At first I decline to believe my own eyes. I rub them. I stretch my head farther out. Alas! self-deception is no longer possible: the groom returns as he went—alone. Roger has not come!
The dog-cart turns toward the stables, and I run to the bell and pull it violently. I can hardly wait till it is answered. At last, after an interval, which seems to me like twenty minutes, but which that false, cold-blooded clock proclaims to be two, the footman enters.
"Sir Roger has not come," I say more affirmatively than interrogatively, for I have no doubt on the subject. "Why did not the groom wait for the next train?"
"If you please, my lady, Sir Roger has come."
"Has come!" repeat I, in astonishment, opening my eyes; "then where is he?"
"He is walking up, my lady."
"What! all the way from Bishopsthorpe?" cry I, incredulously, thinking of the five miry miles that intervene between us and that station. "Impossible!"
"No, my lady, not all the way; only from Mrs. Huntley's."
I feel the color rushing away from my cheeks, and turn quickly aside, that my change of countenance may not be perceived.
"Did he get out there?" I ask, faintly.