“If you have nothing further to say than this Secularist lecturing,” said Lady Charlotte with great dignity, “I should be obliged if you would find somewhere—some Hall of Science—... Considering what my feelings must be... Scarcely in the mood for—blasphemies.”
“Lady Charlotte,” said Mr. Sycamore, betraying a note of indignation in his voice; “this school into which you flung your little ward was a very badly conducted school indeed.”
“It was nothing of the sort,” said Lady Charlotte. “How dare you reproach me?”
Mr. Sycamore went on as though she had not spoken. “There was a lot of bullying and nasty behaviour among the boys, and the masters inflicted punishments without rhyme or reason.”
“He was thrashed absurdly and set an impossible task for not answering to a silly nickname. There was no one to whom he could complain. He ran away. He had an idea of reaching Limpsfield, but when he realized that night was coming on, being really a very sensible little boy, he selected a kindly-looking house, asked to see the lady of the house, and told her he had run away from home and wanted to go back. He gave his aunt’s address at The Ingle-Nook, and he was sent home in the morning. He arrived home this morning.”
Lady Charlotte made a strange noise, but Mr. Sycamore hurried on. “How this delusion about a boat and a weir got into the story I don’t know. He says nothing about them. Indeed, he says very little about anything. He’s a reserved little boy. We have to get what we can out of him.”
“You mean to say that the boy is still alive!” cried Lady Charlotte.
“But how do you account for these telegrams and letters?”
Mr. Sycamore positively tittered. “That’s for Mr. Grimes to explain.”
“Then if ever a little boy deserved a whipping, a thoroughly good whipping,” cried Lady Charlotte, “it is Master Peter Stubland! Safe, indeed! It’s outrageous! After all I have gone through! Unwin!”
Mr. Sycamore stood up. He still had the essence of his business to communicate, but there was something in the great lady’s blue eyes that made him want to stand up. And that little tussock of fair hair on her cheek—in some indescribable way it had become fierce.
“To think,” said Lady Charlotte, “that I have been put to all this unutterable worry and distress—”