wondered at."
"No," I answered, "And, Von Marlo," I continued, "what do you call her?"
"Mamma," he replied.
"How can you?"
"I couldn't say anything else. I have known her since I was a tinyboy."
"With you it is different--it is truly," I repeated. "I am never goingto call my step-mother mamma or mother, nor anything which would giveher the place of my own mother."
"I do not believe a name matters," said Von Marlo; "but you ought to begood to her, for she is wonderfully good to you."
We finished our walk. I liked him and yet I did not like him. I feltannoyed with the boys. I saw during dinner that they were watching mewhen I spoke to my step-mother. Alex would raise his head and glance inher direction, and once when I forgot to reply to her Charley gave me akick under the table. As to Von Marlo, he seemed to have done his partwhen he had that walk with me, for he did not take much notice of me,although I was certain he was listening.
Now, this was the sort of thing to fret a girl. How could I be goodwhen I was certain that I was surrounded by spies? I thought myfather's abstracted manner quite refreshing beside the intent andwatchful ways of the three boys. And as to Augusta, I almost learned tolove her. She saw nothing wrong in my step-mother for the very reasonthat she did not see her at all. Whenever she raised her eyes, thosedeep-set dark eyes of hers would fly to the Professor. When he spokeshe bent eagerly forward. Once he began one of his endlessdissertations; the boys were talking about something else. Augusta said"Hush!" in a most peremptory manner, and my father stopped.
"Thank you," he said, and he gave her a gracious bow. I really thoughtfor a moment I was at school, and that one of the prefects was callingthe class to order. "Thank you, Miss--"
"Augusta Moore is my name."
She uttered it quickly, and with a sort of sob in her voice.
"Oh, go on, please--go on! It is of the utmost importance."
"Indeed!" he replied, colouring. "I should not have thought youunderstood."
"Oh, I do, sir--I do! I love the great Herodotus--the father of allhistory, is he not?"
"Yes, child."
Really I believe, for the first time in his whole life, my father wasaware of Augusta's society; he now addressed his remarks to her,evidently thinking the rest of us of no importance. He put questions toher which she answered; he drew her out; she had an immense amount ofmiscellaneous knowledge with regard to the old classics. Her hour hadcome; her cheeks blazed; her eyes were bright; she was lifted off herfeet, metaphorically, by my father's appreciation of her talents.
"A remarkable girl," he said afterwards when I was alone in the room."A friend of yours, Dumps?"
"One of my schoolfellows," I said.
Then I took hold of his hands.
"Father!"
"Well, Dumps?"
"I want to speak to you."
"Yes, my dear."
"It was very good of you to do what you did for me, and now you aregoing to send me to a school in Paris."
"Indeed I am not," said my father.
"You are," I replied; "it is all arranged. My step-mother said so."
"Grace, bless her! She has a great many schemes on hand. But I thinkyou will have discovered for yourself, Dumps, that I cannot possibly dosuch a thing. Indeed, I don't particularly care for the French mode ofeducation. If you must go abroad, go to Germany. In Germany we findthe greatest thinkers of the last three centuries. Put yourself underthem, my dear, and it is possible you may come back an intelligentwoman."
I did not say much more. By-and-by I went up to my room. Augusta hadnot come upstairs. I had a few moments to myself. I locked the doorand flung myself on my bed. Oh, what a silly, silly Dumps I was! for Icried as though my heart would break. It was not father who was sendingme to the school in Paris; it was my new mother--my step-mother. Was Ibeholden to her for everything? Of course, she had bought me theclothes, and she had provided all the new and delightful things in thehouse. Could I take her gifts and stand aloof from her? It seemedimpossible.
"I cannot love her," I said to myself. "She is nice, but she ever andever stands between me and my own mother. I cannot--cannot love her."
"Then if you don't love her," said a voice--an inward voice--"you oughtnot to take her gifts. The two things are incompatible. Either loveher with all your heart, and take without grudging what she bestows uponyou, or refuse her gifts."
I was making up my mind. I sat up on my elbow and thought out the wholeproblem. Yes, I must--I would refuse. I would find father some daywhen he was alone, and tell him that I, Rachel, intended to live on thelittle money he could spare me; that I would still go to the old school,and wear shabby dresses. Anything else would be a slight on my ownmother, I thought.
PART TWO, CHAPTER SEVEN.
A NEW REGIME.
Little did I know, however, of the changes that were ahead. Hitherto mystep-mother had been all that was sweetly kind and lovingly indulgent;no doubt she was still kind, and in her heart of hearts still indulgent;but when we returned home after our pleasant few days at Hedgerow Househer manner altered. She took the reins of government with a new sort ofdecision; she ordered changes in the household management withoutconsulting me about them; she got in even more servants, and added tothe luxuries of the house. She invited friends to call, and wentherself to pay visits. She ordered a neat brougham, which came for herevery day, and in which she asked me to accompany her to visit friendsand relatives of her own. I refused in my own blunt fashion.
"I am sorry, step-mother," I said; "I am particularly busy thisafternoon, and I am going to tea with the Swans."
"Is that an old engagement, Rachel?" she inquired.
"Yes," I said; but I blushed a little as I spoke, for in truth thatmorning I had all but refused Rita Swan's urgent entreaty to go and havetea with them. Now I seized upon the whole idea as an excuse.
Mrs Grant stood silent for a minute. How handsome and bright andenergetic she looked! She was becomingly dressed, and the carriage withits nice horse and well-appointed coachman was waiting at the door. Shesaid after a minute's pause, "Very well, Dumps, you needn't come to-day;but please understand that I shall want you to go out with me to-morrowmorning, and again in the afternoon. Don't make any engagement forto-morrow."
Before I had time to reply she had swept down the hall, the door wasflung open for her by the neat parlour-maid, she stepped into hercarriage, and was borne away.
Was this indeed the same desolate house where I had lived ever since mymother died?
I had a somewhat dull tea with the Swans; I was thinking all the time ofmy step-mother. They twitted me one moment on my melancholy, and thenext they began to praise me. I was not a particularly shrewd girl, butsomehow after a time I began to suspect that the news of mystep-mother's wealth had got to their ears. If that was so, it wouldaccount for their complete change of front. Doubtless my step-motherwas right when she decided to take me from a school where I might havecompanions of the Swan sort. The next day I came downstairs determined,if possible, to have my own way and not to go out with Mrs Grant. Shewas at breakfast when I entered.
"You are a little late, Rachel," she said. "The hour for breakfast ishalf-past eight."
"But--but--" I began.
"You needn't excuse yourself, dear. Sit down. To-morrow morning Ishall expect you to be in time." She spoke very sweetly, poured out acup of delicious coffee for me, and asked whether I would prefer ham oreggs to eat with it. I looked out at the street. The worst Januaryweather was on us; there was a drizzling sleet falling from the sky.
"We sha'n't have a very pleasant day for our shopping," said Mrs Grant.
"Are we going shopping?" I asked.
"Yes; I am going to take you shopping to-day. You will want your schooloutfit."
I felt myself turning first red and then pale.
"Oh, but, please--" I began.
She stopped helping herself to marmalad
e and looked at me. She and Iwere alone; the Professor and the boys were all at the college.
"But?" she said. "What is it, dear?"
"I don't want to go."
"I am sorry, but we have very little time to lose. I have ordered thecarriage to be here at ten o'clock."
"But--" I said, faltering somewhat in my speech, for her manner wasbeginning to tell on me. I was struggling and struggling against it,but struggling as the swimmer does who knows that time and tide areagainst him.
"Yes?" she said.
"I want to go for a walk. I hate driving."
"To walk on such a day, Rachel?