“What an imitation of the country this is, Antony!” he said, with a sigh. “I love the country. I could live there always.”
“Yes, I don’t like London, Mr Hallett,” I said; “but—but do you study anything in your spare hours?”
He turned round upon me sharply, and his eyes seemed to look me through and through.
“Did my mother say anything to you?” he exclaimed. “Oh no! of course not—you were not alone. Yes, Antony, I do study something—a great deal—in my spare hours.”
“Oh yes, of course. I know you do, Mr Hallett,” I cried. “I’ve seen you take out your pocket-book and draw and make calculations.”
He looked at me again in a curious, suspicious way that set me wondering, and then, jumping up:
“Come, Antony,” he cried, with a forced laugh, “it is time we were off. Linny will be wanting to go to church, and we shall be punished if we are late for dinner.”
He chatted merrily all the way back, and I had no opportunity of asking him what he studied. Dinner was waiting, and a very pleasant simple meal it was, only that Mrs Hallett would sprinkle everything with tears. I noticed that really, as well as metaphorically, she dropped a few into her glass of beer, a few more into the gravy, of which she had the best share, soaked her bread with others, and still had a few left to drop into her portion of red-currant and raspberry tart. Nothing was nice, poor woman—nothing was comfortable; and while Linny took her complaints with a pettish indifference, Mr Hallett left his place from time to time, to attend to her at her little table in front of her easy-chair, waiting upon her with the tenderness of a woman, smoothing back her hair, and more than once kissing her on the forehead before resuming his place.
“No, Stephen,” she said, several times; “I have no appetite—nothing tempts me now.”
He bent over and whispered to her, evidently in a tender, endearing way, but her tears only flowed the faster, and she shook her head despondently.