‘Leave it to me!—­and my Trojan women!’

And Agamemnon’s scoffing reply—­poor idiot!—­’How can women get the better of men?’

And Hecuba’s ghastly low-voiced ’In a crowd we are terrible!’—­[Greek:  deinon to plethos]—­as she and her women turn upon the Thracian, put out his eyes, and tear his children limb from limb.

But one woman might be quite enough to upset a quiet man’s way of living!  The moral pressure of it was so iniquitous!  Your convictions or your life!  It was the language of a footpad.

To pull down the hurdles, and tamely let in Chicksands and his minions—­how odious!  To part with Elizabeth Bremerton and to be reduced again to the old chaos and helplessness—­how still more odious!  As to the war—­so like a woman to suppose that any war was ever fought with unanimity by any country!  Look at the Crimea!—­the Boer War!—­the Napoleonic Wars themselves, if it came to that!  Why was Fox a patriot, and he a traitor?  Let her answer that!

And all the time, Elizabeth’s light touch upon his will was like the curb on a stubborn horse.  Once as he passed her table angry curiosity took him to look at some finished work that was lying there.  Perfection!  Intelligence, accuracy, the clearest of scripts!  All his hints taken—­and bettered in the taking.  Beside it lay some slovenly manuscripts of Levasseur’s.  He could see the corners of Miss Bremerton’s mouth go up as she looked it through.  Well, now he was to be left to Levasseur’s tender mercies—­after all he had taught her!  And the accounts, and the estate, and these infernal rations, that no human being could understand!

The Squire’s self-pity rose upon him like a flood.  Just at the worst, he heard a knock at the library door.  Before he could say ‘Come in,’ it was hurriedly opened, and his two married daughters confronted him—­Pamela, too, behind them.

‘Father!’ cried Mrs. Gaddesden, ’you must please let us come and speak to you!’

What on earth was wrong with them?  Alice—­for whom her father had more contempt than affection—­looked merely frightened; but Margaret’s eyes were angry, and Pamela’s reproachful.  The Squire braced himself to endurance.

‘What do you want with me?’

’Father!—­we never thought you meant it seriously!  And now Forest says all the gates are closed, and that the village is up in arms.  The labourers declare that if the County plough is turned back to-morrow, they’ll break them down themselves.  And when we’re all likely to be starving in six months!’

’You really can’t expect working-folk to stand quietly by and see such a thing!’ said Margaret in her intensest voice.  ’Do, father, let me send Forest at once to tell the gardeners to open all the gates.’

The Squire defied her to do any such thing.  What was all the silly fuss about?  The County people could open the gates in half-an-hour if they wanted.  It was a demonstration—­a protest—­a case to go to the Courts on.  He had principles—­if no one else had.  And if they weren’t other people’s principles, what did it matter?  He was ready to stand by them, to go to prison for them.  He folded his arms magnificently.