Part 15 (1/2)

”But I don't '_voulez_'--Oh, how disagreeable you can be.”

”You will stay?”

”Pauline!” called Sophie from across the hall.

”There!” I exclaimed, interpreting it as the voice of conscience. I left my work-basket and book upon the table, and went out of the room.

”You called me?” I said, following her into the parlor, where, shutting the door, she motioned me to a seat beside her. She had a slip of paper and an envelope in her hand, and seemed a little ill at ease.

”I've just had a telegram from Richard,” she said. ”He's coming home to-night by the eleven o'clock train. It's so odd altogether. I don't know why he's coming. But you may as well read his message yourself,”

she said with a forced manner, handing me the paper. It was as follows:

Send carriage for me to eleven-thirty train to-night. Remember my injunctions, our last conversation, and your promises.”

”Well?” I said, looking up, bewildered and not violently interested, for I was secretly listening to the quick shutting of the library-door.

”Why, you see,” she returned, with a forced air of confidence that made me involuntarily shrink from her; I think she even laid her hand upon my sleeve, or made some gesture of familiarity which was unusual--

”You see, that last conversation was--about you. Richard is annoyed at--at your intimacy with Mr. Langenau. You know just as well as I do how he feels, for no doubt he's spoken to you himself.”

”He never has,” I said, quite shortly.

”No?” and she looked rather chagrined. ”Well--but at all events you know how he feels. Girls ar'nt slow generally to find out about those things.

And he is really very unhappy about it, very. I wish, Pauline, you'd give it up, child. It's gone quite far enough; now don't you think so yourself? Mr. Langenau isn't the sort of man to be serious about, you know. It's all very well, just for a summer's amus.e.m.e.nt. But, you know, you mustn't go too far. I'm sure, dear, you're not angry with me: now you understand just what I mean, don't you?”

No: not angry, certainly not angry. She went on, still with the impertinent touch upon my arm: ”Richard made me promise that I would look after you, and not permit things to go too far. And you see--well--I'll tell you in confidence what I think his coming to-night means, and his message and all. I think--that is, I am afraid--he's found out something against Mr. Langenau since he's been away. I know he never has felt confidence in him. But I've always thought, perhaps that was because he was--well--a little jealous and suspicious. You know men are so apt to be suspicious; and I was sure, when he went away that last Monday morning, that he would not leave a stone unturned in finding out everything about him. It is that that's kept him, I am sure. Don't let that make you feel hardly toward Richard,” she went on, noticing perhaps my look; ”you know it's only natural, and besides, it's right. How would he answer to your uncle?”

”It is I who should answer to my uncle,” I returned, under my breath.

”Yes, but you are in our house, in our care. You know, my dear child, you are very young and very inexperienced; you don't know how very careful people have to be.”

”Why don't you talk that way to Charlotte and Henrietta and Mary Leighton? Have I done anything so very different from them?” I answered, with a blaze of spirit.

”No, dear,” she said, with a little laugh, ”only there are one or two men very much in love with you, and that makes everything so different.”

I blushed scarlet, and was silenced instantly, as she intended.

”Now, maybe I am mistaken about his having discovered something,” she went on, ”but I can't make anything else out of Richard's message. He is not one to send off such a despatch without a reason. Evidently he is very uneasy; and I thought it was best to be perfectly frank with you, dear, and I know you'll do me the justice to say I have been, if Richard ever says anything to you about it. You mustn't blame me, you know, for the way he feels. I wish the whole thing was at an end,” she said, with the first touch of sincerity. ”And now promise me one thing,” with another caressing movement of the hand, ”Promise me, you won't go into the library again till Richard comes, and we hear what he has to say.

Just for my sake, you know, my dear, for you see he would blame me if I did not keep a strict surveillance. You won't mind doing that, I'm sure, for me?”

”I shall not promise anything,” I returned, getting up, ”but I am not likely to go near the library after what you've said.”

”That's a good child,” she said, evidently much relieved, and thinking that the affair was very near its end. I opened the door, and she added: ”Now go up-stairs, and rest yourself, for you look as if you had a headache, and don't think of anything that's disagreeable.” That was a good prescription, but I did not take it.

Of course, I did not go near the library; that was understood. After dinner, the servant brought in Mr. Langenau's tray untouched, and Charlotte Benson started up, and ran in to see what was the matter.

Sophie went too, looking a little troubled. I think they were both snubbed: for ten minutes after, when I met Charlotte in the hall, she had an unusual flush upon her cheek, and Sophie I found standing at one of the parlor-windows, biting her lip, and tapping impatiently upon the carpet. Evidently the affair was not as near its placid end as she had hoped. She started a little when she saw me, and tried to look unruffled.

”How sultry it is this afternoon!” she said. ”Are you going up to your room to take a rest? stop in my room on your way, I want to show you those embroideries that I was telling Charlotte Benson of last night.”