The American Senator

had therefore made some excuse as to the expediency of saying a word to Runciman whom he espied at his own door. He said his word to Runciman, and so loitered away perhaps a quarter of an hour, and then went back to his office. But his wife had kept her anger at burning heat and pounced upon him before he had taken his seat. Sundown was there copying, sitting with his eyes intent on the board before him as though he were quite unaware of the sudden entrance of his master’s wife. She in her fury did not regard Sundown in the least, but at once commenced her attack. “What is all this, Mr. Masters,” she said, “about Lady Ushant and going to Cheltenham? I won’t have any going to Cheltenham and that’s flat.” Now the attorney had altogether made up his mind that his daughter should go to Cheltenham if her friend would receive her. Whatever might be the consequences, they must be borne. But he thought it best to say nothing at the first moment of the attack, and simply turned his sorrowful round face in silence up to the partner of all his cares and the source of so many of them. “There have been letters,” continued the lady;⁠—“letters which nobody has told me nothing about. That proud peacock from Hoppet Hall has been here, as though he had nothing to do but carry Mary away about the country just as he pleased. Mary won’t go to Cheltenham with him nor yet without him;⁠—not if I am to remain here.”

“Where else should you remain, my dear?” asked the attorney.

“I’d sooner go into the workhouse than have all this turmoil. That’s where we are all likely to go if you pass your time between walking about with that minx and the public-house opposite.” Then the attorney was aware that he had been watched, and his spirit began to rise within him. He looked at Sundown, but the man went on copying quicker than ever.

“My dear,” said Mr. Masters, “you shouldn’t talk in that way before the clerk. I wanted to speak to Mr. Runciman, and, as to the workhouse, I don’t know that there is any more danger now than there has been for the last twenty years.”

“It’s always off and on as far as I can see. Do you mean to send that girl to Cheltenham?”

“I rather think she had better go⁠—for a time.”

“Then I shall leave this house and go with my girls to Norrington.” Now this threat, which had been made before, was quite without meaning. Mrs. Masters’ parents were both dead, and her brother, who had a large family, certainly would not receive her. “I won’t remain here, Mr. Masters, if I ain’t to be mistress of my own house. What is she to go to Cheltenham for, I should like to know?”

Then Sundown was desired by his wretched employer to go into the back settlement and the poor man prepared himself for the battle as well as he could. “She is not happy here,” he said.

“Whose fault is that? Why shouldn’t she be happy? Of course you know what it means. She has got round you because she wants to be a fine lady. What means have you to make her a fine lady? If you was to die tomorrow what would there be for any of ’em? My little bit of money is all gone. Let her stay here and be made to marry Lawrence Twentyman. That’s what I say.”

“She will never marry Mr. Twentyman.”

“Not if you go on like this she won’t. If you’d done your duty by her like a real father instead of being afraid of her when she puts on her tantrums, she’d have been at Chowton Farm by this time.”

It was clear to him that now was the time not to be afraid of his wife when she put on her tantrums⁠—or at any rate, to appear not to be afraid. “She has been very unhappy of late.”

“Oh, unhappy! She’s been made more of than anybody else in this house.”

“And a change will do her good. She has my permission to go;⁠—and go she shall!” Then the word had been spoken.

“She shall!”

“It is very much for the best. While she is here the house is made wretched for us all.”

“It’ll be wretcheder yet; unless it would make you happy to see me dead on the threshold⁠—which I believe it would. As for her, she’s an ungrateful, sly, wicked slut.”

“She has done nothing wicked that I know of.”

“Not writing to that old woman behind my back?”

“She told me what she was doing and showed me the letter.”

“Yes; of course. The two of you were in it. Does that make it any better? I say it was sly and wicked; and you were sly and wicked as well as she. She has got the better of you, and now you are going to send her away from the only chance she’ll ever get of having a decent home of her own over her head.”

“There’s nothing more to be said about it, my dear. She’ll go to Lady Ushant.” Having thus pronounced his dictum with all the marital authority he was able to assume he took his hat and sallied forth. Mrs. Masters, when she was left alone, stamped her foot and hit the desk with a ruler that was lying there. Then she went upstairs and threw herself on her bed in a paroxysm of weeping and wailing.

Mr. Masters, when he closed his door, looked up the street and down the street and then again went across to the Bush. Mr. Runciman was still there, and was standing with a letter in his hand, while one of the grooms from Rufford Hall was holding a horse beside him. “Any answer, Mr. Runciman?” said the groom.

“Only to tell his lordship that everything will be ready for him. You’d better go through and give the horse a feed of corn,