“And what are the other reasons, Grace?”
“I don’t know,” said Grace, struggling to speak through her tears.
“But I know,” said Miss Prettyman. “I know them all. I know all your reasons, and I tell you that in my opinion you ought to remain where you are, and not go away. The very reasons which to you are reasons for your going, to me are reasons for your remaining here.”
“I can’t remain. I am determined to go. I don’t mind you and Miss Anne, but I can’t bear to have the girls looking at me—and the servants.”
Then Miss Prettyman paused awhile, thinking what words of wisdom would be most appropriate in the present conjuncture. But words of wisdom did not seem to come easily to her, having for the moment been banished by tenderness of heart. “Come here, my love,” she said at last. “Come here, Grace.” Slowly Grace got up from her seat and came round, and stood by Miss Prettyman’s elbow. Miss Prettyman pushed her chair a little back, and pushed herself a little forward, and stretching out one hand, placed her arm round Grace’s waist, and with the other took hold of Grace’s hand, and thus drew her down and kissed the girl’s forehead and lips. And then Grace found herself kneeling at her friend’s feet. “Grace,” she said, “do you not know that I love you? Do you not know that I love you dearly?” In answer to this Grace kissed the withered hand she held in hers, while the warm tears trickled down upon Miss Prettyman’s knuckles. “I love you as though you were my own,” exclaimed the schoolmistress; “and will you not trust me, that I know what is best for you?”
“I must go home,” said Grace.
“Of course you shall, if you think it right at last; but let us talk of it. No one in this house, you know, has the slightest suspicion that your father has done anything that is in the least dishonourable.”
“I know that you have not.”
“No, nor has Anne.” Miss Prettyman said this as though no one in that house beyond herself and her sister had a right to have any opinion on any subject.
“I know that,” said Grace.
“Well, my dear. If we think so—”
“But the servants, Miss Prettyman?”
“If any servant in this house says a word to offend you, I’ll—I’ll—”
“They don’t say anything, Miss Prettyman, but they look. Indeed I’d better go home. Indeed I had!”
“Do not you think your mother has cares enough upon her, and burden enough, without having another mouth to feed, and another head to shelter? You haven’t thought of that, Grace!”
“Yes, I have.”
“And as for the work, whilst you are not quite well you shall not be troubled with teaching. I have some old papers that want copying and settling, and you shall sit here and do that just for an employment. Anne knows that I’ve long wanted to have it done, and I’ll tell her that you’ve kindly promised to do it for me.”
“No; no; no,” said Grace; “I must go home.” She was still kneeling at Miss Prettyman’s knee, and still holding Miss Prettyman’s hand. And then, at that moment, there came a tap at the door, gentle but yet not humble, a tap which acknowledged, on the part of the tapper, the supremacy in that room of the lady who was sitting there, but which still claimed admittance almost as a right. The tap was well known by both of them to be the tap of Miss Anne. Grace immediately jumped up, and Miss Prettyman settled herself in her chair with a motion which almost seemed to indicate some feeling of shame as to her late position.
“I suppose I may come in?” said Miss Anne, opening the door and inserting her head.
“Yes, you may come in—if you have anything to say,” said Miss Prettyman, with an air which seemed to be intended to assert her supremacy. But, in truth, she was simply collecting the wisdom and dignity which had been somewhat dissipated by her tenderness.
“I did not know that Grace Crawley was here,” said Miss Anne.
“Grace Crawley is here,” said Miss Prettyman.
“What is the matter, Grace?” said Miss Anne, seeing the tears.
“Never mind now,” said Miss Prettyman.
“Poor dear, I’m sure I’m sorry as though she were my own sister,” said Anne. “But, Annabella, I want to speak to you especially.”
“To me, in private?”
“Yes, to you; in private, if Grace won’t mind?”
Then Grace prepared to go. But as she was going, Miss Anne, upon whose brow a heavy burden of thought was lying, stopped her suddenly. “Grace, my dear,” she said, “go upstairs into your room, will you?—not across the hall to the school.”
“And why shouldn’t she go to the school?” said Miss Prettyman.
Miss Anne paused a moment, and then answered—unwillingly, as though driven to make a reply which she knew to be indiscreet. “Because there is somebody in the hall.”
“Go to your room, dear,” said Miss Prettyman. And Grace went to her room, never turning an eye down towards the hall. “Who is it?” said Miss Prettyman.
“Major Grantly is here, asking to see you,” said Miss Anne.
VII
Miss Prettyman’s Private Room
Major Grantly, when threatened by his father with pecuniary punishment, should he demean himself by such a marriage as that he had proposed to himself, had declared that he would offer his hand to Miss Crawley on the next morning. This, however, he had not done. He had not done it, partly because he did not quite believe his father’s threat, and partly because he felt that that threat was almost justified—for the present moment—by the circumstances in which Grace Crawley’s father had placed himself. Henry Grantly
