“I suppose not!” Elizabeth broke in. “Have some one put away the horses, Williams, or they’ll be shivering. It’s mighty cold for the time of year.”
“I’ll go myself, ma’am. There’s only black Sam, you know, and he isn’t back from the orchard. I sent him to get some apples.” And the steward set the candlestick on the newel post of the stairway, and started for the door.
“No, let Cuff go,” said Elizabeth, sitting down on a settle that stood with its back to the side of the staircase. “You start a fire in the room next mine, for aunt Sally. She’ll be over from the parsonage in a few minutes.”
Williams thereupon departed in quest of the stable key, inwardly devoured by a mighty curiosity as to the wherefore of Elizabeth’s presence here in the company of none but her affianced, and also the wherefore of that gentleman’s manifest depression of spirits. His curiosity was not lessened when the major called after him:
“Tell Cuff he may feed my horse, but not take 52 the saddle off. I must ride back to New York as soon as the beast is rested.”
“Why,” said Elizabeth to Colden, “you may stay for a bite of supper.”
“No, thank you! I am not hungry.”
“A glass of wine, then,” said the girl, quite heedless of his tone; “if there is any left in the house.”
“No wine, I thank you!” Colden stood motionless, too far back in the hall to receive much light from the feeble candle, like a shadowy statue of the sulks.
“As you will!”