Chapter 16

This mutually cool attitude had been altered considerably at the time of Hannah’s grave illness and miraculous recovery. Esther had taken charge of the house; she had become a member of the family. Also, it was evident that the Master had taken an interest in her. If Esther had a secret, he undoubtedly knew what it was; and either in spite of it or because of it, had invited her to be the sole witness to Hannah’s restoration. Exactly what had happened on that occasion had not been disclosed, but the event had wrought a change in the girl. Her new demeanour was difficult to define. It was as if she had been released from prison.

The Big Fisherman had been required to make a fresh appraisal of their increasingly interesting guest, even to the extent of bestowing on her a clumsy friendliness, though he was embarrassed somewhat by her indifference to his amiable condescensions.

This morning, every time she sat down beside him, Peter had turned toward her with a pleasant smile, for which she had given him no receipt, either of surprise or gratification. He had remarked, as she removed the empty bowl in which his figs were served, that they were very good, very good indeed, and she had replied casually that Hannah had cooked them. A few minutes later, he had said that the eggs were boiled just the way he liked them, and Esther had nodded to Hannah as if inviting her to take a bow.

Finishing his breakfast and carefully folding his napkin, he had had the audacity to tell Esther her hair had grown so rapidly that she could never pass herself off for a boy any more, an observation accompanied by a reminiscent chuckle. And to this impertinence he added that the little fringe of curls on her forehead certainly did her no harm.

She gave him the merest wisp of a smile, as to a small boy who was talking too much, and turned to Hannah with the irrelevant statement that, if she might be excused, she would go out into the garden and gather a basket of tulips, after which she left the table, Hannah following her as far as the kitchen.

Peter fretfully rubbed his chin and seemed out of sorts.

‘What makes this girl think she’s so superior to the rest of us?’ he testily inquired of his brother.

‘Perhaps she is,’ drawled Andrew.

‘I’m afraid I treated her like a dog,’ admitted Peter, somewhat to the surprise of both of them, for the Big Fisherman was not adroit in offering apologies.

Andrew did not immediately abandon his meditations to refute this statement; and Peter, anticipating something more comforting than his brother’s silence, went on to say, ‘But she needn’t hold it against me—for ever!’

‘If you’re expecting her to come wagging up to lick your hand,’ remarked Andrew, ‘you’ll have to give her a little more time.’

‘I should like to patch it up with her before we leave,’ mumbled Peter, half to himself. ‘We will be gone all summer. She might be gone when we return. There’s no telling what she may do next. I might never see her again.’