The doors being now open, a perfect storm of ugly, evil tempers poured forth.
At such times as these it was the custom of wife number one to shiver, shrink, implore--weep, then take the offending roast from the room, and replace it by something else which most likely was hurled at her, in the end.
The present Mrs. Daemon neither shivered nor shrank. She knew what to expect when she married this man, and she was ready. The guns were loaded and aimed, and they went off, and presto! the enemy lay dead on the dining room floor.
Instead of a roast beef solo, there was a duet, Mrs. Daemon's feminine soprano rising above her husband's masculine roar. She agreed with what he said as to the disposition of the servants, only adding that she intended to hang them all, before he put them through the front window.
"To insult us during our honeymoon with such a roast," she cried; "and look at this gravy! It's even worse!"
And with one swift stroke of her hand she sent the gravy bowl flying from off the table on to the handsome carpet.
"In Heaven's name, what are you about?" he bawled.
"Do you suppose I'd offer you such gravy; it ought to be flung in their faces."
He gasped and stammered; thought of the recent wedding and regretted it; but he was married now, and to an awful shrew!
Soon after dinner they repaired to the drawing room. In turning from the fireplace he stumbled against a large, elegant vase.
"Confound that thing!" he exclaimed, "I always did hate those vases that set on the floor."
"So do I!" she chimed in, and putting out her foot with an expressive jerk, she kicked it over, and broke it into a hundred fragments.
"Do you see what you've done?" he cried, "have you forgotten that that vase was a present from me?"
"No, I haven't, but we both hate it, and what's the use of keeping it?"
This was but the beginning; from that time on, let him but murmur against a dish, and it was flung on to the floor; torrents of abuse were poured upon the head of a maid with whom he found fault; some of the handsomest furniture in the house was broken, the moment it gave offense to him. In no vehemence was he alone--his wife's anathemas and abuse joined and exceeded his, until--he had enough of it--an overdose, in fact, and erelong he turned a corner--came out of Hurricane Gulch into Peaceful Lane, and he hoped the latter would know no turning. The servants whispered of times when he would tell his wife of guests invited to the house, and entreat her not to make a scene while they were there.