“God knows, child! I do not believe the country will ever settle to work again until it gets what it wants.”
“Then will the House sit all summer?”
“I think it will.”
At these words a long, cheerful “hallo!”–the Squire’s own call in the hunting-field–was heard; and Kate, crying, “I told you so!” ran rapidly into the garden. The Squire was just entering the gates at a gallop. He drew rein, threw himself off his horse, and took his daughter in his arms.
“I am so glad, Father!” she cried. “So happy, Father! I knew you were coming! I knew you were coming! I did that!”
“Nay, not thou! I told nobody.”
“Your heart told my heart. Ask mother. Here she comes.”
Then, late as it was, the quiet house suddenly became full of noise and bustle; and the hubbub that usually followed the Squire’s advent was everywhere apparent. For he wanted all at once,–his meat and his drink, his easy coat and his slippers, his pipe and his dogs, and his serving men and women. He wanted to hear about the ploughing, and the sowing, and the gardening; about the horses, and the cattle, and the markets; the farm hands, and the tenants of the Atheling cottages. He wanted his wife’s report, and his steward’s report, and his daughter’s petting and opinions. The night wore on to midnight before he would speak of London, or the House, or the Bill.
“I may surely have a little bit of peace, Maude,” he said reproachfully, when she ventured to introduce the subject; “it has been the Bill, and the Bill, and the Bill, till my ears ache with the sound of the words.”
“Just tell us if it has passed, John.”