“My word! My word!” he exclaimed, as soon as the Duke and he were far enough back to back. “Won’t Maude be set up? Won’t little Kitty plume her wings?” and in this vague, purposeless sense of wonder and elation he reached his home. The gates to the large, sweet garden stood open, but after a moment’s thought, he passed them, and went round to the farm court at the back of the house. The stables occupied one side of this court, and he left his horse there, and proceeded to the kitchen. The girls were starting the fires under the coppers for the quarterly brewing; they said “the Missis was in the houseplace,” and the Squire opened the door between the two rooms, and went into the houseplace. But the large room was empty, though the lattices were open, and a sudden great waft of honeysuckle fragrance saluted him as he passed them. He noticed it, and he noticed also the full moonlight on the rows of shining pewter plates and flagons, though he was not conscious at the time that these things had made any impression upon him.

Two or three steps at the west end of this room led to a door which opened into Mrs. Atheling’s parlour; and the Squire passed it impatiently. The news of the night had become too much for him; he wanted to tell his wife. But Mrs. Atheling was not in her parlour. A few ash logs were burning brightly on the hearth, and there was a round table spread for supper, and the candles were lit, and showed him the mistress’s little basket containing her keys and her knitting, but neither wife nor daughter were to be seen.

“It is always the way,” he muttered. “It is enough to vex any man. Women are sure to be out of the road when they are wanted; and in the road when nobody cares to see them. Wherever has Maude taken herself?” Then he opened a door and called “Maude! Maude!” in no gentle voice.

In a few minutes the call was answered. Mrs. Atheling came hurriedly into the room. There was a pleasant smile on her large, handsome face, and she carried in her hands a bowl of cream and a loaf of white bread. “Why, John!” she exclaimed, “whatever is to do? I was getting a bit of supper for you. You are late home to-night, aren’t you?”

“I should think I was–all of an hour-and-a-half late.”

“But you are not ill, John? There is nothing wrong, I hope?”

“If things go a bit out of the common way, women always ask if they have gone wrong. I should think, they might as well go right.”

“So they might. Here is some fresh cream, John. I saw after it myself; and the haver-cake is toasted, and–”

“Nay, but I’ll have my drinking to-night, Maude. I have been flustered more than a little, I can tell thee that.”

“Then you shall have your drinking. We tapped a fresh barrel of old ale an hour ago. It is that strong and fine as never was; by the time you get to your third pint, you will be ready to make faces at Goliath.”

“Well, Maude, if making faces means making fight, there will be enough of that in every county of England soon,–if Dukes and Radical orators are to be believed.”

“Have you seen the Duke to-night?”

“I have. He has offered me a seat in the next Parliament. He thinks there is a big fight before us.”

“Parliament! And the Duke of Richmoor to seat you! Why, John, I am astonished!”

“I felt like I was dreaming. Now then, where is Kate? I want to tell the little maid about it. It will be a grand thing for Kate. She will have some chances in London, and I’ll warrant she is Yorkshire enough to take the best of them.”

“Kate was at Dashwood’s all the afternoon; and they were riding races; and she came home tired to death. I tucked her up in her bed an hour ago.”

“I am a bit disappointed; but things are mostly ordered that way. There is something else to tell you, Maude. I saw a stranger on the green throw Bill Verity and Adam Sedbergh; and I could not stand such nonsense as that, so I off with my coat and settled him.”

“You promised me that you would not ‘stand up’ any more, John. Some of them youngsters will give you a ‘throw’ that you won’t get easy over. And you out of practice too.”

“Out of practice! Nothing of the sort. What do you think I do with myself on wet afternoons? What could I do with myself, but go to the granary and have an hour or two’s play with Verity and Sedbergh, or any other of the lads that care to feel my grip? I have something else to tell you, Maude. I had a talk with this strange lad. He began some Reform nonsense; and I settled him very cleverly.”

“Poor lad!” She spoke sadly and absently, and it nettled the Squire. “I know what you are thinking, Mistress,” he said; “but the time has come when we are bound to stick to our own side.”

