Part 1, Chapter XII.

Part 1, Chapter XII.Discussing the New Mother.It was not I, after all, who told the boys Hannah was the person who gave them that piece of information. I did not come downstairs for the watery stew which she had prepared for them. Doubtless she would tell the boys that I had swallowed the spirit of that stew and left them the poor material body. She would make the most of my conduct, for she was very angry with me. But by-and-by there came a knock at my door, and I heard Alex’s voice, and he said, “Oh, do open the door and let me in! Please let me in, Rachel.”He so seldom called me by that name that I got up, went to the door, and flung it open. Alex’s face was very pale, and his hair was rumpled up over his forehead, but he had not been crying at all. I don’t suppose boys do cry much; but the moment I glanced at him I knew that Hannah had told him.He took my hand.“My word,” he said, “how cold you are! And I can scarcely see your eyes. You’ll have a bad inflammation if you give way like this. Where’s the use? Come along downstairs.”He took my hand, and we raced down together. When we got down I clung to him and said, “Kiss me, Alex.”“Why, of course I will, Dumps.”He kissed me twice on my forehead, and I knew by the trembling of his lips that he was feeling things a good bit.“Hannah has told you?” I said.“She has. But she isn’t coming upstairs again to-day.”“What do you mean by that?”“Charley, you can explain to Dumps.”Charley was standing by the fire. He was a very solidly made boy, not nearly so handsome as Alex, who was tall and slight, with regular features and beautiful eyes. Charley was in some respects like me, only very much better-looking.“Oh,” said Charley, “she began talking in a way we couldn’t stand about the Professor, so we just took her by the shoulders and brought her to the top of the stairs. She said she was going out, and wouldn’t be back until to-night—or perhaps never.”“Oh, you haven’t turned her away?” I said; for although Hannah was very troublesome and most disagreeable, and was certainly the last person to conciliate the disturbed state of the household and bring peace out of disorder, I could not bear the idea of her not being there.“She’ll come back, right enough. I tell you what it is, Dumps,” said Alex; “we’re—we’re a bit stunned. Of course, it’s rather awkward, isn’t it?”“I don’t know that it is,” said Charley. “He could always do as he liked, couldn’t he? I mean he never thought much about us, did he?”“Oh, don’t blame him now,” I said.“I don’t want to—I only want you to understand. Father always did what he liked. Hannah was dreadful; she spoke as she ought not to speak. It is just as well she should go out and let the open air smooth away some of her grievances. I do not see that it matters to her; he is not her father.”“No, it doesn’t really matter to her; and yet it does matter in another sense,” I said.Charley turned round.“When are they coming back?” was his next remark.“I think on Sunday evening.”“Well, this is Thursday. We have got to-day and to-morrow and Saturday and Sunday. We have got four whole days. Let us have some fun. How much of your five shillings have you left. Dumps?”“I don’t care,” I said.“That’s nonsense.—Alex, push her into that chair.—Now, how much money have you got?”“I’ve got it all,” I said.“All of it?”“Yes, every farthing. I had a few pence over which paid for the Twopenny Tube yesterday; I have not broken into the five shillings at all.”“We spent one and sixpence each last night, so you owe each of us a bit, because you enjoyed the supper just as much as we did.”“Oh yes.”“Let us have something good for tea. You can go out and buy it. You can spend your share on that. And I’ll bring Von Marlo in, and we’ll have a chat, and perhaps we’ll go somewhere to-night. Why shouldn’t we?”“Oh Charley, where?”“Well, I was thinking of the pit of one of the theatres.”This was such a daring, such an unheard-of suggestion that it really took my breath away.“Do you think we might?”“Why not? Von Marlo would love it. We four could go. We three big boys could take care of one dumpy girl, I’m sure. There’s a jolly thing on at the Adelphi. I love the Adelphi, for it’s all blood and thunder. Don’t you like it best of all, Alex?”“Well, you see, I’ve never been to a theatre in the whole course of my life,” said Alex.“Except once to the pantomime,” I said. “You remember that?”“Who cares for the pantomime?” said Charley.“Very well, we’ll go to the Adelphi,” I said. “But I hope it won’t be very frightening.”“It will scare you out of your seven senses; I know it will. But I tell you what it will do also,” continued Charley—“it will make you forget; and if you remember at all, you have but to squeeze the thought up in your heart that you have got three more whole days, or nearly three whole days, beforeshecomes in.”“All right,” I said; “I’ll get something for tea.”“And we must be off to school,” said Alex. “The Professor’s away, and when the cat’s away the mice will play.”“Oh Alex, you oughtn’t to compare father to a cat!”“Never mind; Hannah isn’t here. If she were here we’d round on her fast enough. Now then, good girl, eat some bread-and-butter, for you weren’t down to that dinner of horrid stew. Hannah said that you’d supped up all the gravy. Jolly mean, I call it. But there! we’ll be back about half-past four. Then we’ll have tea, and hurry off to the theatre afterwards.”The boys left the house, and I was quite alone. Yes, there was nothing like occupation. I put on my hat and jacket and went out. I bought golden syrup—the darkest sort—we all loved that; and I bought a loaf of crispy new bread, and half a pound of butter. Then I got a currant-cake and a small—very small—tin of sardines. The meal would be delicious.I returned home. I entered the parlour and put the kettle on to boil. Then I went down to the neglected kitchen. The fire was out in the little range, the doors of which stood open wide. There was no sign of Hannah anywhere. I went to the kitchen door, and saw that it was locked. There was no key in the lock; she had doubtless taken it with her. This fact relieved me, for I knew that she was coming bock, otherwise she would most certainly have left the key behind.I selected the best of the cups and saucers, choosing with difficulty, for there were few that were not either deprived of handles or with pieces cracked out of the rims. It was a nondescript set when presently it appeared on the table, and the cloth which I spread on it to lay out our meal was none of the cleanest. But there was the golden syrup, and the crispy loaf, and the butter, which I knew was good; and there was the tin of sardines.Punctual to the minute, at half-past four, the three boys made their appearance. Von Marlo had been told. He came straight up to me and took my hand. He did not speak; but the next minute he put his hand into his waistcoat pocket and took from it a knife. This knife was a curious one; it seemed to contain every possible tool that any human being could require in his journey from the cradle to the grave. With one of the instruments in it he speedily opened the tin of sardines; then he himself made the tea, and when it was made he drew chairs up to the table and said, “Come and eat.”We all fell upon the provisions in a ravenous fashion. Oh dear! even when you are in great trouble it is good to be hungry—good to be hungry when you have the means of satisfying your appetite. I felt downright starving with hunger that evening. I drank the hot tea, and ate bread-and-butter and golden syrup, and left the sardines for the boys, who made short work of them.At last we were all satisfied, and we talked over the matter of the theatre. We must be standing outside not a minute later than seven o’clock. Von Marlo would keep at my right, and Alex at my left, and Charley would be my bodyguard behind. When the rush came we would surely be in the front rank, and we would get good seats. The scenes of the play would be most harrowing; there was a secret murder in it, and a duel, and one or two other extreme horrors. The boys said it was of the sensational order, and Alex wound up with the remark that we could not possibly stand anything else to-night.Then there fell a silence upon us. We need not go to the Adelphi yet; it was not very far from where we lived. We could get there in a few minutes. There was more than an hour between us and the desirable moment when we were to steal like thieves in the night from our father’s respectable house to go to that place of iniquity, the pit at the Adelphi. For, of course, it was very naughty of us to go. Our father himself would not have thought it right to allow children to partake of these worldly pleasures.In the silence that ensued the pain at my heart began again. It was then Von Marlo made his remark.“I think,” he said, “it would be exceedingly interesting if Miss Rachel would tell us exactly what the new mamma is like.”Nothing could be more intensely aggravating than those words, “the new mamma,” had they fallen from any lips but Von Marlo’s. But the peculiar foreign intonation he gave the words caused us three to burst out laughing.“You must never say those words again—never as long as you live, Von Marlo,” cried Alex, while Charley sprang upon him and did his very best to knock him off his chair.“Come, come! no violence,” I said. “Please understand, Mr Von Marlo, that the lady who has married our father is not our new mamma.”“I am sorry, I am sure,” said Von Marlo. “I won’t call her that any more—never; I am certain of that. But, all the same, if she is coming to live here, what is she like? You have seen her, Miss Rachel; you can describe her.”“Yes, you may as well tell us about her,” said Charley. “I suppose she is precious ugly. Catch father choosing a woman with good looks! Why, he doesn’t know blue eyes from brown, or a straight nose from a crooked one, or a large mouth from a small one. He never looks at any woman; I can’t imagine how he got hold of her.”“Hannah said,” remarked Alex, “that she got hold of him.”“Well, surely that doesn’t matter,” said Von Marlo. “Describe her, Miss Rachel.”“I will if you wish it,” I answered.“Yes, do,” said Charley. “You have seen quite a lot of her.”“I must be honest at all costs,” I said, “and if she had not married father—yes, it is quite true—I’d have liked her. She is what you would—I mean shewas—I don’t suppose she is now, for when people are dreadfully wicked they change, don’t they? Butbeforeshe was wicked—before she married father—she was a very—very—well, a very jolly sort of woman.”“Jolly?” said Charley. “I like that! How do you mean jolly?”“Round and fattish—not too fat—with laughing eyes.”“We haven’t much of laughing eyes in this house,” said Alex.“Well, her eyes seem to be always laughing, even when her face is grave; and she makes delicious things to eat—at least she did make them.”“Let’s hope she has not lost the art,” said Alex. “If we must have her in the family, let us trust that she has at least some merits. Good things to eat? What sort?”I described the food at Hedgerow House, and described it well. I then went on to speak of the stuffed birds. The boys were wildly excited. I spoke of other things, and gave them a very full and true account of Miss Grace Donnithorne.“It seems to me she must be a splendid sort of woman,” said Alex.“Hurrah for Miss Grace Donnithorne!” said Charley. “She must be a most charming lady,” said Von Marlo in his precise way.Then I sprang to my feet.“Now listen,” I said. “I have told you about her as she was. When I saw her she had not done this wicked thing.”“But she was going to do it; she had made up her mind pretty straight,” said Alex.“Well, she hadn’t done it, and that makes all the difference,” I said stoutly. “She will be changed; I know she will be changed.”“I hope she won’t have got thin (I’m sick of Hannah’s sort of figure) and cross and churlish and miserly,” said Charley.“I don’t think so,” I answered. “I don’t suppose she’ll be as changed as all that; but, anyhow, I know—”“I tell you what,” interrupted Von Marlo; “she is coming here, and nothing living will stop her.”“That’s true enough,” I said gloomily.“Then can’t you three be sensible?”“What do you mean now, Von?” said the boys.“Why can’t you make the best of it? Don’t hunt the poor lady into her grave by being snappish and making the worst of everything. Just give her a fair trial—start her honest, don’t you understand?”Alex stared; Charley blinked his eyes.I said slowly, “I don’t mean to be unkind; I mean to be kind. I am not going to say a word to father—I mean not a word of reproach—”“Much use if you did!” muttered Alex.“But, all the same,” I said very distinctly, “not for a single instant will I loveher. She can come and take her place, and I will try to do what she wishes, but I will never love her—never!”“Hurrah!” said Charley.“Quite right, Dumps; you show spirit,” cried Alex.But Von Marlo looked dissatisfied.“It doesn’t seem right,” he said. “It doesn’t seem quite fair; and the poor lady hasn’t done you any harm.”

