“I know she was brought up and trained to think that her duty, but I doubt if you really know her heart. Did you ever try to know it? I don’t believe you understood what I meant by the scourge of prayer. She would have known. She has lived all these years under that lash, even though it has been wielded by the hand of one she loves––by one who loves her.” He paused a second time, arrested by his father’s expression. At first it was that of one who is 85 stunned, then it slowly changed to one of rage. For once the boy had broken through that wall of self-control in which the Elder encased himself. Slowly the Elder rose and leaned towering over his son across the table.
“I tell you that is a lie!” he shouted. “Your mother has never rebelled. She has been an obedient, docile woman. It is a lie!”
Peter Junior made no reply. He also rose, and taking up his crutch, turned toward the door. There he paused and looked back, with flashing eyes. His lip quivered, but he held himself quiet.
“Come back!” shouted his father.
“I have told you the truth, father.” He still stood with his hand on the door.
“Has––has––your mother ever said anything to you to give you reason to insult me this way?”
“No, never. We can’t talk reasonably now. Let me go, and I’ll try to explain some other time.”
“Explain now. There is no other time.”
“Mother is sacred to me, father. I ought not to have dragged her into this discussion.”
The Elder’s lips trembled. He turned and walked to the window and stood a moment, silently looking out. At last he said in a low voice: “She is sacred to me also, my son.”