I said.
“But I say he is! Now then, we won’t discuss it. What I want to know is, why have you come bothering down, and why have you took it into your head that the Professor is ill? Bless him! he ain’t ill; his appetite’s too hearty.”
“He does eat well,” I admitted. “But what I wanted to tell you is this – he has taken to staring at me.”
Hannah stopped in her occupation, threw her hands to her sides, and then taking up a lighted candle which stood on a table near, she brought it close to me and looked hard into my face. She made a rapid inspection.
“You ain’t got any spots on you, or anything of that sort,” she said.
“Oh, I hope not, Hannah!” I said. “That would be a terribly uninteresting way of explaining why father stares at me. I am sure I haven’t,” I continued, rubbing my hands over my face, which felt quite smooth.
“Then I don’t see why he do it,” said Hannah, “for you ain’t anything to look at.”
“I know that,” I replied humbly; “but that makes it all the more wonderful, for he does stare.”
“Then I can’t tell you why; but it’s no proof that he’s ill, for his appetite’s that hearty. I’ve ordered half a pound more rump-steak than usual for his supper to-night. I’m sure I’m pleased he can eat it. As to you children, you must do with a mutton bone and potatoes, for more you won’t get.”
“Very well, Hannah,” I said, and I sadly left the kitchen.
I traversed the dark passages outside, and found the long flight of stairs which led up to the ground-floor; and then I went into the big, big parlour, and sat close to the fire, and thought and thought.
It was dull at home – yes, it was dull. It would be nearly two hours before the boys came home and before father returned. I had finished all my lessons, and had no new story-book to read. The cracked piano was not particularly pleasant to play on, and I was not particularly musical. I could scarcely see through the fog, and it was too early to light the gas, but I made up my mind that if the fog did not lighten a bit in the next half-hour I would put the gas on and get the story-book which I had read least often and begin it over again. Oh dear! I did wish there was some sort of mystery or some sort of adventure about to happen. Even if Mr Von Marlo came in it would be better than nothing, but I dared not ask him, although I wanted to.
I had been to tea with Agnes and Rita Swan, but it had been quite a dull affair, and I had not found on closer acquaintance that those girls were specially attractive to me. They were silly sort of girls; quite amiable, I am sure, but it seemed such utter nonsense that they at their age should talk about boys, and be so interested in a boys’ school, and so anxious to get me to bring Alex and Charley, and even poor, ugly Squibs and Mr Von Marlo, to tea. I said that I could not possibly do it, and then they took offence and became suddenly cool, and my visit to them ended in a decided huff. The last two or three days at school they had scarcely noticed me, and I had become friends instead with Augusta Moore, who was more to my taste, although she was a very plain girl and lived in a very plain way.
Yes, there was nothing at all specially interesting to think about. School was school, and there was no stimulation in the life; and although our house was such a big one, such a barrack of a place, it was bitterly cold in winter; and we were poor, for father did not get a very large income, although he worked so hard. He was also somewhat of a saving turn of mind, and he told me once that he was putting by money in order to help the boys to go to one of the ’varsities by-and-by. He was determined that they should be scholars and gentlemen; and of course I thought this a very praiseworthy ambition of his, and offered to do without a new summer dress. He did not even thank me; he said that he thought I could do quite well with my present clothes for some time to come, and after that I felt my sacrifice had fallen somewhat flat.
But now to-day, just in the midst of my dismal meditations, there came a smart ring at the hall door bell. There were all sorts of ways of pulling that bell; it was not an electric bell, but it had a good ringing sound which none of those detestable new bells ever make. It pealed through the half-empty house as though the person outside were impatient. I started and stood irresolute. Would Hannah trouble herself to attend to it? Hannah was dreadfully rude about the hall door. She often left people standing there three or four minutes, and on a bitterly cold day like this it was not pleasant to be in such an exposed spot. So I waited on tiptoe, and at the first sound of the second ring I went into the hall, deliberately crossed it, and opened the hall door.
A lady was standing without. She looked me all over, began to say something, then changed her mind and stepped into the house, and held out her hand.
“Why, of course,” she said, “you are Rachel Grant.”
“Yes, I am,” I replied.
“I have come to see you. Will you take me somewhere where I can have a chat with you?”
“But what is your name, please?” I could not help saying.
“My name is Miss Grace Donnithorne. The Professor knows all about me, and will explain about me presently; but I have just come to have a little chat with you. May I come in?”
“You may, of course, Miss Donnithorne,” I said. I was secretly delighted to see her; I liked her appearance. She was a fat sort of person, not at all scraggy or thin as poor Hannah was. She was not young; indeed, to me she looked old, although I dare say father would have thought her comparatively juvenile. But that sort of thing – the question of age, I mean – depends altogether on your point of view. I thought Hannah a woman almost dropping into the grave, but father spoke of her as an active body in the prime of life. So, as I did not feel capable of forming any correct judgment with regard to Miss Grace Donnithorne’s age, I asked her to seat herself, and I poked the fire, and then mounted a chair to turn on the gas. She watched me as I performed these little offices; then she said, “You will forgive me, child, but don’t you keep any servants in this great house?”
“Oh yes,” I replied, “we keep Hannah; but Hannah has a bad cold and is rather cross. You would like some tea, wouldn’t you, Miss Donnithorne?”
“I should prefer a cup of tea at this moment to almost anything in the world,” said Miss Donnithorne. “It’s this awful fog, you know; it gets into one’s throat.” Here she coughed; then she loosened her furs; then she thought better of it and clasped them more tightly round her person; then she drew her chair close to the fire, right on the rug, which father rather objected to, and put her feet, which were in goloshes, on the fender. She held out her hands to the blaze, and said, “It strikes me you haven’t much of a servant or much of a fire either. Oh, goodness me! I have my goloshes on and they’ll melt. Take them off for me, child, and be quick about it.”
I obeyed. I had begun by being rather afraid of Miss Donnithorne, but by the time I had got off her goloshes – and they seemed to stick very firmly to her boots – I was laughing; and when I laughed she laughed in unison, and then we were quite on equal terms and got on quite delightfully.
“What about tea?” she said. “My throat is as raspy as though it were a file.”
“I’ll see about it,” I said, speaking somewhat dubiously.
“Why, where’s the difficulty?”
“It’s Hannah.”
“Does she grudge you your tea?”
“No, I don’t think so; but, you see, we don’t have tea quite so early, and when your house is so big, and there
