England -- Social life and customs -- Fiction; Guardian and ward -- Fiction; Orphans -- Fiction
He spoke fast, like one who wishes to keep his feelings under; and
seizing his hat, hurried out of the room without once looking behind. I
sprang forward to overtake him: a hand of iron held me back--
"You little fool," sarcastically said my grandfather, "don't you see he
does not care a rush for you! Come, no sniffling; what day will you go?"
"Any day, Sir."
"Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday, Friday, Saturday," he rapidly
enumerated on his fingers.
"Wednesday, Sir," I replied, flurried at his abrupt manner.
"That is to-day. Stay here whilst I settle with the ladies of the house."
He rose and left me as he spoke.
CHAPTER XVII.
I remained alone a few minutes, at the end of which Mr. Thornton, whose
voice I heard in the next room, returned with the two Misses Clapperton.
They had brought my bonnet and cloak, put them on, bade me good-bye, and
kissed me kindly; then Mr. Thornton, who looked on with evident
impatience, took my hand, and hurried me off. A carriage stood waiting at
the door of Alhambra Lodge; my grandfather lifted me in, and closed the
door on me. The carriage drove rapidly away. I sat in it alone, mute, and
still amazed. After passing through roads, streets, and along terraces
unknown to me, the carriage entered a secluded-looking square, and drew
up before a plain house. A demure-looking servant answered the coachman's
knock, and was followed by a middle-aged widow lady, who helped me down
with a smile, saying cheerfully--
"This way, dear."
I entered with her, and at once looked round for Mr. Thornton. He was
nowhere to be seen.
"Please, Ma'am," I said, "is Mr. Thornton come?"
"I am so glad," she replied, seeming much relieved, "I felt afraid he was
not coming. No, my dear, he is not come yet, and to tell you the truth,
seeing you so suddenly, I could not understand it; but of course he'll
explain all. This way, dear; upstairs, dear; mind the turning of the
staircase, dear."
She took my hand and led me up carefully, as if I were a baby. She had a
very soft hand, and its touch was gentle and timid. When we had reached
the second-floor landing, she paused, and opened a door that led into a
front bed-room, large and airy, and overlooking the dull square below.
"Don't you think, dear?" suggested the lady, with hesitating kindness,--
"don't you think you had better let me take off your things?"
"I can take them off, Ma'am, thank you."
"Can you? Very well, dear; is there anything I can do for you?"
"Nothing, Ma'am, thank you."
"Very well. You will not look out of the window, will you? you might fall
out, you know, and be killed."
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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