We were a little late after all, for the Professor was standing on the
steps. It does seem so ridiculous to call your own father the
Professor, but after all I had heard of him that day I really felt that
I could not even think of him under any other title. He was dressed
just as carelessly and with as little regard to outward appearances as
though he had been giving a lecture to the Sixth Form boys in the
college. His hair was rumpled and pushed back from his lofty forehead.
His eyes had that somewhat vacant stare which, notwithstanding his
genius, I could not help constantly noticing in them. His adorers--and
it struck me that the Professor had many adorers--called that his
"far-away" or his "abstracted" or his "marvellous thinking" look, but to
me it seemed that it was his vacant look. But there! it was very wrong
of me to think such a thing about father.
"He has come," said Miss Donnithorne. "Rachel, your father is here. I
am more vexed than I can say not to have been ready to welcome him. I
hope Nancy saw to his comfort. Jump out, child, and run up the path.
Be the first to greet him. I will follow you immediately."
I was almost pushed by Miss Donnithorne out of the carriage, and I ran
up the little path which led to Hedgerow House. I felt that Miss
Donnithorne and Hermione were following me a few steps behind. I
wondered if father would notice the dark-blue dress and the grey fur.
If he did he would be sure to say something which would let the cat out
of the bag--something which would lower me for ever in the eyes of
Hermione. As I had not chosen to tell Hermione at the time that Miss
Donnithorne had requested me to wear the dress that day, I should
dislike beyond anything to have father blazoning the whole secret
abroad. But he did nothing of the kind; he merely said, "Well, Dumps,
you look flourishing."
He held out his hand and gave me the tips of his fingers. Then he shook
hands with Miss Donnithorne, and Miss Donnithorne presented Hermione to
him. I observed that Miss Donnithorne's cheeks were brighter than their
wont. She began to speak in a very apologetic way, but father cut her
short.
"It doesn't matter," he said; "pray don't apologise." They both went
into the house, and it seemed to me that they forgot all about Hermione
and me as completely as though we did not exist.
"How queer!" I could not help saying.
"Queer?" said Hermione. "It isn't a bit queer; it's what we ought to
expect."
"I don't know what you mean," I said.
She looked at me. I observed then that her soft brown eyes could be
quizzical at times. The lids became slightly narrow, and a smile, not
the sweetest, trembled on her lips; then it vanished.
"Have you seen Miss Donnithorne's garden?" she asked.
"Yes," I replied; "and I am cold; I want to go into the house. Let us
go in, Hermione. I want, now father is with us, to be as much with him
as I can."
"Oh, you little goose!" said Hermione. "For goodness' sake leave them
alone. Come upstairs and show me your room."
"Why should I leave them alone?" I said.
"You are a baby!" said Hermione. She spoke almost crossly.
I certainly absolutely failed to understand her. I said after a minute,
"I suppose that I understand father better than you do, and better than
Miss Donnithorne does."
"Better than Miss Donnithorne understands him?" cried Hermione. "Oh
Dumps! I must call you Dumps, for you are quite delicious. Never,
never since I was born did I meet a little girl quite so much the colour
of--the colour of--"
"The colour of what?" I said.
She had her umbrella in her hand. It was very neatly folded. I really
don't know why she brought it, as we had driven in a covered carriage;
but now she poked and poked in the snow with it until she came to the
grass beneath.
"The colour of that," she said.
I am sure I turned scarlet; and I can assure you, readers, that I was
not at all pretty when I turned that colour, for my complexion was
somewhat muddy, and I had none of those delicate pinks and whites in my
skin which make people think you so absolutely charming.
"I don't understand you," I said. "I think you are very rude."
She laughed and patted me on the arm.
"You are a very nice girl," she said. "I know that; but you will
forgive me. I perceive that Miss Grace Donnithorne is right and you
know nothing of the world."
"I don't know anything whatever of the world you live in," I answered.
"I know nothing whatever of the world which suddenly declares that a
person whom I scarcely know at all knows more of the heart of the one
person whom I have been brought up with all my life than I do myself. I
positively declare that Miss Grace Donnithorne does not know as much
about father as I do."
"And I defy you to prove it. If I were a boy I'd make a bet on it,"
said Hermione. "But there I never mind; don't let us talk on the
subject any longer. Come and show me your room, and afterwards you can
tell me about yourself."
I had to crush down my gathering wrath, and we went upstairs. Hermione
was restless; I tried to talk in a matter-of-fact and yet haughty sort
of way, but she hardly replied.
"It is so amusing," she said.
"What is the matter with you?"
"Oh, to be in the house with _them_, you know."
"The house with whom?"
"Why, the Professor and Miss Grace Donnithorne."
"I don't see that it is the least remarkable," I answered.
"But it is--very. And dear old Grace, too--dear old Grace--whom I have
known ever since I was a baby. I suppose I am glad, but perhaps I am
sorry too; I am really not sure. You see, I have hardly looked at your
Professor, but I'll study him tremendously when tea is ready. Now do
come downstairs, Dumps, and don't look so bewildered. You would be
quite nice-looking if your hair was properly arranged. Here, let me
arrange it for you. Why should it sag in that hideous way over your
forehead? Give me your comb."
