They said things to each other and at
Christine which were quiet and deadly as the rustle of a snake in the
grass. Robert had never fled from his father as he fled from their
restrained disgust. He had never been more aware of storm than in the
smother of the heavily carpeted, decorously silent rooms. It broke,
three days later, not with thunder and lightning, but with the brief
malicious rattle of a machine-gun.
"You ought not to have brought him here. You have no pride. But,
then, you never had. At least some consideration for our feelings
might have been expected. We have suffered enough. If you knew what
people said---- Mrs. Stonehouse has been talking. She offered to
take the child. As his natural guardian she had the right. An
unpardonable, undignified interference----"
Christine hardly answered. Her fragile face wore the look of quiet
obstinacy which had braved James Stonehouse and the worst disasters.
Robert had seen it too often not to understand. But now his father was
dead, and instead; inexplicably, he had become the source of trouble.
He disgraced Christine. Her people hated her because she was good to
him. He felt the shame of it all over him like a horrible kind of
uncleanliness, and beneath the shame a burning sense of wrong. He hid
in dark places. He refused to answer even when Christine called him.
He skulked miserably past Christine's sisters when he met them in the
passage. He scowled at them, his head down, like a hobbled, angry
little bull.
Pages:
30
31
32
33
34
35
36
37
38
39
40
41
42
43
44
45
46
47
48
49
50
51
52
53
54