apologies for intruding upon you in this way. So unceremoniously too, and your time, of course, so valuable; but really I—. You—“
But the poor little bird became so fluttered, that she could not continue. I hastened to assure her that my time was all hers; that 1 was quite at her service; that I should be only too happy to assist her in any way. I begged her to be seated,—to compose herself,—and not to trouble herself with any conversation until she felt quite equal to it. I fidgeted about with my papers; I opened and shut my table drawers; I wrote my name on my blotting-paper:—all so many devices to give the little lady time to overcome her embarrassment.
“What disagreeable weather,” I observed.
“Very, indeed, especially for walking.”
“Especially. Have you been walking?”
And so on. We threw out skirmishing remarks, under cover of which she might bring up the heavy division of her discourse. She was gradually improving, and in a minute raised her half veil and permitted me to see a very pretty, small-featured, delicately-fair face, with smoothly-braided light-brown hair, brightly twinkling blue eyes, and, oh! such long lashes, that seemed always on the quiver, and gave a wonderfully witching vividness to her glances.
“I am afraid you will really think me very tiresome—very troublesome. I am sure you will say so when I’m gone. You’re very kind: but really I am quite ashamed of my intrusion. Only I have been so anxious—so very anxious. I had better, perhaps, proceed to ask you at once directly what I want to know. Pray tell me. Has papa been here?”
“Papa?”
“Yes; papa. Oh, perhaps—Oh dear me, how very thoughtless of me. You don’t know. No, of course not. What could I have been thinking about? My name is Brigham—Miss Brigham. I am the daughter of—”
“Captain Brigham, Royal Navy”
“Oh, then he has been here? Oh, I see he has. Oh, I was afraid he had.”
“And you are his daughter—his only daughter?”
“Yes. I am his only child indeed.”
Poor girl! She was, then, the unhappy sufferer—the melancholy subject of our late conversation. Was it possible? Was there a loose slate under those charming light-brown braids? Was she the persecutor of that poor benign old gentleman? And the delicious sparkle of those blue eyes, was it not then wholly attributable to the light of reason?
“Please excuse him, sir,” she went on; “he really should not: but he can’t help it. The fact is, he is not quite himself.”
Poor thing: the ruling idea was firmly fixed in her mind.
“I do all I can to stop him. I never, if I can help it, trust him out of my sight. He is sure to get into mischief, if I do.”
What could I say? The fit was evidently very strongly upon her.
“I assure you I do all I can to watch him, and have others expressly engaged to keep him always in view.”
Just so, I thought. This is the persecution!
“But I see there has been great remissness. I must have more precautions taken. He must be more rigidly watched: he must never be left alone.”
Poor old victim! But the Masters in Lunacy will give you relief. Yes, I could see it now. There was a hectic brilliancy about those glances; there was a restlessness about that manner; there was even now and then a hurry and want of harmony about that silver-toned voice, which betrayed the terrible calamity under which the little lady unconsciously suffered. Yes, there was an undoubted bee in that puce bonnet. It seemed to me that I was falling deeply in love with her, nevertheless. I was even loving her more on account of her misfortune. It was love, strengthened by the addition of pity.
“It is, perhaps, the best way to adopt the course you have no doubt followed. To hear all he has to say. He mentioned me, perhaps? He is always talking curiously about me. It is one of the strange fancies that have possessed him.”
Such a sharp, inquiring bird’s glance out of the corner of the blue eyes.
“He did refer to his daughter,” I confessed.
“Poor dear! he is always doing that,” she said, with a small, soft sigh. “I traced him to this neighbourhood, and, unseen, I saw him come out of this house. From my inquiries. I soon ascertained that he had been to see you, and I guessed his mission. Pray forgive him, sir. Forgive me too, for troubling you: and forget all that he has told you.”
Forget all my client’s instructions! How cunning these lightheaded folks are, I thought.
She thanked me over and over again for my attention to her. She lowered the half veil with its freckle of embroidery, leaving still one red lip and the pointed little chin uncovered. She curtsied very politely as she drew towards the door, and then, as though thinking better of it, with a very winning smile gave me a small, puce-kidded hand to shake. It was so small, it was more like the toy hand fixed on to an ornamental pen-wiper, than an ordinary human hand. I conducted her through the office, and showed her the way down the stairs.
Mr. Mason chose to see some profound cause for mirth in all this, becoming at length so violently convulsed with suppressed laughter, that it became necessary for him to conceal his head in his desk.
With a feeling of bereavement, yet of deep interest, I went to my lonely room. Without that puce bonnet it seemed especially lonely. I looked at my watch: it was half-past six o’clock. And how about Ned Ward’s banquet at half-past five?
II.
