He would be sitting very still in his big chair, with that curious, almost fateful stillness of the men bred in the Dales. His tall, slow-moving figure would be bent a little, his square, quiet hand laid along the smooth wood of the chair-arm, his tranquil face turned towards the fire.
It would be such a good fire, too—Slinker’s wife, through Christian’s warm coat, felt the cold strike her like a knife—a great, roaring, glowing, gladsome fire, filling full the big mouth of the chimney, and flinging splashes of brightness over the half-shadowed room. There would be holly, too, perhaps, and a bunch of mistletoe over the outer door. Dixon had once wanted to kiss her under a bunch of mistletoe. He had held her hands and looked at her with grave eyes, but he would not kiss her in jest. Slinker’s wife, laying her head against the icy stone, knew that the mistletoe might have saved her. But Dixon had not known that you may win or lose the whole world with a kiss, or perhaps he had known it too well, and not dared the risk.
The piano stopped suddenly, and the parlour went dark, so that she knew the door into the kitchen had shut. The child was going to bed. Dixon would stoop his tall head to bid her good-night, and presently her feet would patter on the polished, carpetless stair. His old mother would be waiting to settle her warm and safe for the night, and to steal in later with sweeties for her little stocking. Soon he would go upstairs himself, and the lights in Dockerneuk would slide out silently, and when the moon sank the dark would swallow it up as if it had never been. Slinker’s wife hid her face against the stoup and cried aloud, and one of the fine-eared dogs in the stable heard her, and barked quick and deep. The kitchen door opened instantly in response, and Dixon came out into the porch.
He did not need his dog’s repeated signal, for he could see her figure plainly enough under the moon, but some instinct kept him from speaking until he was near enough to discern her face. She stayed quiet, leaning against the stone, and they looked into each other’s eyes.
“It’s sharp to-night,” he said gravely, and saluted her with a raised finger. The tiny action put the whole world between them. “Were you wanting anything of me, Mrs. Lyndesay of Crump?”
She shook her head. “Nothing. I—it’s Christmas Eve. I just—walked up.” She gathered her courage and looked up at him again. “Can I come in?” she begged. “I want to come in—oh, please—let me come in!”
But Dixon shook his head.
“Crump’s your place. You chose Crump. You’d a right to choose for yourself—I’m not denying that. But it’s done, and you must bide by it. You’ve finished with Dockerneuk for ever.”
“No, no! Oh, no, no——!” she stammered, suddenly broken-hearted like a child wrenched from a happiness just within its grasp. She put out her hands, the quick tears running down her face. “Anthony—I’ve come back. Why did you ever let me go? Anthony, take me in!”
And again he shook his head.