Hermione could be very masterful. She folded back my hair in some
marvellous fashion, which made my forehead look much broader, and then
she plaited it in two thick plaits which hung down my back. Those
plaits kept the front quite tidy and in complete order; and then she
brought a little hand-glass and made me look at my reflection behind.
"You look quite a nice girl," she said. "I grant that you have not the
most perfect features in the world, but a great many girls who have
better features would give up everything for your hair."
Yes, my hair was very thick, and it was very bright, and somewhat tawny
in shade, and the two plaits were massive and very long, for they hung
far below my waist.
"I have such a little screw of hair," said Hermione, "that I shall be
delighted when I am allowed to put it up; but mother won't hear of it
until I am seventeen. She says that, as my hair is so rat's-taily, I
may as well put it up when I am seventeen, but that won't be for a whole
year and three months."
"Then you are not sixteen yet?"
"No."
"I am three months younger than you," I replied, "and I am not a bit
anxious to be grown-up; I want to remain a child."
"Perhaps so; with your sort of figure and your thick hair--it won't look
nearly so well when it is coiled round your head--I am not surprised.
Oh, delightful sound! There's the tinkle of dear Grace's tea-bell. Now
come along down; I do want to store at the Professor."
We did go down. There was a very cosy tea; it was laid in the pretty
parlour. Father sat at one end of the table and Miss Donnithorne at the
other, while Hermione occupied the central position at the side near the
fire, and I the opposite one. The Professor kept talking all the time.
It did not matter in the very least whether he was answered or not. He
was explaining the peculiarities of a fossil which he had discovered by
the merest chance a month ago. He was telling the exact age which had
produced this fossil, and using most unintelligible names. Miss
Donnithorne was listening, and now and then putting in a remark, but
neither Hermione nor I uttered a word. I began to day-dream. The
Professor was just as he always was. He always talked like that--
always. He was a little less interesting than usual when he got on
fossils; they were his very driest subject. The boys and I knew quite
well what subjects he was best on: he was best when he alluded to the
great Greek tragedians; occasionally then an ordinary person _could_ get
a glimmering of his meaning. I thought I would show those good ladies,
Miss Donnithorne and that precious Hermione, that I understood father a
little better than they did. So I said after a pause, "Which of the
plays of Sophocles do you like best, father?"
It was a very daring remark, and Miss Donnithorne opened her brown,
laughing eyes and stared at me as though I had committed sacrilege.
Hermione very nearly jumped from her seat. My words had the effect of
pulling the Professor up short. He stared at me and said, "Eh, Dumps--
eh? What are you talking about, Dumps?"
"Which play of Sophocles do you regard as his greatest?" I said, and I
felt very proud of myself as I uttered this remark.
I had now led father into the stream of conversation in which he could
show himself off to the best advantage. He took to the bait, forgot the
fossils, and began to talk of that other fossil the old Greek tragedian.
I leant back in my chair; I had accomplished my object. Father looked
as though he were about to fight the whole world in the cause of
Sophocles--as though any human being wanted to take any of his laurels
from the poor old dead and gone tragedian.
But I was watching my chance. I saw that the ladies were impressed, and
by-and-by I swept father once more off his feet into another direction
by asking him to explain one of the greatest passages in the works of
Milton. Father turned on me almost with fury. Miss Donnithorne
muttered something. Hermione said, "Oh, I am so hot with my back to the
fire!"
But again father rose to the bait and burst forth in a panegyric on
Milton which I suppose a scholar, if he knew shorthand, would have taken
down on the spot, for I know it was marvellously clever. But Miss
Donnithorne was a little pale when father had finished. Then he and she
got up and went into the garden, and walked up and down; and Hermione
took my hand and dragged me into the room with the stuffed birds, and
flung herself on the sofa and burst into a peal of laughter.
"How rude you are!" I said. "What is the matter?"
"Oh, you are a genius, you greenest of green Dumps!" was her remark.
"To think of your daring to oppose that stream of eloquence!"
"Well, you see, I know father, and I know that there are two subjects on
which he can be wonderful; one is Sophocles and the other Milton."
"I never heard of Sophocles," said Hermione in her calmest tone.
"You never heard of Sophocles?" I said, for the temptation to crow over
her was too great to be resisted. "Why, he was the greatest writer of
the tragic muse that ever existed."
"For goodness' sake, Dumps--" Hermione pressed her hands to her ears.
"If you talk like that I shall fly."
"I don't know him," I said; "and what is more," I added, "I never mean
to. If you had a father like the Professor you'd hate the classics.
But after Sophocles," I continued, "the person he loves best is Milton.
I haven't read Milton, and I don't mean to."
"Oh, I suppose I shall have to read him," said Hermione. "But poor,
poor dear Grace! Does he always talk like that, Dumps?"
"He was particularly lucid to-day," I said. "As a rule he is much more
difficult to understand."
"And do you always have your meals with that sort of stream of learning
pouring down you?"
"Oh no; most times he is silent."
"That must be much better," said Hermione, with a profound sigh.
"I don't know; it's rather dull. We aren't allowed to talk when the
Professor is silent."
"Bless him! And Grace is such a chatterbox, you know."
"She is very, very nice," I said.
Just then the Professor came in.
"Where is Dumps?" he said.