Before the end of the first week in the new month, the worst misfortune of
all befell me--my mother died. It wanted then but a short time to my
birthday. She had longed to live till that day. I was present at her
death. Her last words in this world were addressed to me. "Don't go back,
my son--don't go back!"
I was obliged to go back, if it was only to watch my wife. In the last
days of my mother's illness she had spitefully added a sting to my grief
by declaring she would assert her right to attend the funeral. In spite of
all that I could do or say, she held to her word. On the day appointed for
the burial she forced herself, inflamed and shameless with drink, into my
presence, and swore she would walk in the funeral procession to my
mother's grave.
This last insult--after all I had gone through already--was more than I
could endure. It maddened me. Try to make allowances for a man beside
himself. I struck her.
The instant the blow was dealt, I repented it. She crouched down, silent,
in a corner of the room, and eyed me steadily. It was a look that cooled
my hot blood in an instant. There was no time now to think of making
atonement. I could only risk the worst, and make sure of her till the
funeral was over. I locked her into her bedroom.
When I came back, after laying my mother in the grave, I found her sitting
by the bedside, very much altered in look and bearing, with a bundle on
her lap.
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