“The poor are suffering terribly, John. They are starved and driven to the last pinch. There never was anything like it before.”

“Women are a soft lot; it would not do to give up to their notions.”

“If you mean that women have soft hearts, it is a good thing for men that women are that way made.”

“I have not done with my wonders yet. Who do you think was with the Duke?”

“I don’t know, and I can’t say that I care.”

“Yes, but you do. It was Lord Exham. He said this and that about you, but I did not take much notice of his fine words.” Then he rose and pushed his chair aside, and as he left the room added,–

“That stranger lad I had the tussle with to-night says he knows your son Edgar–that they have lived and worked together for a year,–a very unlikely thing.”

“Stop a minute, Squire. Are you not ashamed of yourself to keep this news for a tag-end? Why it is the best thing I have heard to-night; and I’ll be bound you let it go past you like a waft of wind. What did you ask the stranger about my son?”

“Nothing. Not a word.”

“It was like your stubborn heart. My son indeed! If ever you had a son, it is Edgar. You were just like him when I married you–not as handsome–but very near; and you are as like as two garden peas in your pride, and self-will, and foolish anger. Don’t talk to me of Dukes, and Lords, and Parliaments, and wrestling matches. I want to hear about my son. If you have nothing to say about Edgar, I care little for your other news.”

“Why, Maude! Whatever is the matter with you? I have lived with you thirty years, and it seems that I have never known you yet.”

“But I know you, John Atheling. And I am ashamed of myself for having made nothing better out of you in thirty years. I thought I had you better shaped than you appear to be.”

“I shall need nothing but my shroud, when thou, or any other mortal, shapest me.”

“Fiddlesticks! Go away with your pride! I have shaped everything for you,–your house, and your eating; your clothes, and your religion; and if I had ever thought you would have fallen into Duke Richmoor’s hands, I would have shaped your politics before this time of day.”

“Now, Maude, thou canst easily go further than thou canst come back, if thou dost not take care. Thou must remember that I am thy lord and husband.”

“To be sure, thou hast that name. But thou hast always found it best to do as thy lady and mistress told thee to do; and if ever thou didst take thy own way, sorry enough thou hast been for it. Talk of clay in the hands of the potter! Clay is free and independent to what a man is in the hands of his wife. Now, John, go to bed. I won’t speak to thee again till I find out something about my son Edgar.”

“Very well, Madame.”

“I have been thy guardian angel for thirty years”–and Mrs. Atheling put her head in her hands, and began to cry a little. The Squire could not bear that argument; he turned backward a few steps, and said in a more conciliatory voice,–

“Come now, Maude. Thou hast been my master for thirty years; for that is what thou meanest by ‘guardian angel.’ But there is nothing worth crying about. I thought I had brought news that would set thee up a bit; but women are never satisfied. What dost thou want more?”

“I want thee to go in the morning and find out all about Edgar. I want thee to bring his friend up here. I would like to question him myself.”

“I will not do it.”

“Then thou oughtest to be ashamed of thyself for as cruel, and stubborn, and ill-conditioned a father as I know of. John, dear John, I am very unhappy about the lad. He went away without a rag of his best clothes. There’s the twelve fine linen shirts Kitty made him, backstitched and everything, lying in his drawers yet, and his top-coat hanging on the peg in his room, and his hat and cane so natural like; and he never was a lad to take care of his health; and so–”

“Now, Maude, I have humbled a bit to thee many a time; and I don’t mind it at all; for thou art only a woman–and a woman and a wife can blackguard a man as no other body has either the right or the power to do–but I will not humble to Edgar Atheling. No, I won’t! He is about as bad a prodigal son as any father could have.”

“Well, I never! Putting thy own son down with harlots and swine, and such like!”