It was not I, after all, who told the boys Hannah was the person who gave them that piece of information. I did not come downstairs for the watery stew which she had prepared for them. Doubtless she would tell the boys that I had swallowed the spirit of that stew and left them the poor material body. She would make the most of my conduct, for she was very angry with me. But by-and-by there came a knock at my door, and I heard Alex’s voice, and he said, “Oh, do open the door and let me in! Please let me in, Rachel.”

He so seldom called me by that name that I got up, went to the door, and flung it open. Alex’s face was very pale, and his hair was rumpled up over his forehead, but he had not been crying at all. I don’t suppose boys do cry much; but the moment I glanced at him I knew that Hannah had told him.

He took my hand.

“My word,” he said, “how cold you are! And I can scarcely see your eyes. You’ll have a bad inflammation if you give way like this. Where’s the use? Come along downstairs.”

He took my hand, and we raced down together. When we got down I clung to him and said, “Kiss me, Alex.”

“Why, of course I will, Dumps.”

He kissed me twice on my forehead, and I knew by the trembling of his lips that he was feeling things a good bit.

“Hannah has told you?” I said.

“She has. But she isn’t coming upstairs again to-day.”

“What do you mean by that?”

“Charley, you can explain to Dumps.”

Charley was standing by the fire. He was a very solidly made boy, not nearly so handsome as Alex, who was tall and slight, with regular features and beautiful eyes. Charley was in some respects like me, only very much better-looking.

“Oh,” said Charley, “she began talking in a way we couldn’t stand about the Professor, so we just took her by the shoulders and brought her to the top of the stairs. She said she was going out, and wouldn’t be back until to-night—or perhaps never.”

“Oh, you haven’t turned her away?” I said; for although Hannah was very troublesome and most disagreeable, and was certainly the last person to conciliate the disturbed state of the household and bring peace out of disorder, I could not bear the idea of her not being there.

“She’ll come back, right enough. I tell you what it is, Dumps,” said Alex; “we’re—we’re a bit stunned. Of course, it’s rather awkward, isn’t it?”

“I don’t know that it is,” said Charley. “He could always do as he liked, couldn’t he? I mean he never thought much about us, did he?”

“Oh, don’t blame him now,” I said.

“I don’t want to—I only want you to understand. Father always did what he liked. Hannah was dreadful; she spoke as she ought not to speak. It is just as well she should go out and let the open air smooth away some of her grievances. I do not see that it matters to her; he is not her father.”

“No, it doesn’t really matter to her; and yet it does matter in another sense,” I said.

Charley turned round.

“When are they coming back?” was his next remark.

“I think on Sunday evening.”

“Well, this is Thursday. We have got to-day and to-morrow and Saturday and Sunday. We have got four whole days. Let us have some fun. How much of your five shillings have you left. Dumps?”

“I don’t care,” I said.

“That’s nonsense.—Alex, push her into that chair.—Now, how much money have you got?”

“I’ve got it all,” I said.

“All of it?”

“Yes, every farthing. I had a few pence over which paid for the Twopenny Tube yesterday; I have not broken into the five shillings at all.”

“We spent one and sixpence each last night, so you owe each of us a bit, because you enjoyed the supper just as much as we did.”

“Oh yes.”

“Let us have something good for tea. You can go out and buy it. You can spend your share on that. And I’ll bring Von Marlo in, and we’ll have a chat, and perhaps we’ll go somewhere to-night. Why shouldn’t we?”

“Oh Charley, where?”

“Well, I was thinking of the pit of one of the theatres.”

This was such a daring, such an unheard-of suggestion that it really took my breath away.

“Do you think we might?”

“Why not? Von Marlo would love it. We four could go. We three big boys could take care of one dumpy girl, I’m sure. There’s a jolly thing on at the Adelphi. I love the Adelphi, for it’s all blood and thunder. Don’t you like it best of all, Alex?”

“Well, you see, I’ve never been to a theatre in the whole course of my life,” said Alex.

“Except once to the pantomime,” I said. “You remember that?”

“Who cares for the pantomime?” said Charley.

“Very well, we’ll go to the Adelphi,” I said. “But I hope it won’t be very frightening.”

“It will scare you out of your seven senses; I know it will. But I tell you what it will do also,” continued Charley—“it will make you forget; and if you remember at all, you have but to squeeze the thought up in your heart that you have got three more whole days, or nearly three whole days, beforeshecomes in.”

“All right,” I said; “I’ll get something for tea.”

“And we must be off to school,” said Alex. “The Professor’s away, and when the cat’s away the mice will play.”

“Oh Alex, you oughtn’t to compare father to a cat!”

“Never mind; Hannah isn’t here. If she were here we’d round on her fast enough. Now then, good girl, eat some bread-and-butter, for you weren’t down to that dinner of horrid stew. Hannah said that you’d supped up all the gravy. Jolly mean, I call it. But there! we’ll be back about half-past four. Then we’ll have tea, and hurry off to the theatre afterwards.”

The boys left the house, and I was quite alone. Yes, there was nothing like occupation. I put on my hat and jacket and went out. I bought golden syrup—the darkest sort—we all loved that; and I bought a loaf of crispy new bread, and half a pound of butter. Then I got a currant-cake and a small—very small—tin of sardines. The meal would be delicious.

I returned home. I entered the parlour and put the kettle on to boil. Then I went down to the neglected kitchen. The fire was out in the little range, the doors of which stood open wide. There was no sign of Hannah anywhere. I went to the kitchen door, and saw that it was locked. There was no key in the lock; she had doubtless taken it with her. This fact relieved me, for I knew that she was coming bock, otherwise she would most certainly have left the key behind.

I selected the best of the cups and saucers, choosing with difficulty, for there were few that were not either deprived of handles or with pieces cracked out of the rims. It was a nondescript set when presently it appeared on the table, and the cloth which I spread on it to lay out our meal was none of the cleanest. But there was the golden syrup, and the crispy loaf, and the butter, which I knew was good; and there was the tin of sardines.

Punctual to the minute, at half-past four, the three boys made their appearance. Von Marlo had been told. He came straight up to me and took my hand. He did not speak; but the next minute he put his hand into his waistcoat pocket and took from it a knife. This knife was a curious one; it seemed to contain every possible tool that any human being could require in his journey from the cradle to the grave. With one of the instruments in it he speedily opened the tin of sardines; then he himself made the tea, and when it was made he drew chairs up to the table and said, “Come and eat.”

We all fell upon the provisions in a ravenous fashion. Oh dear! even when you are in great trouble it is good to be hungry—good to be hungry when you have the means of satisfying your appetite. I felt downright starving with hunger that evening. I drank the hot tea, and ate bread-and-butter and golden syrup, and left the sardines for the boys, who made short work of them.

At last we were all satisfied, and we talked over the matter of the theatre. We must be standing outside not a minute later than seven o’clock. Von Marlo would keep at my right, and Alex at my left, and Charley would be my bodyguard behind. When the rush came we would surely be in the front rank, and we would get good seats. The scenes of the play would be most harrowing; there was a secret murder in it, and a duel, and one or two other extreme horrors. The boys said it was of the sensational order, and Alex wound up with the remark that we could not possibly stand anything else to-night.

Then there fell a silence upon us. We need not go to the Adelphi yet; it was not very far from where we lived. We could get there in a few minutes. There was more than an hour between us and the desirable moment when we were to steal like thieves in the night from our father’s respectable house to go to that place of iniquity, the pit at the Adelphi. For, of course, it was very naughty of us to go. Our father himself would not have thought it right to allow children to partake of these worldly pleasures.

In the silence that ensued the pain at my heart began again. It was then Von Marlo made his remark.

“I think,” he said, “it would be exceedingly interesting if Miss Rachel would tell us exactly what the new mamma is like.”

Nothing could be more intensely aggravating than those words, “the new mamma,” had they fallen from any lips but Von Marlo’s. But the peculiar foreign intonation he gave the words caused us three to burst out laughing.

