“If you don’t hold your tongue, Maria, you’ll put me in a rage,” growled Wilton, savagely. “Sit in that chair.”
“Oh, James, James, you shouldn’t,” sobbed the poor woman, “you shouldn’t,” as she was plumped down heavily; but she spoke in a whisper.
“Done?” asked Claud, mockingly. “Then, now p’raps you’ll answer my question. Has she bolted?”
“Silence, idiot!” growled his father, so fiercely that the young man backed away from trim in alarm. “No, don’t keep silence, but speak. You contemptible young hound, do you think you can impose upon me by your question—by your pretended ignorance? Do you think you can impose upon me, I say? Do you think I cannot see through your plans?”
“I say, mater, what’s the guv’nor talking about?” cried Claud.
“She’s dead—she’s dead!”
“Who’s dead? What’s dead?”
“Answer me, sir,” continued Wilton, backing his son till he could get no farther for the big table. “Do you think you can impose upon me?”
“Who wants to impose on you, guv’nor?”
“You do, sir. But I see through your miserable plan, and I tell you this. You can’t get the money into your own hands to make ducks and drakes of, for I am executor and trustee and guardian, and if there’s any law in the land I’ll lock up every shilling so that you can’t touch it. If you had played honourably with me you would have had ample, and the estate would have come to you some day, cleared of incumbrances, if you had not killed yourself first.”