She walked to the dressing-table, where Eve was sitting, took up a brush, and looked at it vaguely. “I didn’t mean to tell any one; but I have changed my mind, I am going to tell you.” Putting down the brush, she let the shawl fall back. There across her white breast was a long purple scar, and a second one over her delicate little shoulder. “He did it,” she said. Her eyes, fixed upon Eve’s, were proud and brilliant.
“You don’t mean—you don’t mean that your husband—” stammered Eve, in horror.
“Yes, Ferdie. He did it.”
“Is he mad?”
“Only after he has been drinking.”
“Oh, you poor little thing!” said Eve, taking her in her arms protectingly. “I have been so hard to you, Cicely, so cruel! But I did not know—I did not know.” Her tears flowed.
“I am telling you on account of baby,” Cicely went on, in the same unmoved tone.
“Has he dared to touch baby?” said Eve, springing up.
“Yes, Eve; he broke poor baby’s little arm; of course when he did not know what he was doing. When he gets that way he does not know us; he thinks we are enemies, and he thinks it is his duty to attack us. Once he put us out-of-doors—baby and me—in the middle of the night, with only our night-dresses on; fortunately it wasn’t very cold. That time, and the time he broke baby’s arm (he seized him by the arm and flung him out of his crib), we were not in Savannah; we were off by ourselves for a month, we three. Baby was so young that the bone was easily set. Nobody ever knew about it, I never told. But—but it must not happen again.” She looked at Eve with the same unmoved gaze.
“I should rather think not! Give him to me, Cicely, and let me take him away—at least for the present. You know you said—”