“You must never say those words again—never as long as you live, Von Marlo,” cried Alex, while Charley sprang upon him and did his very best to knock him off his chair.

“Come, come! no violence,” I said. “Please understand, Mr Von Marlo, that the lady who has married our father is not our new mamma.”

“I am sorry, I am sure,” said Von Marlo. “I won’t call her that any more—never; I am certain of that. But, all the same, if she is coming to live here, what is she like? You have seen her, Miss Rachel; you can describe her.”

“Yes, you may as well tell us about her,” said Charley. “I suppose she is precious ugly. Catch father choosing a woman with good looks! Why, he doesn’t know blue eyes from brown, or a straight nose from a crooked one, or a large mouth from a small one. He never looks at any woman; I can’t imagine how he got hold of her.”

“Hannah said,” remarked Alex, “that she got hold of him.”

“Well, surely that doesn’t matter,” said Von Marlo. “Describe her, Miss Rachel.”

“I will if you wish it,” I answered.

“Yes, do,” said Charley. “You have seen quite a lot of her.”

“I must be honest at all costs,” I said, “and if she had not married father—yes, it is quite true—I’d have liked her. She is what you would—I mean shewas—I don’t suppose she is now, for when people are dreadfully wicked they change, don’t they? Butbeforeshe was wicked—before she married father—she was a very—very—well, a very jolly sort of woman.”

“Jolly?” said Charley. “I like that! How do you mean jolly?”

“Round and fattish—not too fat—with laughing eyes.”

“We haven’t much of laughing eyes in this house,” said Alex.

“Well, her eyes seem to be always laughing, even when her face is grave; and she makes delicious things to eat—at least she did make them.”

“Let’s hope she has not lost the art,” said Alex. “If we must have her in the family, let us trust that she has at least some merits. Good things to eat? What sort?”

I described the food at Hedgerow House, and described it well. I then went on to speak of the stuffed birds. The boys were wildly excited. I spoke of other things, and gave them a very full and true account of Miss Grace Donnithorne.

“It seems to me she must be a splendid sort of woman,” said Alex.

“Hurrah for Miss Grace Donnithorne!” said Charley. “She must be a most charming lady,” said Von Marlo in his precise way.

Then I sprang to my feet.

“Now listen,” I said. “I have told you about her as she was. When I saw her she had not done this wicked thing.”

“But she was going to do it; she had made up her mind pretty straight,” said Alex.

“Well, she hadn’t done it, and that makes all the difference,” I said stoutly. “She will be changed; I know she will be changed.”

“I hope she won’t have got thin (I’m sick of Hannah’s sort of figure) and cross and churlish and miserly,” said Charley.

“I don’t think so,” I answered. “I don’t suppose she’ll be as changed as all that; but, anyhow, I know—”

“I tell you what,” interrupted Von Marlo; “she is coming here, and nothing living will stop her.”

“That’s true enough,” I said gloomily.

“Then can’t you three be sensible?”

“What do you mean now, Von?” said the boys.

“Why can’t you make the best of it? Don’t hunt the poor lady into her grave by being snappish and making the worst of everything. Just give her a fair trial—start her honest, don’t you understand?”

Alex stared; Charley blinked his eyes.

I said slowly, “I don’t mean to be unkind; I mean to be kind. I am not going to say a word to father—I mean not a word of reproach—”

“Much use if you did!” muttered Alex.

“But, all the same,” I said very distinctly, “not for a single instant will I loveher. She can come and take her place, and I will try to do what she wishes, but I will never love her—never!”

“Hurrah!” said Charley.

“Quite right, Dumps; you show spirit,” cried Alex.

But Von Marlo looked dissatisfied.

“It doesn’t seem right,” he said. “It doesn’t seem quite fair; and the poor lady hasn’t done you any harm.”

Part 1, Chapter XIII.Putting the House in Order.The play was as lively as any four children could desire. It was calledThe Grand Duke Alexis; it had a great deal to do with Nihilism and with the Russians generally. There was a very handsome woman in it who had a mission to kill somebody, and a very evil-looking man whose mission it was to get her arrested; and the handsome woman and the wicked man seemed to chase each other on and off the stage, and to mingle up in the plot, and to fasten themselves in some unpleasant manner into my brain. I am sure the boys enjoyed themselves vastly, and there is no doubt that I was interested.“Your eyes are like the eyes of an owl,” whispered Charley to me; “if they get any rounder they’ll drop out like marbles.”I was accustomed to this kind of remark, and was too much fascinated with the lovely lady and the man who was trying to arrest her to take any notice of his words. The Grand Duke was certainly the most appallingly wicked person I had ever imagined. Even father’s new wife seemed pale and commonplace and everyday beside him. Even the fact that my own precious mother was superseded by another was of no consequence at all when I recalled to memory that lovely lady’s face, and the face of the man who was trying to have her arrested.The play came to an end, but when we arrived home Hannah had not yet returned. We let ourselves in, in lordly fashion, with the latchkey. Von Marlo bade us good-bye, and promised to come in again on the following day. He said he would stand by us. He gave my hand an affectionate squeeze.“Make the best of things,” he said; “there’s a good girl.”I began to think Von Marlo a very comfortable sort of friend. I wished that he was a girl instead of a boy. I could have been quite fond of him had he been a girl.We three sat in the parlour; we would not go to bed until Hannah came in. We began to nod presently, and Alex dropped off to sleep. It was past midnight when we heard Hannah’s steps creeping upstairs towards her bedroom. Charley immediately rushed on tiptoe to the parlour door, opened it a tenth of an inch, and peeped out.“She is off to bed. She is walking as straight as a die. She has got on her best bonnet. I hope she’ll be in a better temper in the morning. Now then, I’m going to follow her example; I’m dead-beat I shall be asleep in a twinkling.”He went off; his good-humoured, boyish face flashed back at us full of fun. Father’s marriage, the knowledge that there would soon be a lady in the house, whom some people would call his new mamma, did not affect him very deeply.I went up to Alex and spoke to him.“You and I will stand shoulder to shoulder, won’t we?” I said.“Why, yes, Dumps—of course,” he replied.“I mean,” I said, “that you will do what I do.”“What do you exactly mean by that?”“I’m prepared to be quite kind and lady-like, and not to storm or scold or say ugly things, and I want you to do just the same. You will, won’t you? We’ll understand each other. We’ll be most careful, truly, not to put her in dear mother’s place.”My voice trembled.“It’s a long time since mother died,” said Alex.“But, Alex, you remember her.”“No, I don’t,” said Alex.“Nor do I,” I said. “Sometimes I try to. But I have got her miniature; father gave it to me. Wouldn’t you like to see it?”“A miniature? That’s a picture of her, isn’t it? Have you got one?”“Yes.”“I knew father had one, but I didn’t know he would part with it.”“He never would until now.”“Once,” said Alex, “years ago, he was very ill in bed for a few days, and I went into his room. He was sitting up in bed, and he had a picture in a frame; he was looking at it, and there were tears in his eyes. When he saw me he fired up—you know his hasty sort of way—and stuffed the picture under his pillow. I believe it was mother’s picture he was looking at. He must have loved her then.”“But he doesn’t love her now,” I said. “He has given the picture to me because he has put another woman in her place.”“Well, most of them do,” said Alex.“What do you mean?”“Most men marry again. There are two masters at our school, and they’ve married again jolly quick—one of them within a year and a half, and the other even in a shorter time. All the fellows were talking about it. It was mighty unfortunate, I can tell you, for we had to subscribe to give them both wedding presents, otherwise we wouldn’t have noticed. They were widowers, and they had no right to do it. It was beastly hard on the boys; that’s what I think.”“What do you mean?”“The wedding presents, I mean.”“Oh Alex! that is a very trivial part of the matter.”“I expect they’ll collect something jolly for father.”“Well, we needn’t subscribe,” I said.“Of course not; that’s the best of it.”“I hope they won’t,” I said.“They’re certain to. They just worship him in the school. You haven’t the least idea how popular he is. They just adore him. He’s such a splendid teacher, and so sympathetic over a difficulty. He is a great man, there’s no doubt of that.”But I was not in a humour to hear his praises.“Let’s think of our own dear little mother to-night,” I said.“All right, Rachel.”“Come up with me to my room and I’ll show you her portrait.”“All right, old girl.”We went up together. I thought if Alex would stand my friend—if he would lean on me as a very superior sort of sister, and allow me to take the place of sister and mother—then I could endure things. Father’s new wife might go her own way, and I would go mine. I just wanted Alex at least to understand me. Charley was a good boy, but he was hopeless. Still, I had a vague sort of hope that Alex would keep on my side.When we got to my room I lit all the bits of candle, and made quite a strong light; and then I opened the miniature frame, and told Alex to kneel down by me and I would show it to him. He looked at it very earnestly. He himself was strangely like the miniature, but I don’t think the likeness struck him particularly. Nevertheless, he had his sensibilities, and his lips quivered, and his soft, gentle brown eyes looked their very softest and gentlest now as they fixed themselves on my face.“Poor mother!” he said. He bent his head and kissed the glass which covered the pictured face.I shut up the case hastily.“You are in rare luck to have it,” he said.“Yes,” I answered; “it is a great comfort to me. This is mother; this is the woman I love; no other can ever take her place.”“Of course not,” said Alex. “And some day when I’m rich you’ll let me have it photographed, won’t you?”“Indeed I will. We’ll stick to our bargain, won’t we, Alex?”Alex rose to his feet. He yawned slightly.“I’m dead-tired, and I must go to school to-morrow. I haven’t looked at one of my lessons, but it doesn’t really matter. When the Professor is away marrying, you know, he can’t expect his children to work as hard as they do when he is at home.”“Oh Alex, Hannah said something dreadful!”“As though anybody minded what she said!”“She said that mother—our little, young, pretty mother—was killed. She said mother would have been in the world now if she hadn’t been killed.”“That’s all stuff!” said Alex. “Why do you speak in that exaggerated sort of way? If she had been killed there would have been a coroner’s inquest and a trial, and the murderer would have been discovered and—and hanged. Why do you talk such rot?”“Oh, there are many ways of killing a person, and mother died for want of sunshine.”“Oh, I see. Well, well! good-night.”He kissed me again and left the room.During the next day or two I was very busy. Father had said that the house was to be put in order. Now, what that meant I could not tell, but the house on the whole was about in as much order as such a great, desolate, and unfurnished abode could be. But when the next day at breakfast I found a second letter from father on my plate, and when I opened it and read father’s own directions that the spare room was to be got ready for the reception of himself and his wife on the following Sunday, I knew that Hannah and I must come either to open war or to a dismissal of the latter. I went down to the kitchen and told her at once.“The spare room, forsooth!” she said. “Well, yes, I thought of that last night. Master said it was to be put in order, but he needn’t have written; I’d have seen to it.”I was greatly relieved at this change of front. Hannah was looking quite gentle. She was moving about in the kitchen in quite an orderly fashion. The little cooking-stove was black instead of grey; there were no ashes to be seen anywhere, and a bright little fire burned in it. There was a pot on, and there was something boiling in the pot, and the thing that boiled and bubbled gave forth a most appetising smell. When I spoke Hannah turned and opened the oven door, and I saw inside a great cake.“Why, Hannah!” I said.“It’s only right to have cake and that sort of thing handy,” she said. “Don’t talk nonsense, Dumps. There’s a deal for you and me to do. Be you going to school to-day?”“No,” I said.“Why will you keep away?”“Because I won’t go.”“You will get a report; your mistress will be very angry.”“I don’t care,” I said; “I won’t go. I’ll go afterwards. I won’t go this week.”“Highty-tighty!” said Hannah. “Well, you’ll catch it!”“Seems to me I’m always catching it,” I said.“Seems to me you are,” said Hannah.“Well, Hannah, what about the spare room?”“I’ll see to it myself. I’ll have it ready.”“Can I help you, Hannah?”“No; but you can come and look on if you like.”“Don’t you want Mrs Herring? She is so strong. Everything should be turned out; the place should be made very clean.”“I don’t want none of your herrings nor your sprats neither,” replied Hannah in her most aggressive tone. This was a very old joke of Hannah’s.I went upstairs now. The spare room was on the same landing as the drawing-room, and, as far as I could tell, had never been of any use at all to any single member of the family. Perhaps in mother’s time it had been of service to some long-forgotten guest. The door was always locked. I supposed Hannah had the key. At nights sometimes, when the wind was blowing high, there was a moaning, through the keyhole of that locked door, and there were times when I flew past it up and up and up to my own attic bedroom. But now I stood outside the door. At the other side of the landing was the drawing-room. It was a very big room with three windows. We sat there sometimes when father had his professors, men very nearly as learned as himself—not quite, of course—to visit him.I went into the drawing-room. It was very ugly, and not nearly as cosy as the parlour. The spare room I had never seen the inside of that I could remember. Hannah came up now, and took a great bunch of keys from her pocket and opened the door, and we went in.“Oh, how musty it smells!” I said.“In course it do,” said Hannah. “When a room’s shut up for going on fourteen years, why shouldn’t it smell musty? But there, child! don’t you go and catch your death of cold. The first thing is to air the room and then to light a fire. Afterwards I’ll rub up the furniture and put up clean hangings. It won’t be exactly a cheerful sort of room, but I suppose the master must be content.”There were grey-looking curtains hanging at the three tall windows. There were green Venetian blinds, which looked almost white now, so covered were they with dust. There was a sort of rough drugget stuff on the floor, which was quite as grey as the curtains which surrounded the windows. There was a huge four-poster bed, drawn out a little from the wall, and taking one of the best positions in the room. This also was hung with grey moreen, and looked as desolate and as uninviting as a couch could look. There was a huge arm-chair, covered also with the same grey moreen; and there were a few other chairs, hard and dirty. There was a very tall brass fender to the grate, which in itself was large and of generous proportions. There was a chest of drawers, made of mahogany, with brass handles; and a huge wardrobe, almost as big as a small house. I really don’t remember the rest of the furniture of the room, except that there were engravings hanging on the walls, and one in particular portraying Herodias bearing the head of John the Baptist on a charger, hanging exactly over the fireplace. The picture was as ghastly as the room.“I wouldn’t sleep here for the world,” I said.“Well, you won’t have the chance,” said Hannah. “Now, you can just go out and make yourself useful somewhere else, while I’m beginning to clean up and get things in order.”

