‘Why, grandfather,’ said the girl, descending into the street as soon as she caught sight of this figure—‘why, grandfather, how late you are!’
The old man came jogging on, still in his jerky manner, though faster, at the sound of her voice. ‘Ay, ay!’ said he, shaking out his words, ‘ay, Rachel, my dear. Always late. Don’t you take any notice of that. It has been so for years—fifty years; ay, more than fifty.’
‘Fifty years, grandfather, is a long time,’ remarked the girl as they passed in at the doorway together, her arms placed protectingly around him—‘a very long time.’
‘Ay, Rachel; so it is, my dear,’ continued the old man—‘so it is.’
They entered a small front-room on the ground-floor. An oil-lamp was burning on the mantel-shelf; it threw a dim light upon bare and dingy walls, upon an old deal table, two wooden seats without backs, and a well-worn leathern armchair near the fire. Towards this chair the girl now led the old man as one might lead a child. Then she began to lay the cloth for the evening meal. She was a pretty, homely-looking girl of about eighteen; perhaps a little too pale; and with eyes, though large and lustrous, somewhat sad and weary for one so young. But as she busied herself about the room preparing the supper, her eyes gradually brightened; and her face, growing more animated, gained colour, as though to match the better with her red lips.
The old man, crouching in his armchair before the fire, took no notice of the girl. His look had become deeply thoughtful, and he seemed to be gaining a year in age with every minute that was passing. The wrinkles increased, and covered his face like the intersecting lines in cobwebs; the white eyebrows drooped thick as a fringe, and meeting over the brow, seemed to be helping to hide some secret, vaguely expressed in the small gray eyes. His head was bald, except at the sides, where scanty locks of snowy white hair hung about his neck. His long lean fingers were occasionally spread out upon his knees, though sometimes the hands grew restless when an incoherent word escaped his lips. The workings of the mind indeed were expressed in the nervously shaped figure as much as in the face. There were moments when the fingers clawed and clutched perplexedly; then there came into the eyes a look of avarice, and the whole form would seem busily engaged in solving mysterious problems. There was something almost repellent in the workings of the mind and body of this strange old man.
‘Come, grandfather!’ cried the girl, when the meal was presently spread. ‘The supper is ready now; and I hope,’ she added, assisting him to a place at the table—‘I hope you have a better appetite than usual.’ She spoke in a cheerful tone, though looking doubtfully the while at what she had spread on the board. There was a small piece of cheese, part of a loaf, and a stone pitcher filled with water—nothing more.
The old man eyed the food keenly. ‘No, Rachel, no,’ said he; ‘not much appetite, my dear.’
The girl sighed, and took her place opposite to the old man. ‘I wish,’ said she, ‘that I could provide something more tempting. You must be almost famished, after all these hours of work. But’——
‘Eh?’