It has already been mentioned that he struck him once; and, having done so, he felt no repugnance to do it frequently. For it is only the first time that we commit a sin that we have the horror of its commission before us. The orphan now became like unto Ishmael; for every man's hand was against him, and I might say every woman's too. Now, during the lifetime of Jenny, he had had everything his own way, and whatsoever he said was done; some said that he was a spoiled child, and it was at least evident that his humour was never thwarted. This caused him to have the more enemies now; and every menial on the farm of Peter Thornton became his persecutor. It is the common fate of all favourites—to-day they are treated with abject adulation, and to-morrow, if the sun which shone on them be clouded, no one thinks him too low to look on them with disdain.
For more than three years, Christopher's life became a scene of continual martyrdom. He was now, however, a tall and powerful young man of seventeen; and many who had been in the habit of raising their hands against him found it discreet to do so no more. But Mrs Thornton was not of this number; she found some cause to lift her hand and strike the orphan, as often as he came into her presence. Even Peter, kind as he had once been, treated him almost as cruelly as his wife. It was not that he disliked him as she did; but she had soured and fretted his disposition; and, unconsciously to himself, from being the orphan's friend, he became his terror and tormentor.
But one day, when the violence of Mrs Thornton far exceeded the bounds of endurance, Christopher turned upon her, and, with the revenge of a Spaniard glistening in his eyes, grasped her by the throat. She screamed aloud for help, and her husband and the farm-servants rushed to her assistance.
"Back, back!" exclaimed Christopher. "Woman, give me the rings—give me the rings!—they are mine—they were my mother's!"
Peter sprang forward, and grasped hold of him.
"Touch me not!" exclaimed the orphan; "I will be your slave no longer! Give me the rings—my mother's rings!"
Peter stood aghast at the manner of the boy. His every look, his every action, bespoke desperation. He thrust his clenched hand towards Mr Thornton, exclaiming, "Touch me not!—the rings are mine!—I will have them!"
"The muckle mischief confound ye!" exclaimed Peter, with a look of half fear and bewilderment; "what in a' the world is the matter wi' ye, Christopher? Is the laddie out o' his head?"
"The rings—my mother's rings!" cried the orphan; and, as he spoke, he grasped more violently the hand of Mrs Thornton.
"The like o' that," said Peter, "I never saw in my existence. In my opinion, the laddie is no in his right judgment."