The play was as lively as any four children could desire. It was calledThe Grand Duke Alexis; it had a great deal to do with Nihilism and with the Russians generally. There was a very handsome woman in it who had a mission to kill somebody, and a very evil-looking man whose mission it was to get her arrested; and the handsome woman and the wicked man seemed to chase each other on and off the stage, and to mingle up in the plot, and to fasten themselves in some unpleasant manner into my brain. I am sure the boys enjoyed themselves vastly, and there is no doubt that I was interested.

“Your eyes are like the eyes of an owl,” whispered Charley to me; “if they get any rounder they’ll drop out like marbles.”

I was accustomed to this kind of remark, and was too much fascinated with the lovely lady and the man who was trying to arrest her to take any notice of his words. The Grand Duke was certainly the most appallingly wicked person I had ever imagined. Even father’s new wife seemed pale and commonplace and everyday beside him. Even the fact that my own precious mother was superseded by another was of no consequence at all when I recalled to memory that lovely lady’s face, and the face of the man who was trying to have her arrested.

The play came to an end, but when we arrived home Hannah had not yet returned. We let ourselves in, in lordly fashion, with the latchkey. Von Marlo bade us good-bye, and promised to come in again on the following day. He said he would stand by us. He gave my hand an affectionate squeeze.

“Make the best of things,” he said; “there’s a good girl.”

I began to think Von Marlo a very comfortable sort of friend. I wished that he was a girl instead of a boy. I could have been quite fond of him had he been a girl.

We three sat in the parlour; we would not go to bed until Hannah came in. We began to nod presently, and Alex dropped off to sleep. It was past midnight when we heard Hannah’s steps creeping upstairs towards her bedroom. Charley immediately rushed on tiptoe to the parlour door, opened it a tenth of an inch, and peeped out.

“She is off to bed. She is walking as straight as a die. She has got on her best bonnet. I hope she’ll be in a better temper in the morning. Now then, I’m going to follow her example; I’m dead-beat I shall be asleep in a twinkling.”

He went off; his good-humoured, boyish face flashed back at us full of fun. Father’s marriage, the knowledge that there would soon be a lady in the house, whom some people would call his new mamma, did not affect him very deeply.

I went up to Alex and spoke to him.

“You and I will stand shoulder to shoulder, won’t we?” I said.

“Why, yes, Dumps—of course,” he replied.

“I mean,” I said, “that you will do what I do.”

“What do you exactly mean by that?”

“I’m prepared to be quite kind and lady-like, and not to storm or scold or say ugly things, and I want you to do just the same. You will, won’t you? We’ll understand each other. We’ll be most careful, truly, not to put her in dear mother’s place.”

My voice trembled.

“It’s a long time since mother died,” said Alex.

“But, Alex, you remember her.”

“No, I don’t,” said Alex.

“Nor do I,” I said. “Sometimes I try to. But I have got her miniature; father gave it to me. Wouldn’t you like to see it?”

“A miniature? That’s a picture of her, isn’t it? Have you got one?”

“Yes.”

“I knew father had one, but I didn’t know he would part with it.”

“He never would until now.”

“Once,” said Alex, “years ago, he was very ill in bed for a few days, and I went into his room. He was sitting up in bed, and he had a picture in a frame; he was looking at it, and there were tears in his eyes. When he saw me he fired up—you know his hasty sort of way—and stuffed the picture under his pillow. I believe it was mother’s picture he was looking at. He must have loved her then.”

“But he doesn’t love her now,” I said. “He has given the picture to me because he has put another woman in her place.”

“Well, most of them do,” said Alex.

“What do you mean?”

“Most men marry again. There are two masters at our school, and they’ve married again jolly quick—one of them within a year and a half, and the other even in a shorter time. All the fellows were talking about it. It was mighty unfortunate, I can tell you, for we had to subscribe to give them both wedding presents, otherwise we wouldn’t have noticed. They were widowers, and they had no right to do it. It was beastly hard on the boys; that’s what I think.”

“What do you mean?”

“The wedding presents, I mean.”

“Oh Alex! that is a very trivial part of the matter.”

“I expect they’ll collect something jolly for father.”

“Well, we needn’t subscribe,” I said.

“Of course not; that’s the best of it.”

“I hope they won’t,” I said.

“They’re certain to. They just worship him in the school. You haven’t the least idea how popular he is. They just adore him. He’s such a splendid teacher, and so sympathetic over a difficulty. He is a great man, there’s no doubt of that.”

But I was not in a humour to hear his praises.

“Let’s think of our own dear little mother to-night,” I said.

“All right, Rachel.”

“Come up with me to my room and I’ll show you her portrait.”

“All right, old girl.”

We went up together. I thought if Alex would stand my friend—if he would lean on me as a very superior sort of sister, and allow me to take the place of sister and mother—then I could endure things. Father’s new wife might go her own way, and I would go mine. I just wanted Alex at least to understand me. Charley was a good boy, but he was hopeless. Still, I had a vague sort of hope that Alex would keep on my side.

