Tom’s eyes, usually so merry, were suffused when she lifted them to his face, and his mother’s suggestion flashed into his mind. He was sure that Tom only cared for him as a cousin, and yet if he could have taken her into his arms, and told her that he loved her, he could see that it would be an easy way out of the difficulty; and what good news it would be to take home to his mother. And Tom could be made to care for him in time, he really felt sure of that. Dear little Tom, she looked very limp at that minute, and she was hating herself heartily, too.
She struggled bravely for a moment or two, and then conquered her weakness.
“I am a nice cheerful fellow for Christmas Day,” she said. “Excuse me, John, I am miserably disappointed; I think you might give in, and let father and me have a little pleasure for once. But you are so wilful. Come and look at this picture. My sister Clara painted it, and gave it to father this morning. He is very pleased with it, and Clara is really clever.”
John admired it, and several other new things which had been given to his uncle on that day.
“I wish I might be just such a man as he when I am his age,” said John. “There is no man whom I honour as I do my uncle. I hope I shall never give him reason to think other than well of me.”
“Dear old dad!” said Tom. “There is no man like him in the whole wide world; he is a king among men—a high, august, imperial emperor, and, compared with him, all other men are mice, especially some!”
She felt better after the outburst, and presently the two went together into the drawing-room, where they were enjoying some music. Tom flushed at the look of her sisters, but she knew that they knew better than to question her, for she often boasted that she had brought her sisters up in the way they should go, although they were all older than she. Presently John left, and for the rest of the evening Tom gave herself entirely to the entertainment of her father. They were such good friends that he did not need to ask any questions but one, “Have you left it in the library?” and she said “Yes; shall it be chess?”
John’s horse carried him swiftly along the way, which his desire travelled before him. He knew what he should see, and his heart longed for a glimpse of the beautiful lighted face on which he would like to gaze for ever. The roads were hard, and the moon shone brightly. It was a peaceful wintry scene, and John’s heart was full of peace and goodwill. It is true that he gave a few half-troubled thoughts to his cousin, but he would not let himself suppose that more than ordinary relationship had induced her to make the attempt she had made. “Dear little Tom, she meant it kindly,” he said, “but I am sorry to see her so weak. She never would have cried if she had been quite well; it is not in the least like her;” and then all his attention was centred upon that which was before, not that which was behind him.
Ann Johnson opened the door directly he knocked.
“A beautiful night, Mr. Dallington, indeed. Yes, they are at home, they haven’t been out since the morning. Oh, no; it is not too late to wish me a merry Christmas, which it is, though we don’t keep late hours in the country. Why, dear me, there’s lots of houses in the great metrollops where they are, as you may say, just about to commence their jovialities, but I don’t care for that style: no great metrollops for me, thank you.”