There are few things in life harder to look upon than a man’s violent sorrow;—and Phemie found it hard to witness Basil’s. But yet she never tried to comfort him; she never crossed the room and laid her hand on his shoulder, and spoke to him words of sympathy. She knew the passion must find vent;—she felt that such an outburst was better for him than his former silence; and so she let the grief take its course without check or comment.
“Tell me about it,” he said at last; “tell me all you know.” And, thus entreated, Phemie told him how the child had given his nurse the slip, and got round to the stables during the men’s dinner hour.
“Sewell saw him, but not in time,” she went on. “He saw Harry striking the young grey horse with a leather strap across the hind legs—so”—and Phemie imitated the boy’s heedless stroke. “Sewell shouted to him to come away, and ran across the yard to catch him, but before he could reach the stall the animal kicked out, and Harry never stirred again.”
“I have punished him for that very trick a dozen times at least,” said Basil; “and his mother has called me cruel for hindering him. What have they done with the horse?”
“I do not know,” answered Phemie.
He went away along the corridor, and down the staircase, and so into the servants’ hall; where, finding Sewell, he desired him to have the grey killed at once.
After that he returned to Harry’s room; and neither persuasion nor remonstrance could induce him to move from it.
“Do you remember your promise, Basil?” Phemie asked at last, seeing that he made no movement to go and speak to his wife.
“Perfectly,” he answered.
“And do you mean to keep it?” she persisted.