When we got to my room I lit all the bits of candle, and made quite a strong light; and then I opened the miniature frame, and told Alex to kneel down by me and I would show it to him. He looked at it very earnestly. He himself was strangely like the miniature, but I don’t think the likeness struck him particularly. Nevertheless, he had his sensibilities, and his lips quivered, and his soft, gentle brown eyes looked their very softest and gentlest now as they fixed themselves on my face.

“Poor mother!” he said. He bent his head and kissed the glass which covered the pictured face.

I shut up the case hastily.

“You are in rare luck to have it,” he said.

“Yes,” I answered; “it is a great comfort to me. This is mother; this is the woman I love; no other can ever take her place.”

“Of course not,” said Alex. “And some day when I’m rich you’ll let me have it photographed, won’t you?”

“Indeed I will. We’ll stick to our bargain, won’t we, Alex?”

Alex rose to his feet. He yawned slightly.

“I’m dead-tired, and I must go to school to-morrow. I haven’t looked at one of my lessons, but it doesn’t really matter. When the Professor is away marrying, you know, he can’t expect his children to work as hard as they do when he is at home.”

“Oh Alex, Hannah said something dreadful!”

“As though anybody minded what she said!”

“She said that mother—our little, young, pretty mother—was killed. She said mother would have been in the world now if she hadn’t been killed.”

“That’s all stuff!” said Alex. “Why do you speak in that exaggerated sort of way? If she had been killed there would have been a coroner’s inquest and a trial, and the murderer would have been discovered and—and hanged. Why do you talk such rot?”

“Oh, there are many ways of killing a person, and mother died for want of sunshine.”

“Oh, I see. Well, well! good-night.”

He kissed me again and left the room.

During the next day or two I was very busy. Father had said that the house was to be put in order. Now, what that meant I could not tell, but the house on the whole was about in as much order as such a great, desolate, and unfurnished abode could be. But when the next day at breakfast I found a second letter from father on my plate, and when I opened it and read father’s own directions that the spare room was to be got ready for the reception of himself and his wife on the following Sunday, I knew that Hannah and I must come either to open war or to a dismissal of the latter. I went down to the kitchen and told her at once.

“The spare room, forsooth!” she said. “Well, yes, I thought of that last night. Master said it was to be put in order, but he needn’t have written; I’d have seen to it.”

I was greatly relieved at this change of front. Hannah was looking quite gentle. She was moving about in the kitchen in quite an orderly fashion. The little cooking-stove was black instead of grey; there were no ashes to be seen anywhere, and a bright little fire burned in it. There was a pot on, and there was something boiling in the pot, and the thing that boiled and bubbled gave forth a most appetising smell. When I spoke Hannah turned and opened the oven door, and I saw inside a great cake.

“Why, Hannah!” I said.

“It’s only right to have cake and that sort of thing handy,” she said. “Don’t talk nonsense, Dumps. There’s a deal for you and me to do. Be you going to school to-day?”

“No,” I said.

“Why will you keep away?”

“Because I won’t go.”

“You will get a report; your mistress will be very angry.”

“I don’t care,” I said; “I won’t go. I’ll go afterwards. I won’t go this week.”

“Highty-tighty!” said Hannah. “Well, you’ll catch it!”

“Seems to me I’m always catching it,” I said.

“Seems to me you are,” said Hannah.

“Well, Hannah, what about the spare room?”

“I’ll see to it myself. I’ll have it ready.”

“Can I help you, Hannah?”

“No; but you can come and look on if you like.”

“Don’t you want Mrs Herring? She is so strong. Everything should be turned out; the place should be made very clean.”

“I don’t want none of your herrings nor your sprats neither,” replied Hannah in her most aggressive tone. This was a very old joke of Hannah’s.

I went upstairs now. The spare room was on the same landing as the drawing-room, and, as far as I could tell, had never been of any use at all to any single member of the family. Perhaps in mother’s time it had been of service to some long-forgotten guest. The door was always locked. I supposed Hannah had the key. At nights sometimes, when the wind was blowing high, there was a moaning, through the keyhole of that locked door, and there were times when I flew past it up and up and up to my own attic bedroom. But now I stood outside the door. At the other side of the landing was the drawing-room. It was a very big room with three windows. We sat there sometimes when father had his professors, men very nearly as learned as himself—not quite, of course—to visit him.

I went into the drawing-room. It was very ugly, and not nearly as cosy as the parlour. The spare room I had never seen the inside of that I could remember. Hannah came up now, and took a great bunch of keys from her pocket and opened the door, and we went in.

“Oh, how musty it smells!” I said.

“In course it do,” said Hannah. “When a room’s shut up for going on fourteen years, why shouldn’t it smell musty? But there, child! don’t you go and catch your death of cold. The first thing is to air the room and then to light a fire. Afterwards I’ll rub up the furniture and put up clean hangings. It won’t be exactly a cheerful sort of room, but I suppose the master must be content.”

There were grey-looking curtains hanging at the three tall windows. There were green Venetian blinds, which looked almost white now, so covered were they with dust. There was a sort of rough drugget stuff on the floor, which was quite as grey as the curtains which surrounded the windows. There was a huge four-poster bed, drawn out a little from the wall, and taking one of the best positions in the room. This also was hung with grey moreen, and looked as desolate and as uninviting as a couch could look. There was a huge arm-chair, covered also with the same grey moreen; and there were a few other chairs, hard and dirty. There was a very tall brass fender to the grate, which in itself was large and of generous proportions. There was a chest of drawers, made of mahogany, with brass handles; and a huge wardrobe, almost as big as a small house. I really don’t remember the rest of the furniture of the room, except that there were engravings hanging on the walls, and one in particular portraying Herodias bearing the head of John the Baptist on a charger, hanging exactly over the fireplace. The picture was as ghastly as the room.

“I wouldn’t sleep here for the world,” I said.

“Well, you won’t have the chance,” said Hannah. “Now, you can just go out and make yourself useful somewhere else, while I’m beginning to clean up and get things in order.”

