Hubert Stone had also donned a new suit of gentlemanly attire this morning, and even old Aaron wore his best clothes and a particularly well-starched cravat. The Squire's long-wished-for birthday must be observed appropriately. The maids were gladdened by new gowns and muslin aprons trimmed with ribbons, Dorothy Stone by a cap of rich old lace. Dorothy, however, did not seem to find much pleasure in the day; she sat by the fire in her room, complaining of neuralgia, with a frightened expression of face, and a dazed look in her eyes.
The grand old entrance-doors were flung open to-day. A cheerful fire burnt in the hall, where no fire had been known to burn for years. A Turkey carpet covered the middle of the floor, on which stood a carved table of black oak: on the table was an antique silver salver for the reception of callers' cards. Tubs containing orange-trees and shrubs from the conservatory stood in each corner of the hall.
Nothing, however, could put Aaron into a good temper when he chose to be in a bad one. He wandered about like a restless ghost, peering into this place and that, scolding the maids, grumbling at his nephew, and eyeing Dr. Jago askance as though he were some malign wizard.
Shortly after noon the carriage of the first caller drove up--that of the Vicar, the Reverend Francis Kettle. His daughter would have been with him but that she was from home. He was received in the hall by Dr. Jago and Hubert Stone. A few words passed, and then Mr. Kettle expressed his strong desire to see once more, once more to shake by the hand, his dear old friend the Squire. Dr. Jago was blandly sorry, but refused. The fact was, he said, that the Squire had passed a very restless and uneasy night, having hardly slept at all. An hour ago he had fallen into a refreshing sleep, which it was to be hoped would last for several hours, and be of great benefit to him. Still, if the Vicar pressed it, Mr. Denison should be awakened, and----
"Not for worlds," interrupted the Vicar, hastily. "I would not have him awakened on any account. You will not fail to offer him my congratulations, and to say how greatly I hope to see him. Perhaps another day he may be able to receive a short visit from an old friend."
"No doubt he will be," returned Dr. Jago, quite warmly. "He had been saving himself up for to-day, you must understand, sir, intending to see just one or two esteemed friends; and--and now this wretched past night has marred it."
Other carriages drove up in quick succession after the Vicar's departure, till nearly every person of consideration in the neighbourhood had either called or left cards. To all inquiries the same reply was given: Mr. Denison had hoped to receive a friend or two to-day, but he had passed a restless and uneasy night, and had lately fallen into a deep and refreshing sleep, which it would be undesirable to disturb.
One caller, especially full of regret at not being able to see the Squire, was Lady Maria Skeffington. Maria Kettle was her goddaughter, and had been named after her. She was a withered-up maiden of sixty-five. Lady Maria gazed round the entrance-hall with a sigh, and recalled the time when she had felt so sure that she should one day be mistress of Heron Dyke. Some forty years previously Mr. Denison had danced with her several times at the county balls, and had paid her other little attentions when they met; and she, following the fashion of young maidens, had taken it for granted that he meant to ask her to be his wife. But the longed-for declaration never came, and hope gradually died out of her heart. Still, as Lady Maria often told herself, she had never been so near matrimony before or after, and she yet cherished a half-tender recollection of the handsome young Squire. They had remained good friends: and to-day, a white-haired old woman, Lady Maria felt an intense longing in her heart to see him once again before he should go hence. When told that it might not be, she dropped her veil and went back to her carriage, crying softly to herself.
About five o'clock a message reached the Hall from Mr. Toomes, the leader of the Nullington string band. Mr. Toomes wished to know whether the band might be permitted to pay their respects to the Squire on his birthday, by playing a few select pieces at the Hall during the evening.
Old Aaron took the message into the Squire's room with an ill grace; he would have liked to refuse had he dared; and he came back in a few minutes with the Squire's gracious answer--he would be very much pleased to receive the band at half-past eight.