Parliament was adjourned on the twenty-third of December, and did
not re-assemble until the third of February. The interval was one of
great public excitement and of great private anxiety. The country had
been assured of a Government pledged to Reform; and, in the main,
were waiting as patiently as men, hungry and naked, and burning with a
sense of injury and injustice, could wait. But no one knew what hour a
spark might be cast into such inflammable material,--that would mean
Revolution instead of Reform.
Consequently life was depressed, and not disposed to any exhibition of
wealth or festivity; the most heartless and reckless feeling that it
would not be endured by men and women on the very verge of starvation.
The Queen also was unpopular, and the great social leaders were, as a
general thing, bitter political partisans; in theatres and ball-rooms and
even on the streets, the Whig and Tory ladies, when they met, looked
at one another as Guelphs and Ghibellines, instead of christened English
gentlewomen.
Both the Duchess of Richmoor and Miss Vyner were women of strong and
irrepressible prejudices; and, before Parliament adjourned, they had made
for themselves an environment of active, political enemies. And women
carry their politics into their domestic and social life; the Duchess
had wounded many of her oldest friends; and Annabel, with the haughty
intolerance of youth and wealth, had succeeded in making herself a person
whom all the ladies of the Reform party delighted either to positively
offend, or to scornfully ignore.
These circumstances, with all her audacity and advantages, she was unable
to control. Her brilliant beauty, her clever tongue, her ostentatious
dress and display were as nothing against the united disposition of a
score of other women to make her understand that they neither desired
her friendship nor felt her influence; and she had at least the sense
to retire from a conflict "whose weapons," she said contemptuously,
"were not in her armory." This condition of affairs naturally threw
her very much upon the Athelings for society. While the Duchess sat with
a few old ladies of her own caste and political persuasion, talking
fearfully of the state of English society and of the horrors Reform would
inaugurate for the nobility, Annabel spent her time with Mrs. and
Miss Atheling, and learned to look hopefully into a future in which,
perhaps, there would be neither dukes nor lords. Besides, Cecil North
had a habit of visiting the Athelings also; and, without expressed
arrangement, both Cecil and Annabel looked forward to those charming
lunches which Mrs. Atheling dispensed with so little ceremony and so
much good nature. It had been Cecil's intention to go with Edgar into
the country; but when the hour for departure arrived, he had not been
able to leave Annabel's vicinity, and, in some of those mysterious ways
known to Love, she understood, and was pleased with this evidence of
her power.
Cecil's mother had been particularly prominent in that social
ostracism the Reform ladies had meted out to her; and it gave to the
real liking which she had for Cecil a piquant relish to parade the young
man as her devoted servant in all places where his noble mother
would be likely to see or hear tell of her son's "infatuation." But
Cecil North's affection, and the favour it received, did not much
influence Kate. With the perversity of a woman in love, she believed
Annabel to be only amusing herself during Lord Exham's absence; and she
accepted, without a doubt, all the little innuendoes, and half-truths,
and half-admissions which Annabel suffered herself, as it were, without
intent, to make.
Thus the dreary winter days passed slowly away. In January Edgar
returned. His election had been a mere walk over the ground. The patron
of the borough of Shereham had spoken the word, and Edgar Atheling was
its lawful representative. It was a poor little place, but it gave
Edgar a vote on the right side; and Earl Grey also hoped much from his
power as a natural orator. He might take Brougham's place, and be far
more amenable to directions than Brougham had ever been. Mrs. Atheling
considered none of these things. She took in only the grand fact that
her son was in Parliament, and that he must have won his place there
by some transcendent personal merit. True, she had some little qualms of
fear as to how Edgar's father would treat the new representative of
Englishmen; but her invincible habit of hoping and her cheerful way of
looking into the future did not suffer these passing doubts to seriously
mar her glory and pride in her son's dignity.
In fact, even in Annabel's eyes, Edgar Atheling was now an important
person. Women do not consider causes, they look at results; and in
Edgar Atheling's case the result was satisfactory. On the day the new
member for Shereham returned home, she was lunching with the Athelings,
eating her salad and playing with Cecil North's heart, when Edgar
entered the room. His honour sat well on him; he neither paraded, nor
yet affectedly ignored it. His mother's pride, his sister's pleasure,
and the congratulations of his friends made him happy, and he showed it.
The lunch that was nearly finished was delayed for another hour. No
one liked to break up the delightful meal and conversation; and when
Annabel got back to Richmoor House the short day was over, and the
Duchess had sent an escort to hurry her return.
