“How has Walter been to-day?” Geraldine asked. There was no solicitude in her voice.
“I don’t like his looks lately,” Mrs. Wells replied thoughtfully. “I think he is summoning up courage to rebel, but I am too strong for him. My will has the upper hand and that must be his will for a long time to come. It was a mistake ever to send him to that ‘cure.’ Firm kindness and the constant suggestion of a right attitude towards life is what he needs. This trip has proved it. Except for that outbreak in London we have had weeks of peace. He is stronger, he eats better and he is contented.”
“He seems to be terribly afraid of you.”
“I want him to be. But I don’t think it’s fear, my dear. My stronger will has got hold of him, that is all. He obeys——”
“Like a whipped puppy.”
“Exactly. That’s a good comparison, Geraldine. He needs right habits the same as a good dog. They must fear until the bad habit is driven out and the good habit becomes natural. You don’t think I treat him badly, do you?”
“Oh, no. You are wonderful. You get results which those people up at the ‘cure’ said they got by knocking him down. I am only saying that he looks defeated, beaten. Perhaps it is better that way. I am sure it is more comfortable for us.”
“Decidedly!”
The two women thought of the horrible years when this boy was growing from a tippler to a hardened drinker. He had become an incurable alcoholic almost before they realized that something must be done, something besides scoldings and cutting off his spending money and driving him out of the house to sleep at the neighbours’ or in the barn or, worse, in the puddle at the end of the front lawn. Some men drink heavily all their lives without reaching the condition of this lad. He was twenty-two years old, but he had the slight build of a sickly young boy.
“Did you find the steamer uncomfortably hot?” the mother asked. The other topic was too distressing.