|
He felt a complete revulsion from
her. She was trying to distract his attention from
the main issue by a pack of lies. He said,
wrathfully, “Hilary, did you, or did you not throw a
stone at that poor old man?” She gazed at him
wonderingly. ‘Yes, I did. But I told you why.”
Charles gave way to his righteous anger. His blue
eyes grew hot with disgust, his lips trembled. To
think that his child should have so little feeling for
the weak and helpless! Heroically, he took some of
the blame on himself.
His neglect of her
must have been fearful to have led to this! “That’s
all I wanted to know,” he said in an ominous voice,
and taking her arm led her to a convenient tree stump
at the side of the field. He sat down, and, clasping
her wrists, held her prisoner in front of him.
“Listen to me,” he
said. “That man you read about in the newspaper is in
prison. So you lied to me. That is quite bad enough.
But you did something much, much worse. You
threw a stone at a cripple, at a poor sick man who had
never done you any harm. And then tried to make me
forget about it by telling me a lot of wicked lies.”
His voice shook with emotion. “Don’t you see that this
was a dreadful thing to do?” “But he is the man,” she
cried, confused. “And he is the Devil.” “That’s
blasphemy. But I am not going to punish you for that.
Nor for lying to me. I’m going to punish you for
wanting to hurt someone who was poor and old and
frightened.” He remembered Peregrine’s burnt lips and
his resolve was strengthened. “I hope this will be a
lesson you will remember all your life.”
She
saw his intention and her eyes dilated. “No,” she
screamed, and tried to pull away from him. He flung
her, face downwards, across his lap. Fighting against
him, arching her back, she saw, with terrible clarity,
Cooper, standing at the gate and looking in their
direction. With an anguished cry she clutched at her
skirt. Charles did not notice Cooper. He was full of
distaste for what he was about to do but he was
sternly
intent on justice and preventative punishment. Knowing
that humiliation would make her remember the occasion
more than any pain he would be willing to inflict, he
deliberately raised her skirt and ripped off her
knickers. He caught her flailing arms and gripped
them between his knees. He beat her, with sharp
ringing slaps, until her plump behind was rosy. She
hung, limp and screaming, across his knees. The birds,
alarmed by her cries, rose from the trees and wheeled
and called above them. When he had finished, he
released her hands and pushed her off his lap. He
rubbed his stinging hands against his trousers. She
groveled on the ground, choking. He was bitterly
ashamed. Violence accomplished nothing and was always
wrong. There was no excuse.
“Get
up,” he said. “Put your knickers on.” She obeyed
him, fumbling with her underclothing. He averted his
eyes. When she was tidy he said wretchedly, “I’ve
never done that before, have I? I hope you never
forget it. I hope I never have to do that again.”
“I hate you,” she said, between sobs, burning with
shame and injustice.” I hope God will strike you
dead.” |