"You are exceedingly imprudent, Annabel," she said, when the girl
entered her presence; "and I do think it high time you stopped visiting
so much at one house."
"Duchess, will you say what other house equally charming is open to
me? You know how little of a favourite I am. To-day I was delayed by an
event,--the return of young Atheling after his election. He is now an
M. P.,--a great honour for so young a man, I think."
"Honour, indeed! Grey or Durham, or some of those renegades to their
own caste, have given him a seat. Grey would give a seat to a puppy if
it could bark 'aye' for him."
"Well, I should not think Atheling will be a dumb dog; he has a ready
tongue. Mr. North says he will take Brougham's place."
"He will do nothing of the kind. Young Atheling is a fine talker
when he has to face a mob of grumbling men on a Yorkshire moor or a
city common. It is a different thing, Annabel, to stand up before the
gentlemen of England. As for Mr. North, I have told you before that both
the Duke and myself seriously object to that entanglement."
Annabel laughed. "There is no entanglement, Duchess,--that is, on my
part."
"Then why throw yourself continually in the young man's way?"
"You are scarcely polite. He throws himself in my way."
"Pardon. I meant nothing disrespectful."
"And I have reasons."
"May I know them?"
"Yes. Mr. North's mother was particularly insulting to me at the last
Morning Concert I attended. I heard also that she had spoken of me as
'an Indian girl of doubtful parentage.' She is particularly fond of
Cecil, who is her youngest child, and she is trying to make a marriage
between him and that enormously rich Miss Curzon. I am going to defeat
her plans."
Then the Duchess laughed. "I never interfere with any woman's
retributions," she said. "But do not burn yourself at the fire you
kindle for others."
"I am fire-proof."
"I must think so, or surely Piers would have influenced you."
"Lord Exham never tried to 'influence' me; and only one woman in the
world can 'influence' him."
"You mean Miss Atheling, of course; and I have already told you that
there is not even a supposition in that case. Miss Atheling is out of the
question. The Duke would never consent to such a marriage; and I would
never forgive it. Never! I should prefer to lose my son altogether."
"Then you ought to let Miss Atheling know how you feel. She is a very
honourable, yes, a very proud girl. She would not force herself into your
family, no matter how much she loved your son. Now, I would. If I had
thought you did _not_ want me to marry Lord Exham, I should probably
have been his wife to-day."
The Duchess glanced at the speaker a little scornfully, and said,
"Perhaps you over-estimate your abilities. However, Annabel, your
suggestion about Miss Atheling has much likelihood. I shall make an
opportunity to speak to her. Will you go out to-night? There will be
the usual crush at Lady Paget's."
"Excuse me, I do not wish to go." The statement was correct. She had
begun to weary of a routine of visiting that lacked decisive personal
interest. She had many lovers; but even love-making grows tiresome
unless it is reciprocal, or has some spice of jealousy, or some element
of the chase in it. Cecil North did interest her, and Piers Exham did
stimulate her desire for conquest; but Cecil was most pleasantly met at
the Athelings, and Lord Exham was in Yorkshire.
So, after dining alone with the Duchess, she went to a little
drawing-room that was her favourite resort. The great ash logs burned
brightly on the white marble hearth, and threw shifting lights on the
white-and-gold furnishings, on the pictured walls, on the ferns and
flowers, and on the lovely marble forms of two wood nymphs among them.
She placed herself comfortably in a large easy-chair, with her back
to the argand lamp, and stretched out her sandalled feet before the
blaze, and nestled her head among the soft white cushions. The delicious
drowsy atmosphere was a physical satisfaction of the highest order to
her, quite as much so as it was to the splendid Persian cat that
grumblingly resigned, at her order, the pleasantest end of the
snow-white rug.
"Now I can think," she said with lazy satisfaction, as she closed her
restless eyes and began the operation. "In the first place, I have set a
ball rolling that I may not be able to manage. It is in the hand of
the Duchess, and she will have no scruples--she never has, if she is
fighting for her own side. Perhaps I ought not to have given her such a
'leader,' for Kate Atheling has always been kind to me--thoughtful
about Cecil, ready at making excuses to let us have a little solitude,
arranging shopping excursions in his presence, so that he would know
where he could 'accidentally' meet us--and so on. No, it was not
exactly kind; but then, in love and war, all things are fair--and I
dare say Miss Kate's motives were probably selfish enough. She would
give me Cecil to make her own way clear to Piers; and, also, Cecil
is a favourite with the Athelings and young Atheling's friend; and they
know that he is poor, and doubtless wish to help him to a rich wife.
