“That is what she was afraid you would say,” he spoke fast and his hands trembled. “She is nearly wild about it, because she knows he will try to do something that will make you feel as if she does not want you.”
“She is afraid of that?” Betty exclaimed.
“He'd do it! He'd do it—if you did not know beforehand.”
“Oh!” said Betty, with unflinching clearness. “He is a liar, is he?”
The helpless rage in the unchildish eyes, the shaking voice, as he cried out in answer, were a shock. It was as if he wildly rejoiced that she had spoken the word.
“Yes, he's a liar—a liar!” he shrilled. “He's a liar and a bully and a coward. He'd—he'd be a murderer if he dared—but he daren't.” And his face dropped on his arms folded on his crutch, and he broke into a passion of crying. Then Betty knew she might go to him. She went and knelt down and put her arm round him.
“Ughtred,” she said, “cry, if you like, I should do it, if I were you. But I tell you it can all be altered—and it shall be.”
He seemed quite like a little boy when he put out his hand to hers and spoke sobbingly:
“She—she says—that because you have only just come from America—and in America people—can do things—you will think you can do things here—and you don't know. He will tell lies about you lies you can't bear. She sat wringing her hands when she thought of it. She won't let you be hurt because you want to help her.” He stopped abruptly and clutched her shoulder.
“Aunt Betty! Aunt Betty—whatever happens—whatever he makes her seem like—you are to know that it is not true. Now you have come—now she has seen you it would KILL her if you were driven away and thought she wanted you to go.”