Am I to come up?” ascended in a roar.
“Yes – no – no, my dear,” cried Mrs Wilton. “I’m – I’m coming down.”
She hurried out of the room, dabbed her eyes hastily, and descended to where the Squire was tramping up and down the hall, with Samuel, the cook, housemaid, and kitchen maid in a knot behind the swing baize door, which cut off the servants’ offices, listening to every word of the social comedy.
“Well,” roared Wilton, “is he coming?”
“N-n-not just now, my d-dear. He feels so ill and shaken that he begs you will excuse him.”
“Humbug, woman! My boy couldn’t have made up such a message. He said he wouldn’t, eh? Now then; no prevarication. That’s what he said.”
“Y-yes, my dear,” faltered the mother. “Oh, James dearest, pray – pray don’t.”
She clung to him, but he shook her off, strode to the umbrella stand, and snatched a hunting whip from where it hung with twisted thong, and stamped up the stairs, with his trembling wife following, sobbing and imploring him not to be so violent; but all in vain, for he turned off at the top of the old oaken staircase and stamped away to the door of his son’s bedroom – that at the end of the wing which matched to Kate’s.
Here Mrs Wilton made a last appeal in a hurried whisper.
“He is so bad – says his ribs are broken from the kick.”
“Bah!” roared the Squire; “he has no ribs in his hind legs – Here, you, Claud; come down to dinner directly or – Here, unlock this door.”
He rattled the handle, and then thumped and banged in vain, while Mrs Wilton, who had been ready to shriek with horror, began to breathe more freely.
“I thought you said he was lying down, too bad to get up?”
“Yes, yes, dear, he is,” faltered the poor woman.
“Seems like it. Able to lock himself in. Here, you sir; come down.”
But there was no reply; not a sound in answer to his rattling and banging; and at last, in the culmination of his rage, the Squire drew back to the opposite wall to gain force so as to dash his foot through the panel if he could, but just then Eliza opened Kate’s door at the far end of the long corridor, and peered out.
That ended the disturbance.
“Come on down to dinner, Maria,” said the Squire.
“Yes, my dear,” she faltered, and they descended to dine alone, Mrs Wilton on water, her husband principally on wine, and hardly a word was spoken, the head of the house being very quiet and thoughtful in the calm which followed the storm.
Just as the untasted pheasants were being taken away, after the second course, Wilton suddenly said to the footman:
“Tell Miss Kate’s maid to come here.”
Mrs Wilton looked at her husband wonderingly, but he sat crumbling his bread and sipping his claret till the quiet, grave, elderly servant appeared.
“How is your mistress?” he said.
“Very unwell, sir.”
“Think the doctor need be sent for?”
“Well, no, sir, I hardly think that. She has been very much agitated.”
“Yes, of course; poor girl,” said Wilton, quietly.
“But I think she will be better after a good night’s rest, sir.”
“So do I, Eliza. You will see, of course, that she has everything she wants.”
“Oh, yes, sir. I did take her up some dinner, but I could not prevail upon her to touch it.”
“Humph! I suppose not. That will do, thank you. – No, no, Maria, there is no occasion to say any more.”
Mrs Wilton’s mouth was open to speak, but she shut it again quickly, fearing to raise another storm, and the maid left the room. But the mother would speak out as soon as they were alone.
“I should like to order a tray with one of the pheasants to be sent up to Claud, dear.”
“I daresay you would,” he replied. “Well, I shouldn’t.”
“May I send for Doctor Leigh?”
“What for? You heard what the woman said?”
“I meant for Claud, dear.”
“Oh, I’ll see to him in the morning. I shall have a pill ready for him when I’m cooled down. It won’t be so strong then.”
“But, James, dear – ”
“All right, old lady, I’m getting calm now; but listen to me. I mean this: you are not to go to his room to-night.”
“James!”
“Nor yet to Kate’s, till I go with you.”
“My dear James!”
“That’s me,” he said, with a faint smile, “and you’re a very good, affectionate, well meaning old woman; but if ever there was one who was always getting her husband into scrapes, it is you.”
“Really, dear!” she cried, appealingly.
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