The American Senator

to her, and certainly not to him, and to take care that that should be the only sign left of his suffering? He would hunt, and be keener than ever;⁠—he would work upon the land with increased diligence; he would give himself not a moment to think of anything. She should see and hear what he could do;⁠—but he would never speak to her again. The hounds would be at the old kennels tomorrow. He would be there. The place no doubt was Morton’s property, but on hunting mornings all the lands of the county⁠—and of the next counties if they can be reached⁠—are the property of the hunt. Yes; he would be there; and she would see him in his scarlet coat, and smartest cravat, with his boots and breeches neat as those of Lord Rufford;⁠—and she should know that he was doing as she bade him. But he would never speak to her again!

As he was returning round the wood, whom should he see skulking round the corner of it but Goarly?

“What business have you in here?” he said, feeling half-inclined to take the man by the neck and drag him out of the copse.

“I saw you, Mr. Twentyman, and I wanted just to have a word with you.”

“You are the biggest rascal in all Rufford,” said Larry. “I wonder the lads have left you with a whole bone in your skin.”

“What have I done worse than any other poor man, Mr. Twentyman? When I took them herrings I didn’t know there was p’ison; and if I hadn’t took ’em, another would. I am going to cut it out of this, Mr. Twentyman.”

“May the ⸻ go along with you!” said Larry, wishing his neighbour a very unpleasant companion.

“And of course I must sell the place. Think what it would be to you! I shouldn’t like it to go into his Lordship’s hands. It’s all through Bean I know, but his Lordship has had a down on me ever since he came to the property. It’s as true as true about my old woman’s geese. There’s forty acres of it. What would you say to £40 an acre?”

The idea of having the two extra fields made Larry’s mouth water, in spite of all his misfortunes. The desire for land among such as Larry Twentyman is almost a disease in England. With these two fields he would be able to walk almost round Dillsborough Wood without quitting his own property. He had been talking of selling Chowton within the last week or two. He had been thinking of selling it at the moment when Mr. Masters rode up to him. And yet now he was almost tempted to a new purchase by this man. But the man was too utterly a blackguard⁠—was too odious to him.

“If it comes into the market, I may bid for it as well as another,” he said, “but I wouldn’t let myself down to have any dealings with you.”

“Then, Mr. Larry, you shall never have a sod of it,” said Goarly, dropping himself over the fence on to his own field.

A few minutes afterwards Larry met Bean, and told him that Goarly had been in the wood. “If I catch him, Mr. Twentyman, I’ll give him sore bones,” said Bean. “I wonder how he ever got back to his own place alive that day.” Then Bean asked Larry whether he meant to be at the meet tomorrow, and Larry said that he thought he should. “Tony’s almost afraid to bring them in even yet,” said Bean; “but if there’s a herring left in this wood, I’ll eat it myself⁠—strychnine and all.”

After that Larry went and looked at his horses, and absolutely gave his mare “Bicycle” a gallop round the big grass field himself. Then those who were about the place knew that something had happened, and that he was in a way to be cured. “You’ll hunt tomorrow, won’t you, Larry?” said his mother affectionately.

“Who told you?”

“Nobody told me;⁠—but you will, Larry; won’t you?”

“May be I will.” Then, as he was leaving the room, when he was in the doorway, so that she should not see his face, he told her the news. “She’s going to marry the squire, yonder.”

“Mary Masters!”

“I always hated him from the first moment I saw him. What do you expect from a fellow who never gets atop of a horse?” Then he turned away, and was not seen again till long after teatime.

LXXIII

“Is It Tanti?”

Reginald Morton entertained serious thoughts of cleansing himself from the reproach which Larry cast upon him when describing his character to his mother. “I think I shall take to hunting,” he said to Mary.

“But you’ll tumble off, dear.”

“No doubt I shall, and I must try to begin in soft places. I don’t see why I shouldn’t do it gradually in a small way. I shouldn’t ever become a Nimrod, like Lord Rufford or your particular friend Mr. Twentyman.”

“He is my particular friend.”

“So I perceive. I couldn’t shine as he shines, but I might gradually learn to ride after him at a respectful distance. A man at Rome ought to do as the Romans do.”

“Why wasn’t Hoppet Hall Rome as much as Bragton?”

“Well;⁠—it wasn’t. While fortune enabled me to be happy at Hoppet Hall⁠—”

“That is unkind, Reg.”

“While fortune oppressed me with celibate misery at Hoppet Hall, nobody hated me for not hunting;⁠—and as I could not very well afford it, I was not considered to be entering a protest against the amusement. As it is now I find that unless I consent to risk my neck at any rate five or six times every winter, I shall be regarded in that light.”

“I wouldn’t be frightened into doing anything I didn’t like,” said Mary.

“How do you know that I shan’t like it? The truth is I have had a letter this morning from a benevolent philosopher which has almost settled the question for me. He wants me to join