The Squire, pleased with himself, and glad that the business was over, was in a good humor, and he joined in the laugh. “It will teach you not to be too free with your signature, my girl,” he said. “When you come some day to have a cheque book, you’ll find that that won’t do! Won’t do, at all! Well, thank God, that’s done.” Arthur, who was stooping over the table, adding his own name, completed his task. He stood up. “Yes, sir, that’s done. Done!” he repeated in an odd, rising tone. “And now—the lease goes back to Welsh’s. Shall I lock up the counterpart—downstairs, sir?” “No, lad,” the Squire announced. “I’ll do that myself o’ Monday.” “But it’s no trouble, sir.” He held out his hand for the keys. “And perhaps the sooner it’s locked up—the tenant’s signed it, and it is complete now—the safer.” But, “No, no, time enough!” the Squire persisted. “I’ll put it back on Monday. I am not so helpless now I can’t manage that, and I shall be downstairs o’ Monday.” For a moment Arthur hesitated. He looked as if something troubled him. But in the end, “Very good, sir. Then that’s all?” he said. “Ay; put the counterpart in the old bureau there. ’Twill be safe there till Monday. How’s the wine? Fill my glass and fill your own, lad. You can go, Jos. Tell Calamy to come to me at half-past nine.” CHAPTER XXVIII The next day, Sunday, was raw and wet. Mist blotted out the hills, and beneath it the vale mourned. The trees dripped sadly, pools gathered about the roots of the beeches, the down-spouts of the eaves gurgled softly in the ears of those who sat near the windows. Miss Peacock alone ventured to church in the afternoon, Arthur walking with her as far as the door, and then going on to the Cottage to have tea with his mother. Josina stayed at home in attendance on her father, but ten minutes after the others had left the house, he dismissed her with a fractious word. She went down to the dining-room, where she could hear his summons if he tapped the floor. She poked up the smouldering logs, and looked through the windows at the dreary scene—the day was already drawing in—then, settling herself before the fire, she opened a book. But she did not read, indeed she hardly pretended to read, for across the page of the Sunday volume, in black capitals, blotting out the type, forcing itself on her brain, insistent, inexorable, unavoidable, the word “When?” imprinted itself. Ay, when? When was she going to summon Clement, and give him leave to speak? When was she going to keep her word, to make a clean breast of it to her father and confront the storm, the violence of which her worst fears could not picture or exaggerate? “When?”