see is what we'll do next winter; how
we'll keep Allen warm and fed. I suppose we can go to the County Home."
But that, David knew, was as disgraceful as the other--his own mother,
Allen, objects of public charity! His face was clouded, his hands
clenched. It was only a chance that he would be killed; there were four
Hatburns though. His heart, he thought, would burst with misery; every
instinct fought for the expression, the upholding of the family
prestige, honor.
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