From the centre of her tester bed, the old lady calmly regarded him. “I told you to bring back the boy, Mr. Lightfoot,” she returned. “You surely saw him in town, didn't you?”
“Oh, yes, I saw him,” replied the Major, loosening his high black stock. “But where do you suppose I saw him, ma'am? and how? Why, the young scapegrace has actually gone and hired himself out as a stagedriver--a common stagedriver. And, bless my soul, he had the audacity to tip his hat to me from the box--from the box with the reins in his hand, ma'am!”
“What stage, Mr. Lightfoot?” inquired his wife, with an eye for particulars.
“Oh, I wash my hands of him,” pursued the Major, waving her question aside. “I wash my hands of him, and that's the end of it. In my day, the young were supposed to show some respect for their elders, and every calf wasn't of the opinion that he could bellow like a bull--but things are changed now, and I wash my hands of it all. A more ungrateful family, I am willing to maintain, no man was ever blessed with--which comes, I reckon, from sparing the rod and spoiling the child--but I'm sure I don't see how it is that it is always your temper that gets inherited.”
The personal note fell unheeded upon his wife's ears.
“You don't mean to tell me that you came away and left the boy sitting on the box of a stagecoach?” she demanded sharply.
“Would you have me claim a stagedriver as a grandson?” retorted the Major, “because I may as well say now, ma'am, that there are some things I'll not stoop to. Why, I'd as lief have an uncle who was a chimney sweep.”
Mrs. Lightfoot turned uneasily in bed. “It means, I suppose, that I shall have to get up and go after him,” she remarked, “and you yourself heard the doctor tell me not to move out of bed for a week. It does seem to me, Mr. Lightfoot, that you might show some consideration for my state of health. Do ride in this afternoon, and tell Dan that I say he must behave himself properly.”
But the Major turned upon her the terrific countenance she had last seen on Jane's wedding day, and she fell silent from sheer inability to utter a protest befitting the occasion.
“If that stagedriver enters my house, I leave it, ma'am,” thundered the old gentleman, with a stamp of his gouty foot. “You may choose between us, if you like,--I have never interfered with your fancies--but, by God, if you bring him inside my doors I--I will horsewhip him, madam,” and he went limping out into the hall.