Johnny Ludlow Fourth Series Part 82

He gave a start as the door was flung open. It was only Harriet, with the tea-tray and candles. We had dined early. George, the clergyman, was expected in the evening, and Lady Bevere thought it would be more sociable if we all took supper with him. Tottams followed the tea-tray, skipping and singing.

"I wish it was Christmas-Eve every day!" cried the child. "Cook's making such a lot of mince pies and cakes in the kitchen."

"Why, dear me, somebody has been drawing the curtains without having shut the shutters first!" exclaimed Harriet, hastening to remedy the mistake.

I could have told her it was Roger. As the daylight faded and the fire brightened, he had shut out the window, lest dreaded eyes should peer through it and see him.

"Your sister's not come yet, Harriet!" said Tottams. For the advent of Harriet's expected visitor was known in the household.

"No, Miss Tottams, she is not," replied Harriet, "I can't think why, unless she was afraid of the snow underfoot."

"There's no snow to hurt along the paths," contended Tottams.

"Perhaps she'd not know that," said Harriet. "But she may come yet; it is only five o'clock--and it's a beautiful moon."

Roger got up to leave the room and met Lady Bevere face to face. She caught sight of the despair on his, for he was off his guard. But off it, or on it, no one could fail to see that he was ill at ease. Some young men might have kept a smooth countenance through it all, for their friends and the world; Roger was sensitive to a degree, refined, thoughtful, and could not hide the signs of conflict.

"What is it that is amiss with him, Johnny?" Lady Bevere said, coming to me as I stood on the hearthrug before the fire, Tottams having disappeared with Harriet. "He looks wretchedly ill; _ill with care_, as it seems to me; and he cannot eat."

What could I answer? How was it possible, with those kind, candid blue eyes, so like Roger's, looking confidingly into mine, to tell her that nothing was amiss?

"Dear Lady Bevere, do not be troubled," I said at length. "A little matter has been lately annoying Roger in London, and--and--I suppose he cannot forget it down here."

"Is it money trouble?" she asked.

"Not exactly. No; it's not money. Perhaps Roger will tell you himself.

But please do not say anything to him unless he does."

"Why cannot you tell me, Johnny?"

Had Madam Lizzie been in the house, rendering discovery inevitable, I would have told her then, and so far spared Roger the pain. But she was not; she might not come; in which case perhaps the disclosure need not be made--or, at any rate, might be staved off to a future time. Lady Bevere held my hands in hers.

"You know what this trouble is, Johnny; all about it?"

"Yes, that's true. But I cannot tell it you. I have no right to."

"I suppose you are right," she sighed. "But oh, my dear, you young people cannot know what such griefs are to a mother's heart; the dread they inflict, the cruel suspense they involve."

And the evening pa.s.sed on to its close, and Lizzie had not come.

A little circ.u.mstance occurred that night, not much to relate, but not pleasant in itself. George, a good-looking young clergyman, got in very late and half-frozen--close upon eleven o'clock. He would not have supper brought back, but said he should be glad of some hot brandy-and-water. The water was brought in and put with the brandy on a side-table. George mixed a gla.s.s for himself, and Roger went and mixed one. By-and-bye, when Roger had disposed of that, he went back to mix a second. Mr. Brandon glided up behind him.

"No, Roger, not in your mother's house," he whispered, interposing a hand of authority between Roger and the brandy. "Though you may drink to an unseemly extent in town, you shall not here."

"Roger got some brandy-and-water from mamma this afternoon," volunteered Miss Tottams, dancing up to them. She had been allowed to sit up to help dress the rooms; and, of all little pitchers, she had the sharpest ears.

"He said he felt sick, Uncle John."

They came back to the fire and sat down again, Roger looking in truth sick; sick almost unto death.

Mr. Brandon went up to bed; Lady Bevere soon followed, and we began the rooms, Harriet and Jacob coming in to help. Roger exclaimed at the splendid heaps of holly. Of late years he had seen only the poor sc.r.a.ps they get in London.

"A merry Christmas to you, Roger!"

"Don't, Johnny! Better that you should wish me dead."

The bright sun was s.h.i.+ning into his room as I entered it on this Christmas morning: Roger stood brus.h.i.+ng his hair at the gla.s.s. He looked very ill.

"How can I look otherwise?" retorted poor Roger. "Two nights and not a wink of sleep!--nothing but fever and apprehension and intolerable restlessness. And you come wis.h.i.+ng me a merry Christmas!"

Well, of course it did sound like a mockery. "I will wish you a happier one for next year, then, Roger. Things may be brighter then."

"How can they be?--with that dreadful weight that I must carry about with me for life? Do you see this?"--sweeping his hand round towards the window.

I saw nothing but the blessed sunlight--and said so.

"That's it," he answered: "that blessed sunlight will bring her here betimes. With a good blinding snowfall, or a pelting downpour of cats and dogs, I might have hoped for a respite. What a Christmas offering for my mother! I say!--don't go away for a minute--did you hear Uncle John last night about the brandy?"

I nodded.

"It is not that I _like_ drink, or care for it for drinking's sake; I declare it to you, Johnny Ludlow; but I take it, and must take it, to drown care. With that extra gla.s.s last night, I might have got to sleep--I don't know. Were my mind at ease, I should be as sober as you are."

"But don't you see, Roger, that unless you pull up now, while you _can_, you may not be able to do it later."

"Oh yes, I see it all," he carelessly said. "Well, it no longer matters much what becomes of me. There's the breakfast-bell. You can go on, Johnny."

The rooms looked like green bowers, for we had not spared either our pains or the holly-branches, and it would have been as happy a Christmas-Day as it was a bright one, but for the sword that was hanging over Roger Bevere's head. Neither he nor I could enjoy it. He declined to go to church with us, saying he felt ill: the truth being that he feared to meet Lizzie. Not to attend divine service on Christmas-Day was regarded by Mr. Brandon as one of the cardinal sins. To my surprise he did not remonstrate with Roger in words: but he looked the more.

Lady Bevere's dinner hour on Christmas-Day was four o'clock, which gave a good long evening. Roger ate some turkey and some plum-pudding, mechanically; his ears were listening for the dreaded sound of the door-bell. We were about half-way through dinner, when there came a peal that shook the house. Lady Bevere started in her chair. I fancy Roger went nearly out of his.

"Why, who can be coming here now--with such a ring as that?" she exclaimed.

"Perhaps it is Harriet's sister!" cried the little girl, in her sharp, quick way. "Do you think it is, Harriet?"

"She's free enough for it," returned Harriet, in a vexed tone. "I told her she might come yesterday, Miss Tottams, my lady permitting it, but I did not tell her she might come to-day."

I glanced at Roger. His knife and fork shook in his hands; his face wore the hue of the grave. I was little less agitated than he.

Another respite. It was only a parcel from the railway-station, which had been delayed in the delivery. And the dinner went on.

And the evening went on too, as the past one went on--undisturbed.

Later, when some of us were playing at snap-dragon in the little breakfast-room, Harriet came in to march Miss Tottams off to bed.

"Your sister did not come after all, did she, Harriet?" said Mary.

"No, Miss Mary. She's gone back to London," continued Harriet, after a pause. "Not enough life for her, I dare say, down here."