‘I am not going to beat you, but I dare do anything, so don’t be a fool,’ he replied, half laughing.
‘I’m sick,’ persisted Jerusha. ‘The child kept me up all night. I’m not fit to work. Sahib must let me go back to my hut.’
‘I will let you do no such thing,’ replied De Courcelles. ‘You’re only shamming. You’re as “fit” as any woman on the plantation, and you must work like the rest. Now, move on, and look sharp about it.’
But Jerusha was obstinate, and had got the bit between her teeth. She considered herself a privileged person, and at one time had been able to do pretty much as she liked with the overseer. But that time was past. He was tired of her, and disposed to treat her, in consequence, a little more harshly than the rest. Jerusha had reckoned without her host when she thought she could give herself airs. When De Courcelles ordered her to move on, she shrugged her shoulders and stood still.
‘Now, are you going?’ he asked her sharply.
‘I telling sahib I’m too sick.’
‘And I tell you you’re a liar. If you won’t move of your own accord, I will make you.’ He raised his whip as he spoke, and Jerusha observed the movement.
‘You don’t dare strike me!’ she said defiantly; but before the words were well out of her mouth, he had done it, and the long lash curled round her shoulders and stung the baby’s cheek, and made the youngster squall. Jerusha’s big black eyes flashed fire on him.
‘You coward,’ she cried, ‘to strike your own child! Some day I pay you out for this. Some day my whip strike you.’
He laughed carelessly at the girl’s threat as she joined the gang of labourers, and he flung himself across his palfrey’s back, and rode after them. But after a while, when the sun’s rays began to beat rather fiercely on his Panama hat, and he found his servant had neglected to fill the straw-covered flask that hung at his saddle bow, he called the yellow girl Rosa and gave the flask to her, and directed her to carry it to the Doctor’s bungalow.