“T’ squire’s son. Why on earth——”
“Go to bed, Martha,” said John, picking up a riding whip. But Mrs. Bolland’s sympathies discerned a deeper reason for Martin’s escapade than a mere boyish frolic which deserved a thrashing. He was unnaturally calm. Something out of the common had happened. He did not flinch at the sight of the whip.
“John,” she said sternly, “ye shan’t touch him t’-night.”
“Stand aside, Martha. If all my good teachin’ is of no avail——”
“Mebbe t’ lad’s fair sick o’ yer good teachin’. You lay a hand on him at yer peril. If ye do, I don’t bide i’ t’ house this night!”
Never before, during thirty years of married life, had Martha Bolland defied her husband. He glowered with anger and amazement.
“Would ye revile the Word te shield that spawn o’ Satan?” he roared. “Get away, woman, lest I do thee an injury.”
But his wife’s temper was fierce as his own when roused. She was a Meynell, and there have been Meynells in Yorkshire as long as any Bollands.
“Tak’ yer threats te those who heed ’em,” she retorted bitterly. “D’ye think folk will stand by an’ let ye raise yer hand te me?... David, William, Mary, coom here an’ hold yer master. He’s like te have a fit wi’ passion.”