“My name’s Simpkins, my lady, please. If your set may call it a scandal, mine won’t mind. As for me, I think it’s a very good thing for the girl.”
“I can bear no more of this,” muttered Lady Lisle, faintly. “It is too much. Oh! man, man, I looked for help and sympathy from you; but in your shameless ignorance you have done nothing but outrage my feelings.”
“Very sorry, my lady; but you should have come and met me civil-like, as the father of as pretty a lass as ever stepped. ’Stead o’ which you comes in your carriage and walks in on stilts, and begins a-bully-ragging me as if I was still Sir Hilton’s servant. Now, look here, my lady, you’ve kep’ on calling me man, man, man, and it’s true I am a man, and a man with a temper; but I don’t like to be reminded of it over and over again, and in my own house, because them two began making love, as is the nat’ralest thing in natur’.”
Lady Lisle felt exhausted, and she made a gesture as if to speak.
“No, you’ve had your innings, my lady, and I don’t keep calling you woman, woman, woman. Now, here’s what I’ve got to say as a fine-ale—the thing’s happened, and you’ve got to make the best of it. My Molly’s out yonder with the chap she loves and who loves her. You can’t get at ’em, and if you behave sensible you’ll get back in your carriage and go straight home, and the sooner the better, or I shall have to show you the door, for I’ve got something in the way of a big business to do. By and by, when you get cool, you’ll see as it’s no use to be orty, and if you like to come down off the stilts and ask my Molly to join you at the Denes, well and good.”
“Oh!” gasped the visitor in horror.
“Very well, if you don’t I shan’t fret. I know what you’ve done long enough, keeping him like at the Denes; but I can afford it, even if I am hard hit to-day. It only means putting an extra knife and fork at my table, where he shall be welcome till you drop the orty and ’old your ’and—Hullo! Feel upset, my lady? That’s pride and temper.”
“Don’t touch me, man!” panted the suffering woman; “it would be pollution. Oh, Hilton, Hilton!” she moaned as she strove to steady herself to the door and managed to walk out of the porch and step feebly into the carriage.
“Home!” she said, in a deep, hollow voice before she sank back, unconscious of the excitement and noise around, and moaned softly. “Home? No; it is home no more.”
This giving way to one set of feelings lasted but a few moments, for there rose up before her imagination the figure of her husband seated somewhere with her young and handsome rival, possibly hand in hand, watching the scene before them, and a wave of fierce passion swept all before it. The next minute, to the astonishment and satisfaction of her disappointed coachman, who was longing to see one heat if not more, she stood up in the barouche and prodded him with her parasol.