“No, how could you know? Who would tell you? Not Ernest,” she replied bitterly.
“But, Dorothea, you are happy, are you not?”
“Happy, I was until I knew better, till two years ago when I saw your mother and you with her. Then Ernest came back thinking himself a German officer--he is an officer, you know--and the way he treated our mother and me!”
“Treated your mother! Surely he is not unkind to your mother?” Larry had a vision of a meek, round-faced, kindly, contented woman, who was obviously proud of her only son.
“Kind, kind,” cried Dorothea, “he is kind as German sons are kind. But you cannot understand. Why did I speak to you of this? Yes, I will tell you why,” she added, apparently taking a sudden resolve. “Let's go slowly. Ernest is gone anyway. I will tell you why. Before Ernest went away he was more like a Canadian boy. He was good to his mother. He is good enough still but--oh, it is so hard to show you. I have seen you and your mother. You would not let your mother brush your boots for you, you would not sit smoking and let her carry in wood in the winter time, you would not stand leaning over the fence and watch your mother milk the cow. Mein Gott! Ernest, since he came back--the women are only good for waiting on him, for working in the house or on the farm. His wife, she will not work in the fields; Ernest is too rich for that. But she will not be like”--here the girl paused abruptly, a vivid colour dyeing her fair skin--“like your wife. I would die sooner than marry a German man.”
“But Ernest is not like that, Dorothea. He is not like that with my sisters. Why, he is rather the other way, awfully polite and all that sort of thing, you know.”
“Yes, that's the way with young German gentlemen to young ladies, that is, other people's ladies. But to their own, no. And I must tell you. Oh, I am afraid to tell you,” she added breathlessly. “But I will tell you, you have been so kind, so good to me. You are my friend, and you will not tell. Promise me you will never tell.” The girl's usually red face was pale, her voice was hoarse and trembling.
“What is the matter, Dorothea? Of course I won't tell.”
“Ernest wants to marry your sister, Kathleen. He is just mad to get her, and he always gets his way too. I would not like to see your sister his wife. He would break her heart and,” she added in a lower voice, “yours too. But remember you are not to tell. You are not to let him know I told you.” A real terror shone in her eyes. “Do you hear me?” she cried. “He would beat me with his whip. He would, he would.”