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.