But it was on retiring for the night that the butler came in for the full torrent of his wife’s anger.
“It sha’n’t go on!” she exclaimed, fiercely, as she banged a chair down in the centre of the room, and seated herself. “Here do I stop till every light’s out. That boy whom we worshipped almost, who’s been our every thought, to come home at last like a prodigal son—backwards, and begin to waste his patrimony in this way.”
“’Sh! ’sh!” said the butler.
“’Sh yourself!” exclaimed Mrs Lloyd, angrily.
“But, my dear, he’s master here,” the butler ventured to say.
“Is he indeed!” exclaimed Mrs Lloyd. “I’ll see about that.”
“Oh, for goodness’ sake—for Heaven’s sake—pray don’t do anything rash, Martha,” said the butler, imploringly. “Think—think of the consequences.”
“Consequences—you miserable coward, you; I haven’t patience with you.”
“But we are old now, Martha; and what could we do if anything happened to us here? Pray, pray think. After thirty years in this place; and we should never get another. Pray, pray don’t speak.”
“Hold your tongue! Do you think, after bringing him up and rearing him as we did when he was delicate, and nursing him through measles and scarlatina, and making a man of him as we have, taking care of the pence, and saving and scratching together, that I’m going to be trampled under foot by him?”