‘They are gone, papa; I have taken them away.’
She looked him firmly in the face with her honest eyes, unwincing. He, however, was unable to meet her steadfast gaze. His eyes flickered and fell. His mouth was drawn and set with a hard, cruel expression, such as his face rarely wore; a look which sometimes formed, but was as quickly effaced by a wave of weakness. Now, however, the expression was fixed.
‘I forbade you to touch them. Did you hear me?’
‘Yes, dear papa, I have disobeyed you, and I am sorry to have offended you; but I cannot say that I repent having taken the clothes away. I found them, and I had a right to remove them.’
‘Bring them here immediately.’
‘I cannot do so. I have destroyed them.’
‘You have dared to do that!’ His eyes began to kindle and the colour left his cheeks, which became white as chalk. Barbara saw that he had lost command over himself. His feeble reason was overwhelmed by passion.
‘Papa,’ she said, in her calmest tones, ‘I have never disobeyed you before. Only on this one occasion my conscience——’
‘Conscience!’ he cried. ‘I have a conscience in a thornbush, and yours is asleep in feathers. You have dared to creep in here like a thief in the night and steal from me what I ordered you to leave.’
He was playing with his stick, clutching it in the middle and turning it. With his other hand he clutched and twisted and almost tore the sheets. Barbara believed that he would strike her, but when he said ‘Come here,’ she approached him, looking him full in the face without shrinking.