“Here, what’s the matter? Who called?” came from a little distance. Then from close at hand Kate heard her uncle’s voice through the mist. “What’s all this, Maria—John Garstang—Claud? Damn it all, can no one speak?—Kate, what is it?”
“This,” cried Garstang, sternly. “I came back just now, and hearing shrieks rushed in here, just in time to save this poor, weak, suffering child from the brutal insulting attack of that young ruffian.”
“He has killed him. James—he has killed him,” shrieked Mrs Wilton. “On, my poor dear darling boy!”
“Back, all of you. Be off,” roared Wilton, as half a dozen servants came crowding to the door, which he slammed in their faces, and turned the key. “Now, please let’s have the truth,” he cried, hotly. “Here, Kate, my dear; come to me.”
She made no reply, but Garstang felt her cling more closely to him.
“Will some one speak?” cried Wilton, again.
“The Doctor—send for the Doctor; he’s dead, he’s dead,” wailed Mrs Wilton, who was down upon her knees now, holding her son’s head in her lap; while save for a slight quiver of the muscles, indicative of an effort to keep his eyes closed, Claud made no sign.
“He is not dead,” said Garstang, coldly; “a knockdown blow would not kill a ruffian of his calibre.”
“Oh,” exclaimed Mrs Wilton, turning upon him now in her maternal fury; “he owns to it, he struck him down—my poor, poor boy. James, why don’t you send for the police at once? The cruelty—the horror of it! Kate, Kate, my dear, come away from the wretch at once.”
“Then you own that you struck him down?” cried Wilton, whose face was now black with a passion which made him send prudence to the winds, as he rose in revolt against one who had long been his master.