I had answered in a kind of breathless whisper, but I felt, in my silence, that my breath was shorter now.
“I make him wince, and smart. I say to myself, ‘I’ll conquer that fellow’; and if it were to cost him all the blood he had, I should do it. What is that upon your face?”
“Dirt,” I said.
He knew it was the mark of tears as well as I. But if he had asked the question twenty times, each time with twenty blows, I believe my baby heart would have burst before I would have told him so.
“You have a good deal of intelligence for a little fellow,” he said, with a grave smile that belonged to him, “and you understood me very well, I see. Wash that face, sir, and come down with me.”
He pointed to the washing-stand, which I had made out to be like Mrs. Gummidge, and motioned me with his head to obey him directly. I had little doubt then, and I have less doubt now, that he would have knocked me down without the least compunction, if I had hesitated.
“Clara, my dear,” he said, when I had done his bidding, and he walked me into the parlour, with his hand still on my arm; “you will not be made uncomfortable any more, I hope. We shall soon improve our youthful humours.”
God help me, I might have been improved for my whole life, I might have been made another creature perhaps, for life, by a kind word at that season. A word of encouragement and explanation, of pity for my childish ignorance, of welcome home, of reassurance to me that it was home, might have made me dutiful to him in my heart henceforth, instead of in my hypocritical outside, and might have made me respect instead of hate him. I thought my mother was sorry to see me standing in