“You hate him because of that night––about the chickens?”
But no answer was forthcoming. Peter waited, and then went on.
“There’s something else, eh?”
But the eyes of the boy were fixed upon the now smouldering fire, nor could the other draw them. So he went on.
“Will’s your sister’s husband now. Sort of your––brother. Your sister’s been desperate good to you. You’ve had everything she could give you, and mind, she’s had to work for it––hard. She loves you so bad, she’d hate to see you hurt your little finger––she’s mighty good to you. Gee, I wish I had such a sister. Well, now she’s got a husband, and she loves him bad, too. I was wondering if you’d ever thought how bad she’d feel if she knew you two were at loggerheads? You’ve never thought, have you? Say, laddie, it would break her up the back. It would surely. She’d feel she’d done you a harm––and that in itself is sufficient––and she’d feel she was upsetting Will. And between the two she’d be most unhappy. Say, can’t you like him? Can’t you make up your mind to get on with him right when he comes back? Can’t you, laddie?”
The boy’s eyes suddenly lifted from the fire, and the storm was still in them.
“I hate him!” he snarled like a fierce beast.
“I’m sorry––real sorry.”
“Don’t you go fer to be sorry,” cried the boy, with 143 that strange quickening of all that was evil in him. “I tell you Will’s bad. He’s bad, an’ he sure don’t need to be, ’cause it’s in him to be good. He ain’t like me, I guess. I’m bad ’cause I’m made bad. I don’t never think good. I can’t. I hate––hate––allus hate. That’s how I’m made, see? Will ain’t like that. He’s made good, but he’s bad because he’d rather be bad. He’s married my sister because she’s a fool, an’ can’t see where Jim Thorpe’s a better man. Jim Thorpe wanted to marry her. He never said, but I can see. An’ she’d have married him, on’y fer Will comin’ along. She was kind o’ struck on Jim like, an’ then Will butts in, an’ he’s younger, an’ better lookin’, an’ so she marries him. An’––an’ I hate him!”
“But your sister? What’s poor Eve going to do with you always hating Will? She’ll get no happiness, laddie, and you’d rather see her happy. Say, if you can’t help hating Will, sure you can hide it. You needn’t to run foul of him. You go your way, and he can go his. Do you know I’m pretty sure he’ll try and do right by you, because of Eve–––”