As things stood at present his rest
was wholly at the mercy of the night-bell--a remorseless instrument,
given chiefly to pealing just as he had managed to drop off. Its
gentlest tinkle was enough to rouse him--long before it had succeeded
in penetrating the ears of the groom, who was supposed to open. And when
it remained silent for a night, some trifling noise in the road would
simulate its jangle in his dreams. "It's a wonder I have any nerves
left," he grumbled, as the hot, red dawns crept in at the sides of the
bedroom-window. For the shortening of his sleep at one end did not mean
that he could make it up at the other. All that summer he had fallen
into the habit of waking at five o'clock, and not being able to doze off
again. The narrowest bar of light on the ceiling, the earliest twitter
of the sparrows was enough to strike him into full consciousness; and
Mary was hard put to it to darken the room and ensure silence; and would
be till the day came when he could knock off work and take a thorough
holiday. This he promised himself to do, before he was very much older.
Chapter II
Mary sat with pencil and paper and wrinkled her brows. She was composing
a list, and every now and then, after an inward calculation, she lowered
the pencil to note such items as: three tipsy-cakes, four trifles, eight
jam-sandwiches. John Turnham had run up from Melbourne to fetch home
wife and child; and his relatives were giving a musical card-party in
his honour.
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