"You won't? who is master at Ripley?" Sir Foster raised Clara in his arms, and, in spite of her resistance, he was carrying her from the boudoir. Lady Wetheral endeavoured to interfere; she besought Sir Foster not to commit himself before the servants—before the world—by using force towards his wife; but he heeded not her observation, or her prayer. Clara was borne into the hall, unable to contend with the grasp which detained her prisoner. In vain she screamed, "Oh, father, my father, save me!" he was not within hearing. In vain she vehemently threatened to plague her husband, till life should be a burden to him: Sir Foster made no reply. Before the household, who assembled at the piercing cries of Lady Kerrison, before the Ripley servants, who were stationed with the carriage, did Sir Foster bear his lady to the hall-door, and, ordering his footmen to their post, Clara was placed in the carriage by main force. She struggled violently to regain her liberty, but her delicate limbs were unequal to the conflict; she sank back almost fainting with her useless efforts; and, Sir Foster taking his place by her side, nodded and winked, and chuckled, as he exclaimed, "Done it well, by Jove! Jerry, drive like winking!" The Ripley carriage dashed furiously down the avenue.
Lady Wetheral felt intensely the publicity which accompanied Sir Foster Kerrison's resumption of his wife's society. The action itself was disagreeable—must be most offensively disagreeable to Clara—but the manner of the thing, the public display which surrounded the whole affair, was inexcusable! It was beyond a doubt now, the affairs of Ripley were discussed in the servants' halls and dining-rooms throughout the neighbourhood—a most horrible idea! People might be as unhappy as they pleased, and quarrel whenever they felt inclined so to do, but it was an offence against society, to perpetrate little misunderstandings before the world. Nothing could be in such wretched taste. Clara was very foolish and impolitic to irritate a man like Sir Foster, and blame her for the results. She had always cautioned Clara and the rest of her girls against scenes.
The remembrance of her salutary cautions, however, did not operate upon Lady Wetheral's nerves, or bring calmness to her mind. Clara's words rang in her ears; and her figure, as she knelt in the attitude of upbraiding, glided before her eyes. She could not forget those piercing expressions, "If ever my misery exceeds my forbearance, it will be your doing, oh! hard-hearted mother!" The voice sounded through the house, it followed her into the dressing-room; she complained to Christobelle that it would haunt her in her sleep, and that her death would be caused by filial ingratitude, after all her anxieties to promote her child's welfare. "I am sure these scenes are enough to destroy me, Bell, and I think Thompson might have spared her part in the transaction. She made my dose of sal-volatile exactly to my taste, and now in my extremity I dare not touch your mixtures, for I dare say they would excoriate my throat. Mrs. Bevan will never be what Thompson was; she looks perfectly bewildered when I require any thing. Clara has killed me: ingratitude is, indeed, hard to bear, and it will disgust me from making any further sacrifices on my own part for others. I shall not concern myself with your marriage, Bell. Marry whom you please; but, if you marry less well than your sisters, never come into my presence." Christobelle promised never to marry without her concurrence.
"So you all say, and act in defiance when opportunity offers. Say nothing to your father, Bell, about Clara; it was lucky he rode to Shrewsbury this morning; he would have laid the blame upon me, too; he always lectures me now: say nothing about it, pray. What is that?" Her ladyship started. "Oh, it is that ungrateful voice; it spoke quite plain to me! I am sure I shall have a nervous attack, if that voice haunts me."
Clara's reproaches had sunk deeply into Lady Wetheral's heart, though she affected to carry off this impression with bravery of manner. In vain she took repeated doses of camphor-julep to still her nerves, and recover a portion of her spirits; the trembling of her limbs increased, and she acknowledged it would be impossible to meet poor Sir John at dinner; Christobelle must take her place, and invent any excuse she pleased for her absence, so that the truth was concealed from her husband. She was on no account to hint to him the transactions of the morning. It was fortunate for Christobelle that her father made few comments upon his lady's illness during their solitary meal; but his disposition was perfectly free from suspicion or curiosity, and conversation turned upon other subjects. Christobelle was delighted by one piece of intelligence on his part. The Tom Pynsents were to arrive in England the following week. Mrs. Pynsent and Mrs. Hancock were in Lewis's shop, and they informed him of their instant return to Hatton. Paris had not amused Tom, and he was longing to return to England; they had even come to the resolution of never again quitting Shropshire. Mrs. Pynsent was full of bustle and happiness at the idea—she would now get Tom back, and thank God all his dogs were in fine condition—not a puppy lost. Tom would find every thing as he left it, and Sal Hancock must be off to Lea. Mrs. Hancock winked her eye at her sister's remark.
"I tell you what, Pen, Tom will know a thing or two, when he comes from France; ten to one but I get into fashion this time."
"You be hanged, Sally Hancock!"
"They are not so whitewashed in France, Pen. I'll make a good bet our Tommy has had a 'cherry amy' by this time."
"None of your surmises, Sally Hancock; you know I can't bear any thing said about Tom. I'll be hanged if I take you home for that fib!"
"Faith, you must carry me somewhere, Pen," replied Mrs. Hancock, coolly; "you can't leave me and my game-leg here."