Every one works out their own plan, why should not I do the same? But I
must find out something about that ring, and, as the straight way is the
best way, I will ask Kate the necessary questions. She will be sure to
betray herself."
Then she opened her purse, took out the ring, and placed it upon her
finger, holding up her hand to the blaze to catch its reflections. "It
is a pretty little thing, but I have bought it two or three times
over with my diamond locket. I wonder why Kate never wears that locket!
Is it too fine? Or has she some feeling against me? I gave her it at
Christmas, and I have only seen it once on her neck--that is strange!
I never thought of it before--it really is not much of a ring--I have
twenty finer ones--and I dare say I shall give it back some day: yes,
of course I shall give it back--but at present--" and she stopped
thinking of the demands of the present, and taking the ring off her
finger laid it in the palm of her hand, and softly tossed it and the
Hindoo charm up and down together ere she replaced them in their
receptacle.
Evidently she had arranged things comfortably with herself, for, after
closing the purse, she began to swing it by its golden chain before
the cat's eyes, until the creature became thoroughly annoyed, and
tried to catch the gleaming, tantalising worry with its claws. The
play delighted her; she gave herself up to its tormenting charm, and
for once lost, in the momentary amusement, all consciousness of herself
and her appearance. It was then the great white door swung noiselessly
open, and Lord Exham stood within it. The sensuous little drama, so
full of colour and life, instantly arrested him; and he stood motionless
to watch it. The girl's strong, vivid face, her black hair, her dress
of bright scarlet, her arms and hands flashing with gems, were thrown
into dazzling prominence by the chair of white brocade in which she
sat, and the white rug at her feet, and the lamp shining behind her. She
waved the golden purse before the cat's eyes, and let it almost fall
into the eager paws, and then drew it backward with a little laugh,
and was not aware that she was, in the act, an absolutely bewitching
type of mere physical beauty.
But Piers was aware of it. He forgot everything but delight in the
moving picture; and, as he advanced, he cried, in a voice full of
pleasure, "_Annabel! Annabel!_" And the girl answered her name with
an instantaneous movement towards him. Her radiant face looked into
his face, and ere they were aware they had met in each other's arms
and Piers had kissed her.
She was silent and smiling, and he instantly recovered himself. "I ask
your pardon," he said, releasing her and bowing gravely; "but you are
one of the family, you know, and I have been long away, and am so glad
to get home again that some liberty must be excused me."
"Oh, indeed!" she answered, with a pretty pout, "I think the apology
is the worst part of the business," and she looked into his eyes with
that steady, unwinking gaze which none withstand. Then he drew her
closer, and said softly, "You are simply bewildering to-night, Annabel.
How have you made yourself so beautiful?" As he spoke he led her to her
seat, and drew a chair close to her side; and the cat leaped to his knee
and began to loudly purr her satisfaction in her master's return.
"Are you alone to-night?" he asked. "Or perhaps you are expecting
company?"
"I am alone. I expected no company; but Destiny loves surprises, and
to-night she has surpassed herself. The Duchess has gone to Lady
Paget's. I could not sacrifice myself so far. You know what her
political nights are. And if it is not Relief Bills, and Reform Bills,
then it is Mr. Clarkson and Anti-Slavery; and we are solemnly told to
make little petticoats for the negro children if we desire to go to
heaven." She laughed, and dropped her eyes, and was silent; and the
silence grew dangerous. Fortunately, she herself broke the spell by
asking Piers if he had seen Squire Atheling in Yorkshire.
"We came from Yorkshire together," he said. Then he began to talk about
the election, and in a few minutes a butler announced his dinner, and
Annabel's hour was over.
She was not disappointed. "We went far enough," she thought. "I am not
yet ready to put my hand out further than I can draw it back. I cannot
give up Cecil now; he is the only private pleasure I have. Every other
thing I share with the Duchess, or somebody else. And Piers I should
have to share with her and the Duke. As heir to the dukedom, they will
always retain a right in his time and interests. No, Lord Exham, not
yet--not yet."
She rose with the words, and went to the piano and dashed off in splendid
style that famous old military fantasia, "The Battle of Prague." And
the drift of her uncontrolled thoughts during it may be guessed by the
first query she made of her intelligence when the noisy music ceased:--
"I wonder what the Athelings are doing? Piers says the Squire is at
home. I suppose Mrs. Atheling and Kate are coddling, and petting, and
feeding him."
In some respects Annabel judged fairly well. The Squire reached his home
about the same time that Lord Exham arrived at Richmoor House, and found
Mrs. Atheling waiting to receive him. He made no secret of his joy in
seeing her again. "I was afraid thou mightst be gadding about somewhere,
Maude," he said. "It is pleasant to find thee at home."
"John Atheling!"
"Well, it is too bad to say such a thing, Maude. I knew well I would
find thee at home when there was either chance or likelihood of my
getting back there. But where is little Kitty? It isn't right without
Kitty."
"Well, John, Squire Pickering's family came to London a few days ago,
and Kitty has gone to the theatre with them."
"I'll tell thee a good joke about Squire Pickering, Maude," said
the Squire, laughing heartily as he spoke. "He was feared young Sam
Pickering was going to vote for Reform, and he served a writ on him
for a trespass, or something of that sort, and got him put safely in
jail till voting time was over. Then he quashed the writ and let the
lad out. But, my word! young Sam is fighting furious, and he has treated
his father nearly as bad as Edgar treated me."
"Edgar is going to Parliament now. I told thee he would. John, for
goodness' sake, don't quarrel with him before all England!"
"Maude Atheling! I never quarrelled with Edgar. Never! He quarrelled
with me. If he had done his duty by his father, we would have been finger
and thumb, buckle and strap, yesterday, and to-day, and to-morrow, and
every other day. The Duke says my anger at Edgar is quite reasonable
and justifiable."
"_The Duke!_ So then thou art framing thy opinions to what _he_ says.
Dear me! I wouldn't have believed such a thing could ever come to pass."
"Wait till it _does_ come to pass. Why, Richmoor and I very near came
to quarrelling point because I would _not_ frame my opinions by his
say-so. I have been looking into things a bit, Maude, more than I ever
did before, and I have learned what I am not going to deny for anybody.
I met Philip Brotherton of Knaseborough, and he asked me to go home
with him for two or three days--You know Philip and I have been friends
ever since we were lads, and our fathers before us."
"I know that."
"So I went with him, and he showed me how working men live and labour
in such towns as Leeds and Manchester; and I am not going to say less
than it is a sin and a shame to keep human beings alive on such terms. I
do not believe any Reform Bill is going to help them; but they ought to
be helped; and they must be helped; or else government is nothing but
blunderment, and legislating nothing but folly. And I said as much
to Richmoor, and he asked me if my son had been lecturing me; and I
told him I had been using my own eyes, and my own ears, and my own
conscience."
"What did he say to that?"
"He said, 'Squire, I do not like your associating with Philip
Brotherton. The man has radical ideas, though he does not profess
them.' And I said, 'I like Philip Brotherton, and I shall associate
with him whenever I can make it convenient to do so; and as for his
ideas, if they are radical, then Christianity is radical; and as for
professing them, Philip Brotherton does better than that, he lives
them;' and I went on to say that I thought it would be a right and
righteous thing if both landlords and loomlords would do the same."
"My word, John! Thou didst speak up! I'll warrant Richmoor was angry
enough."
The Squire laughed a little as he answered, "Well, Maude, he got as red
in the face as a turkey-cock, and he asked me if I was really going to
be Philip Brotherton's fool. And I answered, 'No, I am like you,
Duke, I do my own business in that line.' And he said, '_Squire
Atheling!_' and turned on his heel and walked one way; and I said,
'_Duke Richmoor!_' and turned on my heel and walked the other way. Now
then, Maude, dost thou think he orders my opinions for me?"
And Mrs. Atheling smiled understandingly in her lord's face, and cut
him a double portion from the best part of the haunch of venison she was
carving.
A few days after this event Annabel called one morning at the Athelings.
She expected Cecil North to be there, and he was not there; she waited
for him to come, and he did not come; she tried in many devious ways
to get Kate to express an opinion about his absence, and Kate seemed
entirely unconscious of it. It provoked her into an ill-natured anger;
and, casting about in her mind for something disagreeable to say, she
remembered her resolve to find out how the sapphire ring came to be in
Lord Exham's possession. Even if "the straight way had not been the
best way," she was by nature inclined to direct inquiries; and she
had just proven in her mental manoeuvring about Cecil North that
indirect methods were not satisfactory. So she said bluntly:--
"Kate, did you ever hear about Lord Exham losing a ring he valued very
much?"
"Yes," answered Kate, without the slightest embarrassment; "it was
my mother's ring."
"Your mother's ring?"
"Yes."
"But Lord Exham had it on his finger."
"My mother loaned it to him. He admired it very much, and wished to have
one made like it."
"The Duchess was sure that some lady had given it to him as a love gage.
Do you know that he has fretted himself sick about its loss?"
[Illustration:]
"Oh, no! I am sure he is not sick. My mother made light of the loss to
him, though she really was very much attached to that particular ring."
"Have I ever seen her wear it?"
"No. It was too small for her."
"Then it was a simple souvenir?"
"It was more than that; it was her betrothal ring. Father bought it in
Venice."
"Oh!"
"But she had a slim little hand, then--like mine is now--" said Kate,
laughing, and spreading out her hand for Annabel to observe.
"Then you must have been talking of rings, and shown it to him."
"I was wearing it. I had it on during the lunch hour, and you were
present. It is a wonder you did not notice it, for you are so curious
about finger-rings."
"Yes, I am quite a ring collector."
"It was rather a singular ring."
"Will you describe it to me?"
Kate did so, and Annabel listened with apparent curiosity. "I wonder
what Exham could want with such a queer ring," she said in answer.
"Perhaps he is also a ring collector."
"Perhaps!" But the one word by no means explained the thoughts forming
in her mind. She rose, and, lifting her bonnet, went to a mirror and
carefully tied the satin ribbons under her chin, in the big bows then
considered vastly becoming. Kate tried to arrest her hands. "Stay
and take lunch with us," she urged. "Edgar is sure to be here; and
I should like him to see you in that pretty cloth pelisse."
"Mr. Atheling never notices me; then why should he notice my pelisse?
I heard Lady Inglis say that he is very much in Miss Curzon's society.
If so, he will clash with his friend Mr. North, who is also her devoted
slave."
"Now, Annabel! You know that Cecil North loves no one but you."
"How can you be so wise about his love-affairs?"
"No great wisdom is needed to see what he cannot hide."
"Was he here yesterday?"
"He was here last night. He called to tell us he was going to Westover
on some business for his father. I suppose he wanted you to know."
"But you never thought of telling me. How selfish girls in love are!
They cannot think a thought beyond their own lover. I declare I was going
without giving you my news,--the Duchess has a large dinner party on
the first of March. The Tory ladies will wait in her rooms the reading
of this famous Reform Bill that Lord John Russell is concocting, and
there will be a great crowd. Kate, if I was you, I would wear your court
dress. It is very unlikely that the Queen will receive at all this
season."
"Perhaps we shall not be invited to the dinner."
"You certainly will be invited. I heard the list read, and as your name
begins with 'A' it was almost the first. If Mr. Atheling does come to
lunch, give him my respects and describe my pelisse to him."
She went away with this mocking message, and was driven first to a famous
jeweller's, where she bought a sapphire band sufficiently like the
one Lord Exham had lost to pass for it, if the view was cursory and at a
distance. Kate's confidence had made one course exceedingly plain to
Annabel. She said to herself as she drove through the city streets,
"My best plan is evidently to arouse Squire Atheling's suspicions.
I will let him see the ring on my hand. I will lead him to think Piers
gave it to me. He will of course make inquiries, and I wonder what Mrs.
Atheling and Kate will say. It is a pretty piece of confusion--and,
if the matter goes too far, I reserve the power to play the good fairy
and put all right. This is a complication I shall enjoy thoroughly,
and I am sure, with nothing on earth but Reform and Revolution in my
ears, I deserve some little private amusement. All I have to do is to
be constantly ready for opportunities."
Opportunities, however, with Squire Atheling, were few and far between.
It was not until the day before the first of March she found one. On
that afternoon she called at the Athelings, and found Mrs. and Miss
Atheling out. The Squire was walking from the fire-place to the window,
and from the window to the fire-place, and grumbling at their absence.
Miss Vyner's entrance diverted him for a few minutes; and as they
were talking a servant brought in a small package. The Squire took it up,
and laid it down, and then took it up again, and was evidently either
anxious or curious concerning its contents.
"Why do you not open your package, Squire?" asked Annabel.
"Well, young lady, I am not going to act as if your presence was not
entertainment enough and to spare."
