“But of course I can’t tell which way he will come back,” cried Lucy, hastily; “and you might miss him.”
“To be sure, yes,” said Oldroyd, taking heart again; “so I might, and then not see him at all.” And he looked anxiously at Lucy’s troubled face over the tin candlestick, ornamented with drops of tallow that had fallen upon its sides, while Eliza slowly closed the front door, and gazed with her lips apart from one to the other.
Lucy was all repentance again, for in a flash her conscience had told her that she had seemed eager, and pressed the doctor to stay.
An awkward pause ensued, one which neither the visitor nor Lucy seemed able to break. Each tried very hard to find something to say, but in vain.
“How stupid of me!” thought Lucy, angrily.
“What’s come to me?” thought Oldroyd; the only idea beside being that he ought to ask Lucy about her health, only he could not, for it would seem so professional. So he looked helplessly at her, and she returned his look half indignantly, while the candle was held on one side, and Eliza gaped at them wonderingly.
Mrs Alleyne ended the awkward pause by opening the dining-room door, and standing there framed like a silhouette.
“Oh, is it you, Mr Oldroyd?” she said, quietly.
“Yes, good evening,” exclaimed the young doctor, quickly, like one released from a spell; “as I told Miss Alleyne here, I was coming close by, and I thought I would call and see how Mr Alleyne is.”
“We are very glad to see you,” said Mrs Alleyne, with grave courtesy. “Pray come in, Mr Oldroyd,” and Lucy uttered a low sigh of satisfaction.