"That's what we've decided," I said.
"You're satisfied for him to get what happiness he can out of ignorance?"
"Well—if you put it that way—yes."
She bit her lips till they were almost white. Then, in the midst of the tense, expectant silence, she retorted: "I'm not satisfied, and I never will be. And if you aren't going to tell him the truth, then I am...."
It was a far bigger surprise than Severn's capitulation; it staggered us all, and even Severn was less ready for it than for most things. And before we could collect our scattered wits, she was going on—ranting, if you like—telling us what she thought of us, of Terry, of everything else, and of the world in general. She had hardly spoken all the evening, and it was as if the words had been heaping themselves up behind her barrier of silence, and that now the barrier had given way.
I wish I could have taken down in shorthand everything she said, for it was an impressive tirade. It held us spellbound while it lasted, but the spell is over now, and all that memory yields is a few scraps and sentences.
"Ever since you knew him," I can remember her saying, "you've been planning things out for him and settling things that he ought to have settled for himself, and the result has been just disaster—disaster—over and over again.... And now you're planning that he shan't discover the mistakes you've made.... But he shall discover them, and the sooner the better. Let him know the truth—let's all of us know the truth—let's know the truth about his life and your life and my life....
"You're afraid it will make him ill? Then let him be ill—better that he should be ill of the truth than smiling in your fool's paradise. Let him know everything. Even if Karelsky's fooled him, you shan't!"
June was white-hot. "We don't want to fool him, mother. We want to help him. Why should you interfere?"
"Interfere?" Her bitter laugh was more than words. "Interfere? That's a strange word to use about me and Terry."