“I will show him,” she thought resentfully, “that I am not so dependent on him as he thinks. I shall not wait—I shall take my breakfast. That odious woman was right for once.”
And she sat down in the seat placed for her. But as quickly she was up again, and at the oval glass over the mantel—where Samuel Rogers had often viewed his cadaverous face—to inspect herself and be sure that she was looking her best, so that his despair, when he came and found her cold and distant, would be the deeper. Soon satisfied, she returned, smiling dangerously, to her seat; and this time she fell-to upon the eggs and girdle-cakes, and the home-cured ham, and the tea at ten shillings a pound. The room had a window to the lake and a second window which looked to the south and was not far from the first. Though low-ceiled, it was of a fair size, with a sunk cupboard, with glazed upper doors, on each side of the fireplace, and cushioned seats in the window-places. In a recess near the door—the room was full of corners—were book-shelves; and on the other side of the door stood a tall clock with a very pale face. The furniture was covered with some warm red stuff, well worn; and an air of that snug comfort which was valued by Englishmen of the day pervaded all, and went well with the scent of the China tea.
But neither tea nor comfort, nor the cheerful blaze on the hearth, could long hold Henrietta’s thoughts; nor resentment repress her anxiety. Presently she began to listen after every mouthful: her fork was as often suspended as at work. Her pretty face grew troubled and her brow more deeply puckered, until her wandering eye fell on the clock, and she saw that the slowly jerking hand was on the verge of the half-hour.
Then she sprang up, honestly frightened. She flew to the window that looked on the lake and peered out anxiously; thence to the side window, but she got no glimpse of him. She came back distracted to the table and stood pressing her hands to her eyes. What if they were right, and he had not slept in his bed? What if something had happened to him? But that was impossible! Impossible! Things did not happen on such mornings as this! On wedding mornings! Yet if that were the case, and they had sent for her that they might break it to her—and then their hearts, even that woman’s heart, had failed them? What—what then?
She was trying to repel the thought when she fancied that she heard a sound at the door, and with a gasp of relief she looked up. If he had entered at that moment, she would have flung herself into his arms and forgiven all and forgotten all. But he did not enter, and her heart sank again, and lower. She went slowly to the door and listened, and found that the sound which she had heard was caused by the whispering of persons outside.
She summoned her pride to her aid then. She opened the door to its full extent and walked back to the table, and turning, waited haughtily for them to enter. But to speak, to command her voice, was harder, and it was all she could do to murmur,
“Something has happened to him”—her lip fluttered ominously—“and you have come to tell me?”
“Nothing that I know of,” Bishop answered cheerfully. He and the landlady had walked in and closed the door behind them. “Nothing at all.”
“No?” She could hardly believe him.
“Not the least thing in life, miss,” he repeated. “He’s alive and well for what I know—alive and well!”