“Bah! Savage!” growled Wilton, as the door closed. “There, Maria, no doubt about it now.”
“No, my dear, and we can sleep in peace.”
But Mrs Wilton was wrong save and except the little nap she had after dinner while her husband was smoking his pipe; for that night, just before the last light was out—that last light being in the Squire’s room where certain arrangements connected with hair and pieces of paper had detained Mrs Wilton nearly half an hour after her husband had announced in regular cadence that he was fast asleep—there came a long ringing at the hall door bell.
It was so utterly unexpected in the silence and solitude of the country place that Mrs Wilton sprang from her seat in front of the dressing-glass, jarring the table so that a scent-bottle fell with a crash, and injuring her knees.
“James—James!” she cried.
“Eh, what’s the matter?” came from the bed, as the Squire sat up suddenly.
“Fire! Fire! Another stack burning, I’m sure.”
Wilton sprang out of bed, ran to the window, tore aside the blind, flung open the casement, and looked down.
“Where is it?” he shouted, for he had more than once been summoned from his bed to rick fires.
“Where’s what?” came in a familiar voice.