“Oh! not at all!” said Miss Frowd.
Huffed, hurt, poor Tom withdrew. He slunk away from the Hall. Among so many, he would not be missed, and of enjoyment there was none after his rebuff. It would madden him to see how Bella “carried on” with the Scotchman.
He walked through the park, groaning, grumbling, resentful. He was not angry with himself for not keeping his appointment, nor with Polly for having detained him; but with Bella, whom he designated as a minx, and with MacSweeny, whom he termed a widdered Scottish rogue.
He left the park; he walked hastily on. Then, finding that in the agitation of his feelings he could not keep his head in one position, and that he was consequently liable to cut his throat, he halted, and took off his collar, and fastened it by the stud round his left arm above the elbow.
Presently he reached the cottage of the Mauduits, and he could see through the little window that the tree was alight; it twinkled through the panes. The temptation to turn aside, rap at the door, and enter was not to be resisted.
To his knock he received an answer, as he opened the door. The answer came from an inner room.
“It be I, Polly,” called Tom. “Just passin’, and want to see how Bessie be enjoyin’ of herself.”
“Come in—come in, Tom.”
The young man strode through the kitchen into the adjoining chamber. There lay, in her bed, the sick girl, a lovely child, with large burning dark eyes, and a hectic flame in her cheeks. She was supported in the arms of her sister, and was looking with delight at the little candles, at the oranges, and the glittering tin ornaments.
“Tom,” said Mary, “Bessie do thank you so for the spotted dog.”