Part 1, Chapter XIV.The Professor’s Return.When Sunday morning dawned the place was, according to Hannah’s ideas, in perfect order. She had not got in any one to help her, and I am afraid she must have been nearly dropping with fatigue. She allowed me to dust a little, but would not permit me to do any harder work.“No, no,” she said—“no, no; you’re the young lady, and I’m a poor drudge. It’s right that the drudge should work, and not the young lady.”I proceeded to try to remind her that she had not considered my young ladyhood much in the past.“Things is different now,” said Hannah. “I have got to look after you now.”“But why so?” I asked.“I had a dream in the night,” she said. “Your poor mother come to me, and she said, ‘Don’t leave my children, Hannah.’ Oh dear! oh dear! she as was killed—as was killed!”To my amazement, Hannah burst out crying. When she cried I rushed to her and flung my arms round her neck and cried also.“Oh, I am so glad you won’t leave us!” I said. I felt like a most terrible little martyr, and Hannah’s sympathy soothed me inexpressibly.That evening—it was Saturday—I told Alex and Charley and Von Marlo about Hannah’s dream.“Rot, I call it!” said Charley.“Oh Charley, you are very unkind!”“Well, I’m sure,” said Charley, “why should she have been so cross and disobliging when we really wanted somebody—when we had no sort of mother? Now that we’re going to have that jolly, fat, round woman to look after us and to see to our comforts, Hannah is beginning to find out what her duties are.”“Things will work themselves right,” said Von Marlo in his solemn way. “Take my word for it, Rachel, things will shape themselves right.”I didn’t think Von Marlo half so comforting as Hannah on this occasion, and I almost said so, for I felt very snappish.That night I scarcely slept at all. To-morrow would find us with that detestable person in the house—“the new mamma.” Of course, she wasn’t my mamma, but the world would speak of her in that manner, just as Von Marlo had once done. He would never say those words to my face again.I went to church on Sunday morning, accompanied by Alex and Charley. As we were coming back Augusta Moore rushed up to me.“I thought you were very ill,” she said. “We all thought so—Miss Franklin, your form mistress, and all.”“I’m not a bit ill,” I said. I did not want Augusta’s sympathy, or, indeed, to say anything at all to her just then.“Then why didn’t you come to school?”I was silent. Augusta took my hand. She pulled it through her arm.“I think I understand,” she said. “You were ill in mind; that is the worst sort of illness, isn’t it?”She glanced round at Mrs Moore, who was trotting along behind.“Go home, mother; I’ll follow you.”“You’ll lose yourself, Gussie.”“Don’t call me Gussie. I’ll follow you.”Mrs Moore said something to me; she was quite nice and commonplace, and did not allude to the subject of the “new mamma.”Presently Augusta and I found ourselves alone, for the boys the moment they saw her had taken precious good care to make themselves scarce. We walked on slowly.“I should like to see your house,” said Augusta.“You can if you wish to,” I replied.I took her in, and the moment she got into the hall she began to sniff.“What is the matter?” I asked.“Books!” she said. “Old leather! How I envy that woman!”“What woman?”“That commonplace person who has dared to marry your father.”“Oh well, Augusta, we had better not talk of that.”“Not talk of it? Why, it’s a weight on my mind always. I only trust she won’t make him fall off. Rachel—Rachel Grant—you have a very solemn responsibility before you.”“What is that?”“The commonplace woman can do nothing, but you can do a great deal.”“In what way?”“You, who are his child, must partake in some way of his nature.”“I never had the slightest influence on father,” I responded. “I think he often forgets that I exist. I shall certainly have less influence than ever now.”“You have influence, but you won’t use it. Oh that I were his daughter!”Augusta began to sniff again. Charley came into the room at that moment.“I thought dinner was served,” he said.He looked at Augusta.“How do you do?” she said. “You are the son of the greatest of men.”“Bosh!” said Charley. He backed towards the door. “I thought,” he said, glancing from me to Augusta, and then from Augusta to me again, “that dinner was on the table, and that you were sniffing the good smell.”“Books! Books!” said Augusta.Charley vanished.“Take me to his library,” said Augusta. “Just let me walk round it once, will you?”“Oh yes, if you like,” I replied.I took her round. She stepped softly in veneration. She took up a volume; she seated herself on a chair; she opened it; she was lost.“Augusta,” I said.There was not the most remote movement on her part.“Augusta!” I said again.Her lips quivered. She was repeating something softly under her breath.“Come,” I cried, “it is time for you to go home to your dinner, and it is time for us to eat ours. Get up! Awake!”No stir of any sort. Violent measures were necessary. I snatched the hook from her hand, and in so doing upset the stool on which she was sitting. To have her book taken away and her seat removed from under her was sufficient to wake even Augusta Moore. She rubbed her eyes and said, “Where was I?”“Where you have no right to be,” I said. “You really must go.”“But you will keep him up to the mark; you will take my advice, won’t you?”“I tell you what,” I said cheerfully; “if I can possibly manage it, I will introduce you to him, and you shall talk to him. If you feel that he is so near you—so like you in all respects—you will have much more influence over him than I should, and you will be able to keep him up to the mark yourself.”The next minute I had repented of my hastily formed decision, for Augusta’s long, thin arms were round my neck, and she was hugging me and kissing me on my cheeks, and then hugging me again with frantic energy.“Oh, you dear! You love! You beautiful creature! Oh! oh! oh! To think of it! To think of it!”“Dinner is served,” said Charley, just poking his head round the door and then vanishing.At last I got rid of Augusta. When I arrived in the dining-room Charley asked me if I had had a mad girl in the house who had broken loose from an asylum. I replied with dignity that she was a very clever girl, and then we proceeded to our meal.The meal itself was quite plain—the usual sort—a piece of boiled beef, carrots floating in gravy round it, and a few boiled potatoes. These were to be followed by one of Hannah’s apple-dumplings. Now, apple-dumplings are supposed to be very good things, but I cannot say that Hannah’s recipe was worth preserving. The pastry was always very hard, and the apples were never done enough; in short, we were all tired of them.“I can’t imagine why the thing that smells so jolly good doesn’t come upstairs,” said Charley. “It’s too bad—it’s worse than bad.”“Oh no,” I answered; “don’t say that, Charley. Hannah is keeping it for supper. She is going to have a surprise supper; I know it for I saw the cake.”“The cake!” cried Charley. “A cake made by Hannah?”“Yes; and I can tell you it did smell pretty good. Oh, didn’t it just!” I smacked my lips in anticipation.“I suppose we’ll have to make this do,” said Alex gloomily, helping himself to another slice of tough beef.Our conversation filtered away into mere nothings, then into monosyllables; then it tailed off into utter silence. We were all very depressed, and yet we were excited; we wanted we knew not what; we were afraid, we could not tell of what. Each one of us had a sense that things could never be the same again, that we were eating our humble dinner and looking each into the humble face of the other for the last time. Everything from that hour forward would be different. Would the change be for the better? No, it could not be for the better. A change, however, we were certain was coming. We did not speak of it; we sat very still.At last the boys said they would go for a walk; they did not ask me to accompany them, nor did I offer to go. I ran up to my own room. I took the pretty dark-blue dress which Miss Grace Donnithorne had given me. I took the jacket, the little shoes, the stockings, all the things which she had showered upon me when I was at Hedgerow House, and I put them into the trunk which she had also presented me with—the pretty trunk which I had been so proud of, and which bore my initials, R.G. On the top of all the things I put a card with the words, “Returned with thanks—Rachel Grant,” written upon it. This little trunk I myself conveyed to the bedroom which had been got ready for the Professor and his wife. There was no attempt at making this room pretty, but a huge fire burned in the grate, and that alone had a certain cheerfulness about it. I put the little trunk at the foot of the bed. I did not know what would happen. I felt afraid; nevertheless, I was quite determined to let Miss Grace Donnithorne—Mrs Grant, as she was now—know how things really stood.At last the time came for me to make myself look as well as I could to meet my father and his wife. I put on the blue evening-dress which I had outgrown, brushed out my long hair, and went down to the parlour. The parlour certainly looked very smart. Its central table alone was worth the greatest admiration. There was a white cloth—very white indeed—in fact, dazzlingly so; and the crockery (I cannot call it by the name of china) seemed to me quite amazing. It did not matter that none of the glass matched, and that there were plates of various sorts, but what was all-important was the fact that the board groaned with goodly fare. There was a huge piece of cold roast beef, a salad made according to an old-fashioned recipe of Hannah’s, a cake (frosted) in the centre of the table, some jellies, some fruit, a pair of roast fowls, and a ham. Oh, when before had the old house close to the college seen such a feast?Standing at the head of the table, with his arms folded and his eyes fixed upon the goodly fare, was Alex; and standing at the foot of the table, in precisely the same attitude, was Charley. They did not move when I came in, and I did not speak, but went and stood at one of the sides. Hannah bustled into the room.“They’ll be here in a few minutes, children,” she said; “and don’t forget that I’m here to take your parts. Bless you, poor orphans—bless you!”Then she disappeared downstairs.“Oh dear! Oh dear!” I said.“For goodness’ sake,” said Alex, moving away from the table, “don’t begin to snivel, whatever you do, Dumps. She’s a mighty silly old woman.”“Oh, what a supper!” said Charley.He gave a sigh of profound satisfaction. After a minute he said, “Whatever sort of a step-mother she is, I am going to eat! I say, what a supper!”He had scarcely uttered the words before the sound of a cab stopping outside the front door was distinctly heard.“Shall we all go into the hall?” asked Alex.“I’m not going to stir,” I answered.“Nor I,” said Charley. “I can’t keep my eyes off the supper. I’m awfully afraid it’s a sort of fairy feast, and will vanish if I don’t keep gazing and gazing at it.”The bell was pulled violently. Hannah came hurrying up the stairs. She bustled into the hall. Charley went on tiptoe to the door of the parlour. He came back again on tiptoe, with his eyes rounder than ever.“What do you think?” he said. “Hannah has got a white satin favour pinned upon her dress. Would you believe it? What a turncoat she is!”“She’s not,” I answered. “She had to do it. We must be outwardly civil.”“Yes, yes; that’s it,” said Alex.“And for the sake of the supper it’s worth while,” said Charley.The hall door was opened. My father’s step was heard coming in; this was followed by a lighter, much younger step. Then a cheerful voice said, “Well, here we are.—And you are Hannah, I think? I have often heard of you.”“The hypocrite!” I muttered; but Alex said, “Hush! Remember our compact.”“I have often heard of you,” said the cheerful voice. “How do you do?”Hannah’s reply was so muttered that it could not be heard in the parlour. Then father said, “Where are the children? Dumps! Alex! Charley! Come along at once!”We all made a rush to the parlour door. We had to rush or we should not have moved at all. We went into the hall. I felt at that supreme moment that if I had not known Miss Grace Donnithorne in the past, and had not really liked her very much, not to say almost loved her, I could have borne my present position better. But having already known her, the present position was almost unbearable. Nevertheless, things that seem unbearable have now and then to be faced in life. My father called in his cheerful tones, “Well, children, well! here we are back. Here’s your new mother. I trust you will all be as dutiful as she deserves. I am sure it is very good of her to come and look after such harum-scarums as you are. Now then, Dumps, you give her a right royal welcome.”“How do you do?” I said.I held out my hand. The kindest—oh yes, I must say the words—the kindest eyes in the world looked anxiously into mine; the pleasant mouth relaxed as though it was preparing to smile; then it became grave, but its expression was as sweet as ever.“How are you, Rachel?” said she who used to be Miss Grace Donnithorne. She bent forward and gave me a light kiss—not the affectionate embrace she had bestowed upon me once or twice when I was at Hedgerow House.“Take your mother upstairs, Dumps. Take her and show her her bedroom,” said father. “Come along, you two boys; just come and tell me all that has been happening at the college. My goodness, what an age it seems since I went away!”Father’s tone and the mighty sigh of relief he gave did more to compose my nerves than anything else. Miss Grace Donnithorne had not changed him. I went up the stairs saying to myself, “She is not my father’s wife. She is only Miss Grace Donnithorne, a stoutish lady, middle-aged, quite nice and fat and pleasant; she is not father’s wife.”All the time these thoughts kept coming and going in my brain; but the lady who followed me did not speak at all. That was quite unlike Miss Donnithorne’s way.I opened the door of the big room. The fire had almost burnt itself out; the room in consequence was cold. There was no gas of any sort in this huge chamber; two poor, solitary candles had been placed on the high mantelshelf, but had not been lighted.“Dear me!” said the lady—and there was no mistaking the matter-of-fact voice—“but this room is too cold for your father. Come along. Dumps, you and I must see to this at once. Where can we get coals? Oh, this hod is empty. Get some matches quickly, child, and some hot water. Your father must have hot water, and we must have this fire made up. Dear, dear! Dumps, our hands will be full. He is a very precious man, you know, but a handful—a good bit of a handful—more than one child could possibly manage, and more than one woman can manage, but between us, Dumps—”She took up the poker, and the fire was soon blazing again. Candles were lit in a trice. Hannah appeared with a great jug of hot water.“Where would you wish your hot water to be placed, Mrs Grant?” she said. Her tone was very precise. There was a red spot on one of her cheeks; the other was deadly pale. But the white satin favour! What possessed her to wear it? It stood out with an aggravating stare on her dark dress.The new Mrs Grant turned at once.“Put it here by the wash-hand stand,” she said; “and bring some more coals, please. This fire is not nearly large enough. The room is chilly.”She spoke very cheerfully. Hannah left the room at once. Just at that moment there came a knock at the door.“Father says that supper is ready,” said Charley’s voice.“Oh, I haven’t spoken to you, Charley,” said Mrs Grant.She went to the door, took his hand, and wrung it.“Good boy,” she said. “You will help me all you can.”I saw him gazing at her very hard; then he went downstairs, almost like a flash. I wondered what he was going to say to Alex.Meanwhile I stood silent by the fire. Miss Grace Donnithorne, that was, faced me. She had removed her hat and taken off her jacket. She had a little comb in her pocket; with this she smoothed out her hair. She went to the wash-stand and washed her hands. Hannah appeared with the coals.“Put a good many on, please, Hannah. I want the room to be quite warm,” said the new mistress.Hannah obeyed. The late Miss Grace Donnithorne looked round the room.“Much too large,” she said.“All the rooms are large in this house,” I answered.“Oh, we’ll choose a cosier one than this—eh, Dumps?” she said.“Can’t find one in this house,” was my response.“Well, this will do for to-night.”She looked at me. The kindness in her eyes seemed kinder than ever. It would have been difficult, had she not been my step-mother, to resist her; but being my step-mother, I stood very cold and still, responding quite civilly when she spoke, but not offering any advances on my part.She had washed her hands now, and the fire was blazing brightly. She poured some hot water into a basin.“This is for the Professor,” she said. “He must warm himself. He is very cold, dear man! He is a very precious creature, and—”I wished she would not talk of him like that. I felt a sense of irritation. Then I looked at her and the irritation vanished.“The boys are so hungry,” I said.“And so am I,” she replied, with a laugh; “and your dear father is too. My dear Dumps, he has a ravenous appetite. That is a great relief to me. He hasn’t the faintest idea how much he eats, but it’s that that keeps him going. He eats without knowing that he is eating. But he mustn’t go on doing that. I am certain he bolts his food, and that will mean indigestion by-and-by. And indigestion breaks up life. You and I have a great deal on our hands.”Then there was a dead pause.“Dumps dear,” she said, coming nearer.In another minute perhaps she might have said something, and all that followed need never have been written; just at that moment she laid her hand on my shoulder, but before she could utter the words, whatever they were, that were trembling on her lips, her eyes fell on the little trunk—on the little leather trunk with my initials, R.G., on the lid. She could not mistake it. She gave a start; into her comely cheeks there flamed a vivid red. She bent down without a word and opened the trunk. She looked at the contents, took up the card which I had laid on the top and read it. Then she laid it back again very quietly, without uttering a syllable, and closed the lid of the little trunk. Then she turned to me.“Shall we go down to supper?” she said. Her voice was quite cheerful. But there was a wall of ice between us.

