“Billy’s been one too many for you, eh, my dear?”
He had put this thoroughbred trotter into the harness of his homely wagon, and it never ceased to please him to watch her jib, and start, and tremble, and pant, as he flogged her along the stony road of subservience to his will and desires.
The more intensely she dreaded and loathed him the more entirely did he enjoy his revenge. It had cost him a great deal of money, but he did not grudge the money. The sport was rare.
“Stow that, my pretty,” he said to her when he saw her receiving as if she liked it the attentions of some man who might very well be in earnest and desire to persuade her to a second marriage. “Stow that, my pretty. You aren’t a-going to wed with nobody—Billy’s here.”
Her disgust, her indignation, her helpless revolt, were all infinitely diverting to him; he let her free herself a moment, only to pull her up with a jerk and remind her that he was her master. She felt that as long as he lived he would never let her escape him.
“Perhaps I’ll marry you myself if the old woman goes to glory,” he said with a grin. “Don’t you count on it though, my dear; I may see somebody else and disappoint you!”
His position was too dear to him for any jeopardy of it to be risked for any other consideration on earth. It was to his own fear for himself that she owed such partial relief from him as she obtained, such comparative liberty as his jealous vengeance permitted; such formal politeness as he showed her in society. He was afraid she might make a confession to Hurstmanceaux if he pressed her too hard, and this feeling alone kept his tyrannies within certain bounds, and compelled him to treat her with courtesy before the world.
But the low-bred ruffianism which was his true inner man showed itself frequently in private.
Once he wiped his dusty boots on the hem of her gown.
“A duchess’s frock makes a nice door-mat,” he said with relish. “Don’t you squeal, my pretty, or damn me if I don’t wipe ’em with your hair next.”