The doctor rose and rang the bell.
“Are you going to send up to see, my dear?”
“No, I am not,” said the doctor, rather tartly. “I am going to—”
Eliza entered the room.
“We’ll have tea directly, Eliza,” said the doctor; and Aunt Hannah hurried into the dining-room to measure out so many caddy spoonfuls into the hot silver pot, and pour in the first portion of boiling water, but listening for the expected footstep all the time.
That meal did not go off well, for, in spite of the doctor’s assumed indifference, he was also anxious about his nephew. Aunt Hannah could not touch anything, and the doctor’s appetite was very little better; but he set this down to the
chicken being, as he said, dried to nothing, and the sausages being like horn—exaggerations, both—for, in spite of Martha’s threats, she was too proud of her skill in cooking to send up anything overdone.
The open jam tart was untouched, and the opening of that pot of last year’s quince marmalade proved to have been unnecessary; for, though Aunt Hannah paused again and again with her cup half-way to her lips, it was not Vane’s step that she heard; and, as eight o’clock came, she could hardly keep back her tears.
All at once the doctor rose and went into the hall, followed by Aunt Hannah, who looked at him wistfully as he put on a light overcoat, and took hat and stick.