“I do nothing of the sort, Maude. There’s all kinds of prodigals. Has not Edgar left his home and gone away with Radicals and Reformers, and poor, discontented beggars of all makes and kinds? Happen, I could have forgiven him easier if it had been a bit of pleasuring,–wine and a bonny lass, or a race-horse or two. But mechanics’ meetings, and pandering to ranting Radicals–I call it scandalous!”

“Edgar has a good heart.”

“A good heart! A cat and a fiddle! And that friend of his thou wantest me to run after, he is nothing but a bouncing, swaggering puppy! Body of me, Maude! I will not have this subject named again. If thou thinkest I will ever humble to Edgar Atheling, thou art off thy horse; for I will not–never!”

“Well, John, as none of thy family were ever out of their senses before, I do hope thou wilt come round; I do indeed!”

“Make thyself easy on that score. Lord! What did the Almighty make women of? It confounds me.”

“To be sure it does. Didst thou expect the Almighty to tell thee? He has so ordered things that men get wed, and then try and find the secret out. Thou hadst better go to bed, John Atheling. I see plainly there is neither sense nor reason in thee to-night. I fancy thou art a bit set up with the thought of being sent to Parliament by Duke Richmoor. I wouldn’t if I was thee, for thou wilt have to do just what he tells thee to do.”

“What an aggravating woman thou art!” and with the words he passed through the door, clashing it after him in a way that made Mistress Atheling smile and nod her handsome head understandingly. She stood waiting until she heard a door clash sympathetically up-stairs, and then she said softly,–

“He did not manage to ‘throw’ or ‘threep’ me; if he was cock of the walk down on the green–what fools men are!–I see clear through him–stubborn though–takes after his mother–and there never was a woman more stubborn than Dame Joan Atheling.”

During this soliloquy she was locking up the cupboards in the parlour and houseplace. Then she opened the kitchen door and sharply gave the two women watching the malt mash her last orders; after which she took off her slippers at the foot of the stairs, and went very quietly up them. She had no light, but without any hesitation she turned towards a certain corridor, and gently pushed open a door. It let her into a large, low room; and the moonlight showed in the centre of it a high canopied bedstead, piled with snowy pillows and drapery, and among them, lying with closed eyes, her daughter Kate.

“Kate! Kitty darling! Are you awake?” she whispered.

“Mother! Yes, dear Mother, I am wide awake.”

“Your father has been in one of his tantrums again–fretting and fuming like everything.”

“Poor father! What angered him?”

“Well, child, I angered him. Why wouldn’t I? He saw a man in the village who has been living with Edgar for a year, and he never asked him whether your poor brother was alive or dead. What do you think of that?”

“It was too bad. Never mind, Mother. I will go to the village in the morning, and I will find the man, and hear all about Edgar. If there is any chance, and you want to see him, I will bring him here.”

“I would like him to come here, Kitty; for you know he might take Edgar his best clothes. The poor lad must be in rags by this time.”

“Don’t fret, Mother. I’ll manage it.”

“I knew you would. Your father is going to Parliament, Kate. The Duke offers to seat him, and you will get up to London. What do you think of that?”

“I am very glad to hear it. Father ought to be in Parliament. He is such a straight-forward man.”

“Well, I don’t know whether that kind of man is wanted there, Kate; but he will do right, and speak plain, I have no doubt. I thought I would tell you at once. It is something to look forward to. Now go to sleep and dream of what may come out of it,–for one thing, you shall have plenty of fine new dresses–good-night, my dear child.”

“Good-night, Mother. You may go sweetly to sleep, for I will find out all about Edgar. You shall be at rest before dinner-time to-morrow.” Then the mother stooped and tucked in the bedclothing, not because it needed it, but because it was a natural and instinctive way to express her care and tenderness. Very softly she stepped to the door, but ere she reached it, turned back to the bed, and laying her hand upon Kitty’s head whispered, “Lord Exham is home again. He is coming here to-morrow.”

And Kate neither spoke nor moved; but when she knew that she was quite alone, a sweet smile gathered round her lips, and with a gentle sigh she went quickly away to the Land of Happy Dreams.