“They're going to whip father, and uncle, and all the others,” he repeated, beginning to whimper, stout boy as he was.
“Whip father? You're crazy, Jonathan, you didn't hear right. They'd never dare! It can't be! Run and find out,” cried Desire, wildly.
“There ain't any use. I heard the Hamlin fellow say so himself. They're going to do it. They said it's no worse than whipping one of them, as if they were gentlemen,” blubbered Jonathan.
“Oh no! no! They can't, they won't,” cried the girl in an anguished voice, her eyes glazed with tears as she looked appealingly from Jonathan to her mother, in whose faces there was little enough to reassure her.
“Don't, mother, you hurt,” said Jonathan, trying to twist away from the clasp which his mother had retained upon his arm, unconsciously tightening it till it was like a vise.
“Whip my husband!” said she, slowly, in a hollow tone. “Whip him!” she repeated. “Such a thing was never heard of. There must be some mistake.”
“There must be. There must be,” exclaimed Desire again. “It can never be. They are not so wicked. That Hamlin fellow is bad enough, but oh he isn't bad enough for that. They would not dare. God would not permit it. Some one will stop them.”
“There is no one to stop them. The people are all against us. They are glad of it. They are laughing. Oh! how I hate them. Why don't God kill them?” and with a prolonged, inarticulate roar of impotent grief and indignation, the boy threw himself flat on the floor, and burying his face in his arms sobbed and rolled, and rolled and sobbed, like one in a fit.
“I will go and have speech with this Son of Belial, Hamlin. It may be the Lord will give me strength to prevail with him,” said Mrs. Edwards. “And if not, they shall not put me from my husband. I will bear the stripes with him, that he may never be ashamed before the wife of his bosom,” and with a calm and self-controlled demeanor, she bestirred herself to make ready to go out.
“Let me go mother,” said Desire, half hesitatingly.