Lady Bevere’s voice on the stairs interrupted him. “Roger! Johnny! Why don’t you come down? Supper’s waiting.”
“I can’t go down,” he whispered.
“You must, Roger. If not, they’ll ask the reason why.”
A fine state of mental turbulence we were in all day on Monday. Roger dared not stir abroad lest he should meet her and have to bring her home clinging to his coat-tails. Not that much going abroad was practicable, save in the beaten paths. Snow had fallen heavily all night long. But the sky to-day was blue and bright.
With the afternoon began the watching and listening. I wonder whether the reader can picture our mental state? Roger had made a resolve that as soon as Lizzie’s foot crossed the threshold, he would disclose all to his mother, forestalling her tale. Indeed, he could do nothing less. Says Lord Byron, “Whatever sky’s above me, here’s a heart for every fate.” I fear we could not then have said the same.
Three o’clock struck. Roger grew pale to the lips as he heard it. I am not sure but I did. Four o’clock struck; and yet she did not come. The suspense, the agony of those few afternoon hours brought enough pain for a lifetime.
At dusk, when she could not have known me at a distance, I went out to reconnoitre, glad to go somewhere or do something, and prowled about under shelter of the dark shrubs, watching the road. She was not in sight anywhere; coming from any part; though I stayed there till I was blue with cold.
“Not in a state to come, I expect,” gasped Roger, when I got in, and reported that I could see nothing of her, and found him still sitting over the dining-room fire.
He gave a start as the door was flung open. It was only Harriet, with the tea-tray and candles. We had dined early. George, the clergyman, was expected in the evening, and Lady Bevere thought it would be more sociable if we all took supper with him. Tottams followed the tea-tray, skipping and singing.
“I wish it was Christmas-Eve every day!” cried the child. “Cook’s making such a lot of mince pies and cakes in the kitchen.”