The time ticks slowly on. He is due now. Five more lame, crawling
minutes--ten!--no sign of him. Again I rise, unclose the casement, and
push my matronly head a little way out to listen. Yes! yes! there is the
distant but not doubtful sound of a horse's four hoofs smartly trotting
and splashing along the muddy road. Three minutes more, and the sun
catches and brightly gleams on one of the quickly-turning wheels of the
dog-cart as it rolls toward me, between the wintry trees.
At first I cannot see the occupants; the boughs and twigs interpose to
hide them; but presently the dog-cart emerges into the open. There is
only one person in it!
At first I decline to believe my own eyes. I rub them. I stretch my head
farther out. Alas! self-deception is no longer possible: the groom
returns as he went--alone. Roger has _not_ come!
The dog-cart turns toward the stables, and I run to the bell and pull it
violently. I can hardly wait till it is answered. At last, after an
interval, which seems to me like twenty minutes, but which that false,
cold-blooded clock proclaims to be _two_, the footman enters.
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