"Nonsense! Please do not stand on ceremony with me. It may contain
important papers--something relating to Church or State. I am only a
young woman. Open it, Squire."
"Well, then, if you say so, I will open it," and he began fumbling at
the well-tied string. Annabel saw her opportunity. In a moment she had
slipped on to the forefinger of her right hand the lost ring, and the
next moment she had gently pushed aside the Squire's hands, and was
saying, "Let me unfasten the knots. I am cleverer at that work than
you."
"To be sure you are. There is work little fingers do better than big
ones, and this is that kind of a job. But I will get my knife and cut
the knots; that is the best and quickest way."
He began to hunt in his pockets for his knife, but could not find it.
"Dobson never does put things where they ought to be," he said
fretfully; and then he pulled the bell-rope for Dobson with a force
that fully indicated his annoyance. In the mean time, Annabel was
quietly untying the string, and the Squire naturally watched her
efforts. He was complaining and scolding his servant and his womenkind,
and Annabel did not heed him; but when he suddenly stopped speaking,
in the middle of a sentence, she looked into his face. It expressed the
blankest wonder and curiosity. His eyes were fixed upon her hands, and
he would probably have asked her some inconvenient question if Dobson
had not entered at the moment. Then Annabel retired. Dobson had taken
the parcel in charge, and she excused herself from further delay.
"I have several things to do," she said, "and I shall only be in the
way of the parcel and its contents. Tell Mrs. Atheling and Kate that I
called, will you, Squire?"
"To be sure! To be sure, Miss Vyner," he answered; but his eyes were on
the papers Dobson was unfolding, and his mind was vaguely wandering to
the ring he had seen on her finger. When he had satisfied his curiosity
concerning the papers, his thoughts returned with persistent wonder to
it. "I'll wager my best hunter, yes, I'll wager _Flying Selma_ that
was the ring I bought in Venice and gave to Maude. How did that girl
get it? Maude would never sell it or give it away. Never! _Dal it!_ there
is something queer in her having it. I must find out how it comes to
pass."
When he arrived at this decision Mrs. Atheling came into the room. She
was rosy and smiling, and put aside with sweet good nature the Squire's
complaints about both her and Kitty being out of the house when he was
in it. "Not a soul to say a word to me, or to see that I had a bit of
comfortable eating," he said in a tone of injury.
"Never mind, John!"
"Oh, but I do mind! I mind a great deal, Maude."
"You see, it was Kitty wanted me. She had to have a new clasp to the
pearl necklace your mother left her; and she was sure you would like me
to choose it, so I went with her. I thought we should certainly be home
before you got back."
"Well, never mind, then. Nothing suits me so much as to see Kitty
suited. I hope you bought a clasp good enough for the necklace."
"I did not forget that she was going with you to-morrow night."
"But you are going too, Maude?"
"Nay, I am not. When I can shut my ears as easy as my eyes, I can afford
to be less particular about the company I keep. I know beforehand what
the women in that crowd will say about their own danger, and about the
murmuring poor who won't starve in peace, and I know that I would be
sure to answer them with a little bit of plain truth."
"And the truth is not always pleasant, eh, Maude?"
"In this case I'm sure it wouldn't be pleasant. So, then, the outside
of Richmoor House is the best side for me."
"I must say I'm getting a bit tired myself of the Duke's masterful
way, and of his everlasting talk about the 'noble memories of the
past.'"
"Then tell him, John, that the noble hopes of the future are something
better than the noble memories of the past. The country is in a bad
condition as ever was. Something must be done, and done quickly."
"I'm saying nothing to the contrary, Maude. But even if Reform was
right, it cannot be carried. We must drive the nail that will go. That
is only good common-sense, Maude."
"Mark my words, John. Reform will _have_ to come, and better now than
later. That which fools do in the end, wise men do in the beginning. I
know, I know."
"On this subject thou knowest nothing whatever, Maude. Now, then, I
am going to have a bit of sleep. But I will say thus far--as soon as
ever I am sure that I am on a wrong road I won't go a step further.
John Atheling is not the man to carry a candle for the devil."
With these words he threw his bandana handkerchief over his head,
adding, "He hoped now he had a 'right' to a bit of sleep." Then Mrs.
Atheling went softly out of the room. There was a tolerant smile on her
face, for she was not deceived by the Squire's habit of dignifying his
self-assertions and his self-indulgences with the name of "rights."