Part 26 (1/2)

”What can have made him change his mind about it, Richard? Can he have heard anything about last summer?”

”Not from me, Sophie. But I have sometimes thought he knew, from allusions that he has made to her mother's marriage, more than once this winter.”

”He was very angry about that, at the time, I suppose?”

”Yes, I imagine so. The man she married was poor, and a foreigner: two things he hated. I never heard there was anything against him but his poverty.”

”How can he have heard about Mr. Langenau?” said Sophie, musingly.

”I think Pauline must have told him,” said Richard.

”Pauline? never. She is much too clever; she never told him. You may be quite sure of _that_.”

”Pauline clever! Poor Pauline!” said Richard, with a short, sarcastic laugh, which had the effect of making Sophie angry.

”I am willing,” she said, ”that she should be as stupid and as good as you can wish--. To whom does the money go?” she added, as if she had not patience for the other subject.

”To a brother, with whom he had a quarrel, and whom he had not seen for over sixteen years.”

”Incredible!”

”But there had been some sort of a reconciliation, at least an exchange of letters, within these three months past.”

”Ah!”

”And it is in consequence of hearing from him, and being pressed by his lawyer for an immediate settlement of the estate, that I have come up to tell Pauline, and to prepare her for her changed prospects.”

”And what do you propose to advise?” asked Sophie, with a chilling voice.

”Heaven knows, Sophie,” answered her brother, with a heavy sigh. ”I see nothing ahead for the poor girl, but loneliness and trial. She is utterly unfit to struggle with the world. And she has not even a shelter for her head.”

”Richard,” interrupted his sister, with intensity of feeling in her voice, ”I see what you are trying to persuade yourself: do not tell me, after what has pa.s.sed, you still feel that you are bound to her--”

”_Bound!_” exclaimed Richard, with a vehemence most strange in him, as, pacing the room, he stood still before his sister. His back was toward me. She was so absorbed she did not see me as I darted past the folding-doors into the hall. As I flew panting up to my own room, I remember one feeling above all others, the first feeling of affection toward the house that I had ever had. It was mine no longer, my home never again; I had no right to stay in it a moment: my own room was not mine any more--the room where I had learned to pray, and to try to lead a good life--the room where I had lain when I was so near to death--the room where Sister Madeline had led me to such peaceful, quiet thoughts.

I had but one wish now, not to see Richard, to escape Sophie, to get away forever from this house to which I had no right. I pulled down my hat and my street things, and dressed so quickly, that I had slipped down the stairs, and out into the street, before they had ceased talking in the parlor. I heard their voices, very low, as I pa.s.sed through the hall. I fully meant never to come back to the house again--not to be turned out.

My heart swelled as the door closed behind me. It was dreadful not to have a home. I was so unused to being in the street alone, that I felt frightened when I reached the cars and stopped them.

I was going to Sister Madeline. She would take me, and keep me, and teach me where to live, and how. I was a little confused, and got out at the wrong street, and had to walk several blocks before I reached the house.

The servant at the door met me with an answer that made me wonder whether there were anything else to happen to me on that day.

Sister Madeline had been called away--had gone on a long journey--something about the illness of her brother; and I must not come inside the door, for a contagious disease was raging, and the orders were strict that no one be admitted. I had walked so fast, and in such excitement of feeling, that I was weak and faint when I turned to go down the steps. Where should I go? I walked on slowly now, and undecided, for I had no aim.

The clergyman to whom I had gone for direction in matters spiritual, was ill--for two weeks had given up even Lenten duties. Anything--but I could not go home, or rather where home had been. I walked and walked till I was almost fainting, and found myself in the Park. There the lovely indications of spring, and the quiet, and the fresh air, soothed me, and I sat down under some trees near the water, and rested myself.

But the same giddy whirl of thoughts came back, the same incompetency to deal with such strange facts, and the same confusion. I do not know how long I wandered about; but I was faint and weary and hungry, and frightened too, for people were beginning to look at me.

It began to force itself upon me that I must go back to Varick-street after all, and take a fresh start. Then I began to think how I should get back, on which side must I go to find the cars--where was I, literally. Then I sat down to wait, till I should see some policeman, or some kind-looking person, near me, to whom I could apply for this very necessary information. In the meantime I took out my purse to see if I had the proper change. Verily, not that, nor any change at all! My heart actually stood still. Yes, it was very true: I had given away, right and left, during this Lent: caring nothing for money, and being very sure of more when this was gone. I was literally penniless. I had not even the money to ride home in the cars.

Till a person has felt this sensation, he has not had one of the most remarkable experiences of life. To know where you can get money, to feel that there is some _dernier ressort_ however hateful to you, is one thing; but to _know_ that you have not a cent--not a prospect of getting one--not a hope of earning one--no means of living--this is suffocation.

This is the stopping of that breath that keeps the world alive.