“Yes, yes, my dear, directly,” cried the trembling woman. “There, you hear, darling. He is in a terrible fury. Come down with me.”
“I won’t, I tell you,” cried the young man, making a snatch at the pillow, to raise it threateningly in his hands; “go, and tell him what I said.”
“Maria! 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.