Father looked mysterious during the next few days. I mean that he had
begun a strange new habit. During meals he used to put down his knife
and fork and stare hard at me. Now, until the affair of the poached egg
he had hardly noticed me. He had an abstracted way about him, as though
he did not see anybody. Sometimes he would address me as though I were
one of the schoolboys, and would say, "Hurry up, Stumps, with your
lessons;" or, "My dear Moore, you will never win that scholarship if you
don't put your back into the thing." And then he would start violently
and say, "Oh, it's only little Dumps, after all!"
But this new sort of staring was quite different. He was looking at me
as though he saw me, and as though he were disturbed about something. I
used to turn very red and fidget and look down, and look up again, and
get the boys to talk, and employ all sorts of devices to get his eyes
off me. But it was all of no use; those large, calm, thoughtful eyes of
his seemed screwed to my face, and at times I got quite nervous about
it.
After a second or even a third day had passed, and this habit of
father's had become in a measure confirmed, I went down to the kitchen
to consult Hannah.
"Hannah," I said, "I don't think father is at all well."
"And whatever do you come and say that to me for?" said Hannah.
She was crosser than usual. It was the sort of day to make any woman
cross, for there was a dreadful fog outside, and a lot of it had got
into the kitchen, and the little stove in the farther corner did not
half warm it, and Hannah had a cold. That was certain, for she wore her
plaid shawl. Her plaid shawl had been left to her by her grandmother,
and she never put it on except when she was afflicted with a cold. She
then wore it crossed on her chest and tied behind. She did not like to
be remarked on when she wore that shawl, and the boys and I respected
her on these occasions, and helped her as much as we could, and had very
plain things for dinner.
So now, when I saw the shawl, and observed how red Hannah's nose was and
how watery her eyes were, I said, "Oh dear, dear! I suppose I oughtn't
to come complaining."
"I wish to goodness you'd keep up in your own part of the house--that I
do," said Hannah. "This fog makes one choke, and it's so dismal and
dark, and one can't get any light from these bits of candles. I
misdoubt me if you'll get much dinner to-day, Miss Rachel. But I don't
suppose you children will mind."
"I tell you what," I said; "I do wish you'd let me cook the dinner. I
can, and I'd love to."
"You cook the dinner!" said Hannah in disdain. "And a pretty sort of
mess you'd have for the Professor if you gave him his food."
"Well, at any rate, Hannah, you can't say that you are the only one who
can cook. Think of Mr Von Marlo."
"Don't bother me by mentioning that gawky creature."
"I don't think he's gawky at all," 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 are a great many stairs, and
you have only one servant, and she is rather old--although father
doesn't think her so--and has got a bad cold in her head, and is wearing
her grandmother's plaid shawl, you have to think twice before you ask
her to do anything extra."
"It is a long catalogue of woes," responded Miss Grace. "But I tell you
what it is--oh, they call you Dumps, don't they?"
"Have you heard?" I said, puckering my brows in distress.
"Yes; and I think it is quite a nice name."
"But I'd much, much rather be called Rachel."
"Well, child, I don't mind--Rachel or Dumps--I must have tea. Go down
to the kitchen, fetch a kettle with hot water, bring it up, and also the
tea-caddy and sugar and milk if you can get them, and we'll make the tea
ourselves. But oh, good gracious, the coal-hod is empty! What an awful
spot!"
Now really, I thought, Miss Donnithorne was becoming too free. It was
all very well for her to force herself into the house; I had never even
heard of her before; but to put her feet on the fender, and then to
complain of the cold and to say she must have tea, and also to grumble
because there was no more coal in the hod, rather took my breath away.
"I see," said Miss Grace, "that I must help you."
"Oh no," I answered, "please don't."
For this would be the final straw. It was all very well to take Von
Marlo down to the kitchen. A boy was one thing, but an elderly, stout
lady about Hannah's own age was quite another thing. So I said, "I'll
do my best, but you must stay here."
Good gracious! I had imagined the two hours before father and the boys
came home would be dull and would pass slowly, but I never was so worked
in my life. First of all I had to go to the coal-cellar and fill the
empty hod with coals and tug it upstairs. When I got into the parlour I
let Miss Grace do the rest, and she did set to work with a will. While
she was building up the fire I purloined a kettle from the kitchen while
Hannah's back was turned, and two cups and saucers, for I thought I
might as well have tea with Miss Grace. There was some tea upstairs,
and some sugar and a little bread-and-butter, and as father always had
special milk for himself in a special can, and as this was kept in the
parlour cupboard, I knew that we could manage the tea after a fashion.
When I got back there was a roaring fire in the grate.
"There," said Miss Donnithorne; "that's something like a fire!"
She had unfastened her furs at last; she had even removed her jacket;
and when I arrived with the kettle she stamped it down on the bed of hot
coals, and looked round at me with a smile of triumph.
"There, now!" she said. "We'll have our tea, and afterwards I want to
have a chat with you."
I must say I did enjoy it, and I liked the glowing heat of the fire; it
seemed to blot away some of the fog and to make the room more cheerful.
And Miss Grace, when she got her way, became very cheerful also. She
laughed a great deal, and asked me a lot of questions, in especial about
father, and what he was doing, and how he passed his time, and if he was
a good-humoured sort of man.
Exactly at five o'clock she got up and took her departure.
"Well, child," she said, "I am warm through, and my throat is much
better, and I am sure you look all the better for a bit of heat and a
bit of good food. I'll come again to see you presently, and I'll bring
some new-laid eggs with me, and better butter than that stuff we have
just eaten; it wasn't fit for a Christian's palate. Good-bye, child.
You'll see more of me in the future."