“You hold your tongue, and don’t you make things worse,” roared her husband. “As for him—curse him!—it’s all his doing.”
“But he’s lying here insensible, and you won’t send for help.”
“No, I won’t. Do you think I want Leigh and his sister, and then the whole parish, to know what has been going on? The servants will talk enough.”
“But he’s dying, James.”
“You said he was dead just now. Chuck some cold water over the idiot, and bring him to. Damn him! I should like to horsewhip him!”
“You should have done it often, years ago,” said Garstang, bitterly. “It is too late now.”
“You mind your own business,” shouted Wilton, turning upon him; “I can’t talk like you do, but I can say what I mean, and it’s this: I’m master here yet, and I’ll stand no more of it. I don’t care for your deeds and documents. I won’t have you here to insult me and my wife, and what’s more, if you’ve done that boy a mischief we’ll see what the law can do. You shall suffer as well as I. Now then: off with you; pack and go, and I’ll show you that the law protects me as well as you. Kate, my girl, you’ve nothing to be frightened about. Come to me here.”
She clung the more tightly to her protector.
“Then come to your aunt,” said Wilton, fiercely. “Get up, Maria,” he shouted. “Can’t you see I want you here?”
“Get up? Oh, James, James, I can’t leave my boy.”