“No, my boy, no—oh, no,” said the old man sadly; and he shook his head, glancing nervously at the glass the next moment to see if his wig was awry. “You read about that sort of thing in books, but it doesn’t often come off in fashionable life. I—I—I remember when—when I married her ladyship, it was all very matter-of-fact and quiet. And there was that poultice. But you will stand by and catch her if she faints, Tom?”
“Oh, she won’t faint, gov’nor,” said Tom, curling up his lip.
“I—I—I don’t know, my boy, I don’t know. She said that very likely she should. Mammas do faint, you know, when they are losing their children. I feel very faint myself, Tom: this affair upsets me. I should like just one glass of port.”
“No, no, don’t have it, gov’nor; it will go right down into your toe. Have a brandy and seltzer.”
“Thank you, Tom, my boy, I will,” said the old man, rubbing his hands, “I will—I will. Ring for it, will you, Tom, and let Robbins think it’s for you.”
“Why, gov’nor?” cried Tom, staring, as he rang the bell.
“Well, you see, my boy,” said the old man, stooping to gently rub his leg; “after that last visit of the doctor her ladyship told the servants—told the servants that they were not to let me have anything but what she ordered.”
Tom uttered an angry ejaculation, waited a few moments, leaped from his chair, and began sawing away furiously at the unanswered bell.
“He’s—he’s a fine bold young fellow, my son Tom,” muttered the old man to himself as he sat down, and began rubbing his leg; “I dare not ring the bell like that—like that.”
“Look here, gov’nor,” cried Tom, passionately, “I won’t have it. I will not stand by and see you sat upon like this. Are you the master of this house or no?”