“But, if he goes,” creaked the staircase, “he may return. They used to say in my young days that the heart grows fonder through absence.”
“Rubbish,” banged the door on the first landing. “Rubbish, I say.”
“He'll go,” ticked the grandfather clock pessimistically. “He'll go. He'll go.”
“Not if I know it,” shouted the door and banged again.
We had come to a few nights before Christmas. Which night I do not remember, but I recall that we had started our decorations. Mistletoe was hanging in the hall. Holly had been arranged along the tops of the picture-frames. The children had been full of whisperings and secrets. Parcels had already begun to arrive. They were handed in with a crackling of paper and smuggled upstairs to a big cupboard in which they were hidden from prying eyes. The children were now in bed, sleeping quietly for fear of offending Santa Claus. The little lady was in the room where she worked, checking over her list of presents. She had got something for everyone but Robbie; she had postponed buying Robbie's present for a very special reason of which we were all aware. Perhaps it was superstition; perhaps a desperate hope. He had told her what he wanted; it didn't look as if she would be able to get it. “It's no good waiting,” she told herself; “I shall have to buy him something tomorrow.” Just then, as if in answer to her thoughts, an impatient rat-tat-tat re-sounded. It was his unmistakably, but he had never come so late as this before. All day she had listened and been full of foreboding; she had despaired of his ever coming. There was an interval after the door had been opened, during which he removed his coat. She could picture his awkwardness in doing it. Then the swift, leaping step of him mounting the stairs. Why had he delayed so long, only to come to her at the last moment in such a hurry? She rose from her chair to face him, her hands clenched and her body tense, as if to resist a physical blow. As he appeared in the doorway his lips were smiling. There was evidently something which he was bursting to tell her. On catching sight of her face he halted. His smile faded.
“What's the matter? What's happened?” She unclenched her hands and looked away from him. “Nothing.”
“There must be something. Something's troubling you. What have you been doing with yourself this evening?”
Her gaze came back to him. She smiled feebly. “Wondering whether you were coming and worrying over Robbie's present.”
“Robbie's present! That's nothing to worry over. We'II go together and choose one tomorrow. I'll have time.”
“Time!” She straightened up bravely, the way she had rehearsed the scene so often in her imagination. “Then it's true. You won't be here for Christmas? You're sailing?”