“A sweet, suffering lamb, indeed!” cried Gurdon, savagely. “Yah! There’s a pair of you—she-wolves, more likely.”
“Then I’ll be the wolf that shall shake such a nasty lying cur as you!” cried Jane, furiously. “Go down on your knees, you wicked—wicked—nasty—story-telling—villain—you, or I’ll shake all the breath out of your body!”
In effect, beside herself with rage, Jane had caught the butler by the collar with both hands, and at every word she had given him a furious shake, till, utterly confounded at the suddenness of the attack, he had really, to avoid the onslaught, sunk upon his knees, enabling her, though, to deliver the correction more effectually.
“Say it was all stories—say it was all stories,” cried Jane.
“I won’t: it’s all as true as true, and her—”
“Take that, you wicked villain!” shrieked Jane; and with the full force of her by no means weak arm, she slapped him across the mouth just as the door opened, and a knot of eager, curious servants appeared.
“What is the matter?” was the cry.
“Let him say a word if he dares,” cried Jane, ending her punishment by a tremendous box on the butler’s ears, to the intense delight of the lookers-on. “He told lies about me, and I hit him—there!” said Jane defiantly, “and let him say it isn’t true if he dares.”
Then, utterly exhausted by her efforts, poor Jane threw herself, sobbing, into a chair.
“Oh, take me away!—take me away!” she cried; and two of the sympathising women ran to her, declaring that it was a shame, that it was; while the stout cook delivered her opinion that it would be a blessing if there wasn’t a man left on the face of the earth, “breaking poor women’s hearts as was faithful unto death.”