'Just so,' the landlord answered, as he paused at the foot of the
staircase. 'And, if you please--what might your name be, sir?' A cold sweat rose on the tutor's brow; he looked helplessly towards the
door. If he gave his name and the matter were followed up, he would be
traced, and it was impossible to say what might not come of it. At last,
'Mr. Thomas,' he said, with a sneaking guilty look.
'Mr. Thomas, your reverence?' 'Yes.' 'And the young lady's name would be Thomas, then?' 'N-no,' Mr. Thomasson faltered. 'No. Her name--you see,' he continued,
with a sickly smile, 'she is my step-daughter.' 'To be sure, your reverence. So I understood. And her name?' The tutor glowered at his persecutor. 'I protest, you are monstrous
inquisitive,' he said, with a sudden sorry air of offence. 'But, if you
must know, her name is Masterson; and she has left her friends to
join--to join a--an Irish adventurer.' It was unfortunately said; the more as the tutor in order to keep his
eye on the door, by which he expected Mr. Pomeroy to re-enter, had
turned his back on the staircase. The lie was scarcely off his lips when
a heavy hand fell on his shoulder, and, twisting him round with a jerk,
brought him face to face with an old friend. The tutor's eyes met those
of Mr. Dunborough, he uttered one low shriek, and turned as white as
paper. He knew that Nemesis had overtaken him.
But not how heavy a Nemesis! For he could not know that the landlord of
the Angel owned a restive colt, and no farther back than the last fair
had bought a new whip; nor that that very whip lay at this moment where
the landlord had dropped it, on a chest so near to Mr. Dunborough's hand
that the tutor never knew how he became possessed of it. Only he saw it
imminent, and would have fallen in sheer terror, his coward's knees
giving way under him, if Mr. Dunborough had not driven him back against
the wall with a violence that jarred the teeth in his head.
'You liar!' the infuriated listener cried; 'you lying toad!' and shook
him afresh with each sentence. 'She has run away from her friends, has
she? With an Irish adventurer, eh? And you are her father? And your name
is Thomas? Thomas, eh! Well, if you do not this instant tell me where
she is, I'll Thomas you! Now, come! One! Two! Three!' In the last words seemed a faint promise of mercy; alas! it was
fallacious. Mr. Thomasson, the lash impending over him, had time to
utter one cry; no more. Then the landlord's supple cutting-whip, wielded
by a vigorous hand, wound round the tenderest part of his legs--for at
the critical instant Mr. Dunborough dragged him from the wall--and with
a gasping shriek of pain, pain such as he had not felt since boyhood,
Mr. Thomasson leapt into the air. As soon as his breath returned, he
strove frantically to throw himself down; but struggle as he might, pour
forth screams, prayers, execrations, as he might, all was vain. The hour
of requital had come. The cruel lash fell again and again, raising great
wheals on his pampered body: now he clutched Mr. Dunborough's arm only
to be shaken off; now he grovelled on the floor; now he was plucked up
again, now an ill-directed cut marked his cheek. Twice the landlord, in
pity and fear for the man's life, tried to catch Mr. Dunborough's arm
and stay the punishment; once William did the same--for ten seconds of
this had filled the hall with staring servants. But Mr. Dunborough's arm
and the whirling whip kept all at a distance; nor was it until a
tender-hearted housemaid ran in at risk of her beauty, and clutched his
wrist and hung on it, that he tossed the whip away, and allowed Mr.
Thomasson to drop, a limp moaning rag on the floor.