“Tell me!” she repeated, dropping her chin upon her white bodkin fingers, and fixing her eyes upon the beauty of his face.
The two clear, pale old faces looked forth at each other across a space, while slowly there drew in about them the mystery of the dusk. Athwart the gathering twilight, the Bishop’s voice fell musical and clear.
“The day didn’t go very well, not till I got here to you. I got up feeling a bit shaky. I’m going to treat myself to that couch over there presently. Perhaps if my head had been clearer I might have seen better how to do what I tried to do to-day. But I’m afraid the real trouble goes deeper, and dates farther back. Christmas day sometimes throws a light back over the other days and years. I haven’t done what might have been done with all the years that have been granted me. I see that to-day. And now it is too late, isn’t it?”
“What has happened to-day?”
“Nothing has happened but knowledge, perhaps, knowledge to which I have forced myself to be blind. But in the light of Christmas I had to see, that’s all. And so I suppose I’m a little discouraged, and need to be bolstered up, as you can. It’s a good thing for me that you’ve never had time to grow old, Lucy. For it’s no fun,” his smile flashed, then fell as suddenly, “this being old.”
She fought against his growing seriousness, “I’ve had to stay young, Henry, to keep you from growing old. So don’t go and be old all of a sudden to-day,”—she forced her tone to evenness, “not to-day of all days! I will have to-day!”
“I wanted to-day, too,” he answered, “but I’ve had to give up what I wanted, so far, twice.”
“Who, exactly, is the trouble, Henry?”
“Newbold.”
He paused so long that Lucy asked with the faintest frown of weariness, “Well, and what has that young man done to-day?”