During the winter Ellen's attitude toward the house in which she lived and toward all the occupants save one was that of an observant pupil. She liked the house not alone for its slight association with her father, but for its size, brightness, and beauty and its ordered and elaborate life. She heard for a long time no word or sound to make her suspect that the relation of its master and mistress was not exactly as it appeared on the smooth surface. She learned from Fetzer, an expert housekeeper; she admired from afar Miss Knowlton and Miss MacVane.
She soon ceased to feel resentment toward Stephen—it was after all not to be expected that so brilliant and important a man should recall a young girl seen but once! She was not tempted to disclose to him her identity. She put his room in order; she heard the slamming door of his car; and sometimes she caught a glimpse of his tall figure or received his "Good-morning." She was glad that she had not called upon him for help, but that she had made her own way. As the weeks passed her position seemed less and less comfortable, and she longed to be gone.
She was conscious of the contrast between Hilda's butterfly existence and the sober industry of all others in the house, but she felt toward Hilda as Stephen had once felt, that she was by nature different. She was astonished at her scant and diaphanous clothing, at her lying in bed a large part of the day and at her habit of smoking cigarettes, but her association with her was limited. Her lowly position saved her from observation, and in any case Hilda had no fear of youth or bodily attraction for Stephen.
Hilda's jealousy grew daily stronger. She heard one day for a long time the sound of Stephen's voice, and at last she stole into the passageway leading to his office. She could see him as he sat on the end of Miss MacVane's desk, his arms folded, holding forth steadily and earnestly and sometimes gayly. Miss Knowlton sat in her informal fashion on the edge of her desk, her attitude much like Stephen's.
Hilda could not understand Stephen's medical discourse and her inability maddened her and quickened her suspicions, which, though they were insane, were yet terribly real. Why did these women stay on year after year? Why did Stephen prefer to work incessantly, to be with them, rather than with her? Why had he given up friends and recreation? Why was he unwilling to go away?
She turned at this moment a new corner; she determined somehow to punish these women, to get rid of them. Toward Miss MacVane especially she developed suddenly a clearly defined intention, unalterable, though not yet developed in its cunning perfection.
In the spring Ellen made a friend. Seeing in the paper the announcement of an evening lecture on astronomy at the High School, she went, recalling the rides with her father when he had taught her the names of the constellations. Next to her sat a familiar figure, Miss MacVane, who turned her thick glasses upon her. For the first time in her acquaintance she really saw Ellen.
"Why, Ellen! Is it Ellen?"
"Yes, Miss MacVane."
"Are you interested in astronomy?"