“Dear Lady Bevere, do not be troubled,” I said at length. “A little matter has been lately annoying Roger in London, and—and—I suppose he cannot forget it down here.”
“Is it money trouble?” she asked.
“Not exactly. No; it’s not money. Perhaps Roger will tell you himself. But please do not say anything to him unless he does.”
“Why cannot you tell me, Johnny?”
Had Madam Lizzie been in the house, rendering discovery inevitable, I would have told her then, and so far spared Roger the pain. But she was not; she might not come; in which case perhaps the disclosure need not be made—or, at any rate, might be staved off to a future time. Lady Bevere held my hands in hers.
“You know what this trouble is, Johnny; all about it?”
“Yes, that’s true. But I cannot tell it you. I have no right to.”
“I suppose you are right,” she sighed. “But oh, my dear, you young people cannot know what such griefs are to a mother’s heart; the dread they inflict, the cruel suspense they involve.”
And the evening passed on to its close, and Lizzie had not come.
A little circumstance occurred that night, not much to relate, but not pleasant in itself. George, a good-looking young clergyman, got in very late and half-frozen—close upon eleven o’clock. He would not have supper brought back, but said he should be glad of some hot brandy-and-water. The water was brought in and put with the brandy on a side-table. George mixed a glass for himself, and Roger went and mixed one. By-and-bye, when Roger had disposed of that, he went back to mix a second. Mr. Brandon glided up behind him.