Westcott was grave again. "And so you are tired of
Treliss?"
"Not only Treliss--this house--everything. I hate it."
"You have no regret at leaving me?"
"You know--father--that..."
"Yes?"
Peter rose suddenly from the table--they faced one another.
"I want you to let me go. You have never cared in the least for me and you
do not want me here. I shall go mad if I stay in this place. I must go."
"Oh, you must go? Well, that's plain enough at any rate--and when do you
propose leaving us?"
"After Easter--the Wednesday after Easter," he said. "Oh, father, please.
Give me a chance. I can do things in London--I feel it. Here I shall never
do anything."
Peter raised his eyes to his father's and then dropped them. Mr. Westcott
senior was not pleasant to look at.
"Let us have no more of this--you will stay here because I wish it. I like
to have you here--father and son--father and son."
He placed his hand on the boy's shoulder--"Never mention this again for
your own sake--you will stay here until I wish you to go."
But Peter broke free.
"I _will_ go," he shouted--"I _will_ go--you _shall_ not keep me here. I
have a right to my freedom--what have you ever done for me that I should
obey you? I want to leave you and never see you again. I ..." And then his
eyes fell--his legs were shaking. His father was watching him, no movement
in his short thick body--Peter's voice faltered--"I _will_ go," he said
sullenly, his eyes on the ground.
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