I did; and I walked on thoughtfully by her side till we reached the gate, where we stopped, and she laid her hand in mine.
But the next moment my mind was made up, and, drawing her arm through mine, and trying with a look to infuse some of my assurance, I walked with her into the house, and into the apparently strangely dwarfed sitting-room.
“Who’s that?” cried a peevish voice. “I want my coffee, Hetty. It’s very late. Has the post come in? Who’s that, I say, who’s that?”
I stared in astonishment at the little withered yellow man with grizzly hair and sunken eyes, and asked myself—Is this the Mr Blakeford who used to make me shudder and shrink with dread?
I could not believe it, as I stood there five feet ten in my stockings, and broad-shouldered, while he, always below the middle height, had terribly shrunk away.
“Who is it, I say, Hetty? Who have you brought home?” he cried again in a querulous voice.
“It is I, Mr Blakeford,” I said—“Antony Grace; and I have come to see if we cannot make friends.”
He sank back in his chair, his jaw dropped, and his eyes dilated with dread; but as I approached with extended hand, he recovered somewhat, and held out his own as he struggled to his feet.
“How—how do you do?” he faltered; “I’ve been ill—very ill. My wife died. Hetty, my dear, quick, Mr Grace will have breakfast with us. No, no, don’t ring; fetch a cup yourself, my dear—fetch it yourself.”
Hetty looked at him wonderingly, but she obeyed; and as the door closed upon her, Blakeford exclaimed, in quick trembling tones: