FullReads

“Please don’t, mother! You know I am sorry; you know I just CAN’T!”

“He has all his books and toys?” said Mary when they went downstairs again.

“Oh, yes! Sidney doesn’t want him to be sick. He’s just to be shut up on bread and milk until he gives in. I must say, I think Sid is very gentle,” said Jean, leaning back wearily in her chair, with closed eyes. Her voice dropped perceptibly as she added, “But he says he is going to thrash him to-morrow.”

“I think he ought to,” said Mary Moore, sturdily. “This isn’t excitement or showing off any more; it’s sheer naughty obstinacy over a perfectly simple demand!”

“Oh, but I couldn’t bear it!” whispered Jean, with a shudder. A moment later she added sensibly, “But he’s right, of course; Sidney always is.”

Peter was duly whipped the next day. It was no light punishment that Sidney gave his son. Jean’s gold-mounted riding-crop had never seen severer service. The maids, with paling cheeks, gathered together in the kitchen when Sidney went slowly upstairs with the whip in his hand; and Betta and her mistress, their hands over their ears, endured a very agony while the little boy’s cries rang through the house. Sidney went for a long and lonely walk afterward, and later Jean went to her son.

Mrs. Moore heard of this event from her husband, who stopped at the Hall late that evening, and found Peter asleep, and Jean restless and headachy. He spent a long and almost silent hour pacing the rose terrace with Sidney in the cool dark. Late into the night the doctor and his wife lay wakeful, discussing affairs at the Hall.

After some hesitation, Mrs. Moore went the next day to find Jean. There was no sound as she approached the house, and she stepped timidly into the big hall, listening for voices. Presently she went softly to the dining-room, and stood in the doorway. The room was empty. But Mary’s heart rose with a throb of thanksgiving. Peter’s silver mug was in its place on the sideboard. She went swiftly to the pantry where Julia was cleaning the silver.

“Julia!” she said eagerly, softly, “I notice that the baby’s cup is back. Did he give in?”

The maid, who had started at the interruption, shook her head gravely.

“No’m. Mrs. Carolan picked it up.”

“MRS. Carolan?”

“Yes’m. She seemed quite wildlike this morning,” went on the maid, with the simple freemasonry of troubled times, “and after Peter went off with Mrs. Butler, she–“

“Oh, he went off? Did his father let him go?” Mary’s voice was full of relief. Mrs. Butler was Jean’s cousin, a cheery matron who had taken a summer cottage at Broadsands, twenty miles away.

Julia’s color rose; she looked uneasy.

“Mr. Carolan had to go to Barville quite early,” she evaded uncomfortably, “and when Mrs. Butler asked could she take Peter, his mother said yes, she could.”

“Thank you,” Mary said pleasantly, but her heart was heavy. She went slowly upstairs to find Jean.

Peter’s mother was lying in a darkened bedroom, and the face she turned to the door at Mary’s entrance was shockingly white. They exchanged a long pressure of fingers.

“Headache, Jean, dear?”

“Oh, and heartache!” said Jean, with a pitiful smile. “Sid thrashed him yesterday!” she added, with suddenly trembling lips.

“I know.” Mary sat down on the edge of the bed and patted Jean’s hand.

“I’ve let him go with Alice,” said Jean, defensively. “I had to!” She turned on her elbow, her voice rising. “Mary, I didn’t say one word about the whipping, but now–now he threatens to hold him under the stable pump!” she finished, dropping back wearily against her pillows. Mrs. Moore caught her breath.

“Ah!” They eyed each other sombrely.

“Mary, would YOU permit it?” demanded Mrs. Carolan, miserably.

“Jeanie, dearest, I don’t know what I’d do!”

After a long silence, Mary slipped from the bedside and went noiselessly to the door and down the stairs, vague ideas of hot tea in mind. In the dining-room she was surprised to find Sidney, looking white and exhausted, and mixing himself something at the sideboard.