“Then ‘good-night.’ I am afraid there will be trouble.”
Mrs. Atheling and Kate were afraid also. The murmur of the crowd grew louder and louder as the tenor of the King’s speech became known; and many a time they wished themselves in the safety and solitude of their Yorkshire home. So they talked, and watched, and listened until the night was far advanced. Then they heard the firm, strong step of the Squire on the pavement; and his imperative voice in denial of something said by a group of men whom he passed. In a few minutes he entered the drawing-room with an angry light in his eyes, and the manner of a man exasperated by opposition.
“Whatever is it, John? Is there trouble already?” asked Mrs. Atheling.
“Plenty of it, and like to be more. The King has spoken like a fool.”
“John Atheling! His Majesty!”
“His Imbecility! I tell you what, Maude, there has been enough said to-day, and to-night, to set all the dogs of civil war loose. Give me a bit of eating, and I will tell thee and Kitty what a lot of idiots are met together in Westminster.”
The Squire always wanted a deal of waiting upon; and in a few minutes his valet was bringing him easy slippers and a loose coat, and two handmaidens serving a tray, bearing game pastry, and fruit tarts, and clotted cream. But he would take neither wine, nor strong ale,–
“Water is all a man wants that gets himself stirred up in the House of Commons,” he said. “And if I had been in the Lords’ House, I would have needed nothing but a strait-jacket.”