When Sunday morning dawned the place was, according to Hannah’s ideas, in perfect order. She had not got in any one to help her, and I am afraid she must have been nearly dropping with fatigue. She allowed me to dust a little, but would not permit me to do any harder work.

“No, no,” she said—“no, no; you’re the young lady, and I’m a poor drudge. It’s right that the drudge should work, and not the young lady.”

I proceeded to try to remind her that she had not considered my young ladyhood much in the past.

“Things is different now,” said Hannah. “I have got to look after you now.”

“But why so?” I asked.

“I had a dream in the night,” she said. “Your poor mother come to me, and she said, ‘Don’t leave my children, Hannah.’ Oh dear! oh dear! she as was killed—as was killed!”

To my amazement, Hannah burst out crying. When she cried I rushed to her and flung my arms round her neck and cried also.

“Oh, I am so glad you won’t leave us!” I said. I felt like a most terrible little martyr, and Hannah’s sympathy soothed me inexpressibly.

That evening—it was Saturday—I told Alex and Charley and Von Marlo about Hannah’s dream.

“Rot, I call it!” said Charley.

“Oh Charley, you are very unkind!”

“Well, I’m sure,” said Charley, “why should she have been so cross and disobliging when we really wanted somebody—when we had no sort of mother? Now that we’re going to have that jolly, fat, round woman to look after us and to see to our comforts, Hannah is beginning to find out what her duties are.”

“Things will work themselves right,” said Von Marlo in his solemn way. “Take my word for it, Rachel, things will shape themselves right.”

I didn’t think Von Marlo half so comforting as Hannah on this occasion, and I almost said so, for I felt very snappish.

That night I scarcely slept at all. To-morrow would find us with that detestable person in the house—“the new mamma.” Of course, she wasn’t my mamma, but the world would speak of her in that manner, just as Von Marlo had once done. He would never say those words to my face again.

I went to church on Sunday morning, accompanied by Alex and Charley. As we were coming back Augusta Moore rushed up to me.

“I thought you were very ill,” she said. “We all thought so—Miss Franklin, your form mistress, and all.”

“I’m not a bit ill,” I said. I did not want Augusta’s sympathy, or, indeed, to say anything at all to her just then.

“Then why didn’t you come to school?”

I was silent. Augusta took my hand. She pulled it through her arm.

“I think I understand,” she said. “You were ill in mind; that is the worst sort of illness, isn’t it?”

She glanced round at Mrs Moore, who was trotting along behind.

“Go home, mother; I’ll follow you.”

“You’ll lose yourself, Gussie.”

“Don’t call me Gussie. I’ll follow you.”

Mrs Moore said something to me; she was quite nice and commonplace, and did not allude to the subject of the “new mamma.”

Presently Augusta and I found ourselves alone, for the boys the moment they saw her had taken precious good care to make themselves scarce. We walked on slowly.

“I should like to see your house,” said Augusta.

“You can if you wish to,” I replied.

I took her in, and the moment she got into the hall she began to sniff.

“What is the matter?” I asked.

“Books!” she said. “Old leather! How I envy that woman!”

“What woman?”

“That commonplace person who has dared to marry your father.”

“Oh well, Augusta, we had better not talk of that.”

“Not talk of it? Why, it’s a weight on my mind always. I only trust she won’t make him fall off. Rachel—Rachel Grant—you have a very solemn responsibility before you.”

“What is that?”

“The commonplace woman can do nothing, but you can do a great deal.”

“In what way?”

“You, who are his child, must partake in some way of his nature.”

“I never had the slightest influence on father,” I responded. “I think he often forgets that I exist. I shall certainly have less influence than ever now.”

“You have influence, but you won’t use it. Oh that I were his daughter!”

Augusta began to sniff again. Charley came into the room at that moment.

“I thought dinner was served,” he said.

He looked at Augusta.

“How do you do?” she said. “You are the son of the greatest of men.”

“Bosh!” said Charley. He backed towards the door. “I thought,” he said, glancing from me to Augusta, and then from Augusta to me again, “that dinner was on the table, and that you were sniffing the good smell.”

“Books! Books!” said Augusta.

Charley vanished.

“Take me to his library,” said Augusta. “Just let me walk round it once, will you?”

“Oh yes, if you like,” I replied.

I took her round. She stepped softly in veneration. She took up a volume; she seated herself on a chair; she opened it; she was lost.

“Augusta,” I said.

There was not the most remote movement on her part.

“Augusta!” I said again.

Her lips quivered. She was repeating something softly under her breath.

“Come,” I cried, “it is time for you to go home to your dinner, and it is time for us to eat ours. Get up! Awake!”

No stir of any sort. Violent measures were necessary. I snatched the hook from her hand, and in so doing upset the stool on which she was sitting. To have her book taken away and her seat removed from under her was sufficient to wake even Augusta Moore. She rubbed her eyes and said, “Where was I?”

“Where you have no right to be,” I said. “You really must go.”

“But you will keep him up to the mark; you will take my advice, won’t you?”

“I tell you what,” I said cheerfully; “if I can possibly manage it, I will introduce you to him, and you shall talk to him. If you feel that he is so near you—so like you in all respects—you will have much more influence over him than I should, and you will be able to keep him up to the mark yourself.”

The next minute I had repented of my hastily formed decision, for Augusta’s long, thin arms were round my neck, and she was hugging me and kissing me on my cheeks, and then hugging me again with frantic energy.

“Oh, you dear! You love! You beautiful creature! Oh! oh! oh! To think of it! To think of it!”

“Dinner is served,” said Charley, just poking his head round the door and then vanishing.

At last I got rid of Augusta. When I arrived in the dining-room Charley asked me if I had had a mad girl in the house who had broken loose from an asylum. I replied with dignity that she was a very clever girl, and then we proceeded to our meal.

The meal itself was quite plain—the usual sort—a piece of boiled beef, carrots floating in gravy round it, and a few boiled potatoes. These were to be followed by one of Hannah’s apple-dumplings. Now, apple-dumplings are supposed to be very good things, but I cannot say that Hannah’s recipe was worth preserving. The pastry was always very hard, and the apples were never done enough; in short, we were all tired of them.

“I can’t imagine why the thing that smells so jolly good doesn’t come upstairs,” said Charley. “It’s too bad—it’s worse than bad.”

“Oh no,” I answered; “don’t say that, Charley. Hannah is keeping it for supper. She is going to have a surprise supper; I know it for I saw the cake.”

“The cake!” cried Charley. “A cake made by Hannah?”

“Yes; and I can tell you it did smell pretty good. Oh, didn’t it just!” I smacked my lips in anticipation.

“I suppose we’ll have to make this do,” said Alex gloomily, helping himself to another slice of tough beef.

