Part 46 (2/2)

This, then, was her Monday's task--to begin Sunday's toil, on a larger scale, all over again.

With some difficulty they found the cottage for which they were seeking.

Susan's mother opened the door in response to prolonged tappings. Susan had safely reached home.

”Oh, come inside,” said the mother; and she pretended to shed tears. ”Oh dear, oh dear. Who could of believed such a thing 'appening?”

”Nothing has happened,” said Mr. Prentice, confidently and jovially; ”except that your daughter has left her situation without warning, and we want to know what she means by it.”

”Oh, she's told me everything,” said the mother, dolefully shaking her head. ”Everything.”

”There was nothing to tell,” said Mr. Prentice; ”beyond the fact that she has behaved in a very stupid manner. Where is she?”

The mother indicated a door behind her. ”Poor dear, she's so exhausted, I've been trying to persuade her to eat a morsel of something.”

Mr. Prentice lifted a latch, opened the inner door, and disclosed the humble home-picture--Susan, with her mouth full of bacon and bread, stretching a hearty hand towards the metal tea-pot.

”Ah, thank goodness,” said the mother, ”she _'as_ bin able to pick a bit. Don't be afraid, Susan--you're 'ome now, along of your own mother and father;” and she addressed Mrs. Marsden. ”'Er father 'as 'eard everything, too.”

Mr. Prentice was laughing gaily.

”Well done, Susan. Don't be afraid of another slice of bacon. Don't be afraid of a fourth cup of tea.”

”No, sir,” said Susan shyly.

”Where _is_ her father?” asked Mr. Prentice. ”I'd like to have a few words with him.”

But father, having heard his daughter's tale, had started on a long journey with an empty waggon. He would return with it full of manure any time this afternoon. And going, and loading, and returning, he would be thinking over everything, and deciding what he and Susan should next do.

Mr. Prentice, considering that even a hired motor-car ought to be able to overtake a manure waggon though empty, started in pursuit of father; and Mrs. Marsden was left to conduct the pacific negotiations at the cottage.

It was a long and weary day, full of small difficulties--father, when recovered, not a free man, unable to talk, compelled to attend to his master's business; mother unable to express any opinion without previous discussion with father; empty fruitless hours slowly dragging away; meals at a public-house; a walk with Susan;--then darkness, and father talking to Mr. Prentice in the parlour; and, finally, mother and Mrs.

Marsden summoned from the kitchen to a.s.sist at ratification of peace proposals.

It was late at night when Mrs. Marsden got back to St. Saviour's Court.

Her husband had not been out all day. He was sitting by the dining-room fire, with his slippered feet on the fender, and a nearly emptied whisky bottle on the corner of the table near his elbow.

”Well?” He looked round anxiously and apprehensively.

”It is over. There will be no trouble--not even a scandal.”

She was blue with cold; her hands were numbed, and hung limply at her sides; her voice had become husky.

”Bravo! Well done!” He stood up, and stretched and straightened himself, as if throwing off the heavy load that had kept him crouched and bent in the armchair. ”Excellent! I knew you'd do it all right;” and he drew a deep breath, and then began to chuckle. ”And, by Jove, old girl, I'm grateful to you.... Look here. Have you had your grub? Don't you want some supper?”

”No.”

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