“And you,” firing a shot at Lizzie, “were the governess at Torrington—nursery, or otherwise?”
To this impertinent question there was no rejoinder.
By this time the goose, pudding, savoury and cheese had been disposed of, and having dined satisfactorily, and figuratively shown her teeth, Mrs. Puckle made a move. Addressing the professor, she said:
“As I am rather tired, darling, I’ll go up early and unpack. Don’t be long, and don’t smoke more than one pipe.”
“All right, ducky,” he assented, then rising with remarkable agility and pushing back his chair, he retired to the security afforded by his den. It amused me to see how desperately he was afraid of being left alone with us; possibly he was troubled by an uneasy conscience.
As soon as the happy pair had departed, Lizzie rang the bell for Clarice, but for once the bell was answered by Eliza, who came to inform us that “Clarice was upstairs with the mistress, unpacking her boxes.” Having made this announcement she began to collect the dinner things as if she bore them a vicious personal spite. Eliza, like Lizzie, was in moments of emotional stress a woman of few words, and whilst she crashed crockery Lizzie was busy scribbling a note at the bureau, which, when finished and folded, she handed to our retainer and said:
“Just run over with this to the rectory, Eliza; there is no answer.”
“And how would I run that am bent in two with the rheumatics?” demanded Eliza in a querulous tone. “One run I’ll make, and it’s out of this house—I know the class of that one, so I do.”
“That is enough, Eliza,” said Lizzie with dignity. “Come, Eva, there is a good fire in my room.”
As soon as I was seated in a comfortable easy chair I flung out my arms and exclaimed: “What a dinner! I declare there was a smell of gunpowder in the air! Tell me, Liz, what you are going to do? I know you have some plan—I see it in your eye.”