Our conversation filtered away into mere nothings, then into monosyllables; then it tailed off into utter silence. We were all very depressed, and yet we were excited; we wanted we knew not what; we were afraid, we could not tell of what. Each one of us had a sense that things could never be the same again, that we were eating our humble dinner and looking each into the humble face of the other for the last time. Everything from that hour forward would be different. Would the change be for the better? No, it could not be for the better. A change, however, we were certain was coming. We did not speak of it; we sat very still.

At last the boys said they would go for a walk; they did not ask me to accompany them, nor did I offer to go. I ran up to my own room. I took the pretty dark-blue dress which Miss Grace Donnithorne had given me. I took the jacket, the little shoes, the stockings, all the things which she had showered upon me when I was at Hedgerow House, and I put them into the trunk which she had also presented me with—the pretty trunk which I had been so proud of, and which bore my initials, R.G. On the top of all the things I put a card with the words, “Returned with thanks—Rachel Grant,” written upon it. This little trunk I myself conveyed to the bedroom which had been got ready for the Professor and his wife. There was no attempt at making this room pretty, but a huge fire burned in the grate, and that alone had a certain cheerfulness about it. I put the little trunk at the foot of the bed. I did not know what would happen. I felt afraid; nevertheless, I was quite determined to let Miss Grace Donnithorne—Mrs Grant, as she was now—know how things really stood.

At last the time came for me to make myself look as well as I could to meet my father and his wife. I put on the blue evening-dress which I had outgrown, brushed out my long hair, and went down to the parlour. The parlour certainly looked very smart. Its central table alone was worth the greatest admiration. There was a white cloth—very white indeed—in fact, dazzlingly so; and the crockery (I cannot call it by the name of china) seemed to me quite amazing. It did not matter that none of the glass matched, and that there were plates of various sorts, but what was all-important was the fact that the board groaned with goodly fare. There was a huge piece of cold roast beef, a salad made according to an old-fashioned recipe of Hannah’s, a cake (frosted) in the centre of the table, some jellies, some fruit, a pair of roast fowls, and a ham. Oh, when before had the old house close to the college seen such a feast?

Standing at the head of the table, with his arms folded and his eyes fixed upon the goodly fare, was Alex; and standing at the foot of the table, in precisely the same attitude, was Charley. They did not move when I came in, and I did not speak, but went and stood at one of the sides. Hannah bustled into the room.

“They’ll be here in a few minutes, children,” she said; “and don’t forget that I’m here to take your parts. Bless you, poor orphans—bless you!”

Then she disappeared downstairs.

“Oh dear! Oh dear!” I said.

“For goodness’ sake,” said Alex, moving away from the table, “don’t begin to snivel, whatever you do, Dumps. She’s a mighty silly old woman.”

“Oh, what a supper!” said Charley.

He gave a sigh of profound satisfaction. After a minute he said, “Whatever sort of a step-mother she is, I am going to eat! I say, what a supper!”

He had scarcely uttered the words before the sound of a cab stopping outside the front door was distinctly heard.

“Shall we all go into the hall?” asked Alex.

“I’m not going to stir,” I answered.

“Nor I,” said Charley. “I can’t keep my eyes off the supper. I’m awfully afraid it’s a sort of fairy feast, and will vanish if I don’t keep gazing and gazing at it.”

The bell was pulled violently. Hannah came hurrying up the stairs. She bustled into the hall. Charley went on tiptoe to the door of the parlour. He came back again on tiptoe, with his eyes rounder than ever.

“What do you think?” he said. “Hannah has got a white satin favour pinned upon her dress. Would you believe it? What a turncoat she is!”

“She’s not,” I answered. “She had to do it. We must be outwardly civil.”

“Yes, yes; that’s it,” said Alex.

“And for the sake of the supper it’s worth while,” said Charley.

The hall door was opened. My father’s step was heard coming in; this was followed by a lighter, much younger step. Then a cheerful voice said, “Well, here we are.—And you are Hannah, I think? I have often heard of you.”

“The hypocrite!” I muttered; but Alex said, “Hush! Remember our compact.”

“I have often heard of you,” said the cheerful voice. “How do you do?”

Hannah’s reply was so muttered that it could not be heard in the parlour. Then father said, “Where are the children? Dumps! Alex! Charley! Come along at once!”

We all made a rush to the parlour door. We had to rush or we should not have moved at all. We went into the hall. I felt at that supreme moment that if I had not known Miss Grace Donnithorne in the past, and had not really liked her very much, not to say almost loved her, I could have borne my present position better. But having already known her, the present position was almost unbearable. Nevertheless, things that seem unbearable have now and then to be faced in life. My father called in his cheerful tones, “Well, children, well! here we are back. Here’s your new mother. I trust you will all be as dutiful as she deserves. I am sure it is very good of her to come and look after such harum-scarums as you are. Now then, Dumps, you give her a right royal welcome.”

“How do you do?” I said.

I held out my hand. The kindest—oh yes, I must say the words—the kindest eyes in the world looked anxiously into mine; the pleasant mouth relaxed as though it was preparing to smile; then it became grave, but its expression was as sweet as ever.

“How are you, Rachel?” said she who used to be Miss Grace Donnithorne. She bent forward and gave me a light kiss—not the affectionate embrace she had bestowed upon me once or twice when I was at Hedgerow House.

“Take your mother upstairs, Dumps. Take her and show her her bedroom,” said father. “Come along, you two boys; just come and tell me all that has been happening at the college. My goodness, what an age it seems since I went away!”

Father’s tone and the mighty sigh of relief he gave did more to compose my nerves than anything else. Miss Grace Donnithorne had not changed him. I went up the stairs saying to myself, “She is not my father’s wife. She is only Miss Grace Donnithorne, a stoutish lady, middle-aged, quite nice and fat and pleasant; she is not father’s wife.”

All the time these thoughts kept coming and going in my brain; but the lady who followed me did not speak at all. That was quite unlike Miss Donnithorne’s way.

I opened the door of the big room. The fire had almost burnt itself out; the room in consequence was cold. There was no gas of any sort in this huge chamber; two poor, solitary candles had been placed on the high mantelshelf, but had not been lighted.

“Dear me!” said the lady—and there was no mistaking the matter-of-fact voice—“but this room is too cold for your father. Come along. Dumps, you and I must see to this at once. Where can we get coals? Oh, this hod is empty. Get some matches quickly, child, and some hot water. Your father must have hot water, and we must have this fire made up. Dear, dear! Dumps, our hands will be full. He is a very precious man, you know, but a handful—a good bit of a handful—more than one child could possibly manage, and more than one woman can manage, but between us, Dumps—”

She took up the poker, and the fire was soon blazing again. Candles were lit in a trice. Hannah appeared with a great jug of hot water.

“Where would you wish your hot water to be placed, Mrs Grant?” she said. Her tone was very precise. There was a red spot on one of her cheeks; the other was deadly pale. But the white satin favour! What possessed her to wear it? It stood out with an aggravating stare on her dark dress.

The new Mrs Grant turned at once.

“Put it here by the wash-hand stand,” she said; “and bring some more coals, please. This fire is not nearly large enough. The room is chilly.”

She spoke very cheerfully. Hannah left the room at once. Just at that moment there came a knock at the door.

“Father says that supper is ready,” said Charley’s voice.

“Oh, I haven’t spoken to you, Charley,” said Mrs Grant.

She went to the door, took his hand, and wrung it.

“Good boy,” she said. “You will help me all you can.”

I saw him gazing at her very hard; then he went downstairs, almost like a flash. I wondered what he was going to say to Alex.

Meanwhile I stood silent by the fire. Miss Grace Donnithorne, that was, faced me. She had removed her hat and taken off her jacket. She had a little comb in her pocket; with this she smoothed out her hair. She went to the wash-stand and washed her hands. Hannah appeared with the coals.

“Put a good many on, please, Hannah. I want the room to be quite warm,” said the new mistress.

Hannah obeyed. The late Miss Grace Donnithorne looked round the room.

“Much too large,” she said.

“All the rooms are large in this house,” I answered.

“Oh, we’ll choose a cosier one than this—eh, Dumps?” she said.

“Can’t find one in this house,” was my response.

“Well, this will do for to-night.”

She looked at me. The kindness in her eyes seemed kinder than ever. It would have been difficult, had she not been my step-mother, to resist her; but being my step-mother, I stood very cold and still, responding quite civilly when she spoke, but not offering any advances on my part.

She had washed her hands now, and the fire was blazing brightly. She poured some hot water into a basin.

“This is for the Professor,” she said. “He must warm himself. He is very cold, dear man! He is a very precious creature, and—”

I wished she would not talk of him like that. I felt a sense of irritation. Then I looked at her and the irritation vanished.

“The boys are so hungry,” I said.

“And so am I,” she replied, with a laugh; “and your dear father is too. My dear Dumps, he has a ravenous appetite. That is a great relief to me. He hasn’t the faintest idea how much he eats, but it’s that that keeps him going. He eats without knowing that he is eating. But he mustn’t go on doing that. I am certain he bolts his food, and that will mean indigestion by-and-by. And indigestion breaks up life. You and I have a great deal on our hands.”

Then there was a dead pause.

“Dumps dear,” she said, coming nearer.

In another minute perhaps she might have said something, and all that followed need never have been written; just at that moment she laid her hand on my shoulder, but before she could utter the words, whatever they were, that were trembling on her lips, her eyes fell on the little trunk—on the little leather trunk with my initials, R.G., on the lid. She could not mistake it. She gave a start; into her comely cheeks there flamed a vivid red. She bent down without a word and opened the trunk. She looked at the contents, took up the card which I had laid on the top and read it. Then she laid it back again very quietly, without uttering a syllable, and closed the lid of the little trunk. Then she turned to me.

“Shall we go down to supper?” she said. Her voice was quite cheerful. But there was a wall of ice between us.

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