sprained his arm—slightly, child—it is nothing, do not speak of it—that is, it is not of sufficient consequence to speak of.”
I could only answer “Very well,” and left her.
Soon after this, I went from home for a few weeks, and when I returned, delighted to resume my usually quiet studious habits, Mrs. Edgar looked so pallid and careworn, that I remarked her changed appearance to my mother, and asked if anything had been amiss.
The answer was dubious. “She did not know; there was something strange about our lodgers she could not understand, and heartily wished they had never come, though the poor, dear lady was a good creature, any one might see.”
This was very unsatisfactory, but did not interfere with my enjoyment of Mrs. Edgar’s society, although our lessons were now often interrupted by my teacher falling into a painful reverie, and dismissing me on the plea of a headache. One bright summer morning that some necessary purchases had induced Mrs. Edgar to walk as far as Oxford Street, I beguiled her into lingering a few minutes before a large toy-shop; and pointing out a piece of mechanism which would be “just the thing to please baby,” the young mother was easily persuaded to enter, and inquire the price.
A gentleman, who was examining some trinkets, accidentally trod on my companion’s dress, as she passed him, and looked round to apologise. He eagerly seized her hands.
“My dear Pauline, my dear sister, this is an unexpected pleasure! When did you arrive? How fortunate that I happened to be in town!”
Mrs. Edgar sank on a chair, unable to answer.
“Good God! what is the matter? did I startle you? Are you alone? Child,” he said, noticing me, “who are you?”
Mrs. Edgar grasped my arm, and shaking off the faintness which had stolen the colour from her lips, murmured:
“It is nothing, I am better; let me get into the air.”
Refusing the gentleman’s assistance, she tottered from the shop.
“You have no carriage,” he remarked, looking round, “here, my lad, call me a cab! Quick!”
The urchin scampered off.
“And, Frank,” he continued, joyously, “how glad I shall be to see him! when did you cross, and how is it that you have both been too idle to write? It is—let me see—how many months since you wrote?”
He began to count on his fingers, but paused in undisguised astonishment on seeing Mrs. Edgar hurry towards the approaching vehicle, without reply.
As she would have stepped into the cab, his hand detained her.
“What,” he angrily demanded, “can this mean? Pauline, why will you not answer my questions? Where is my brother?”
“Another time,” she faltered, “another time; spare me now, Henry, for I am ill, very ill! I will write—yes, yes, I will write—Frank will write to you himself.” And breaking from his grasp, she followed me into the cab, and bade the man drive on.
Her sighs and tears as we rode along, her passionate exclamations frightened me, and this aided in restoring her to composure.
“Do not weep so, Fanchon,” she said, “do not increase my agitation, child; I need all my strength, all my fortitude now. I must leave you, little one, I must seek a home elsewhere; but when my poor Frank is well, and we are again happy, you shall come to me in my own dear land.”
She now gave the driver the necessary directions, and pressing her fingers against her temples, sat in a silence I longed yet feared to break by my questions.
Hand in hand we entered the house, but my companion uttered a faint shriek when the same detaining hold again rested on her arm, and she stood gazing at the gentleman, with an air of hopeless misery.
“You did not expect to see me, Pauline,” he said, “and I am evidently unwelcome. But I have followed you because I am certain my brother is no party to these mysterious proceedings.”
“You cannot see him, you shall not see him,” she said, desperately. “He is ill, and your presence would agitate him.”
“Pshaw!” he impatiently replied, “Frank loves me too well for that; and more, I candidly tell you that I doubt the truth of your assertions. It is some foolish money embarrassment that keeps him from me. Poltroon that he is, and my purse so full! Let me pass, Pauline; I will find him.” And glancing into the parlour on his way, he bounded gaily upstairs.
Still grasping my hand, as if even that trifling support was a comfort to her in her anguish, Mrs. Edgar hurried after him. When we reached the drawing-room the brothers were standing with arms over each other’s shoulders, in the full glee of the unexpected meeting.
“You rascal,” said Mr. Henry, giving the Captain a playful shake, “why didn’t you let me know as soon as you landed?”
“I wish I had been able,” was the reply. “I have been longing for your good counsels; in my difficult position a friend is invaluable.”
“Difficult position!” his brother echoed. “What is the matter? Why not have sent for me? I would have joined you at Baden.”
“It was impossible,” Captain Edgar replied; “the letter might have fallen into the hands of my enemies.”
“Your enemies?” Mr. Henry Edgar repeated, with increased surprise. “Explain yourself, Frank!”
“No, no!” shrieked the wife, springing to her husband’s side, “for my sake, Frank, be silent!”
“Hush, Pauline,” he said, tenderly caressing her, “your love makes you over anxious, and how can I fear betrayal at the hands of a brother? Come nearer, Henry, you shall know all.”
Mrs. Edgar hid her ghastly face, and I shrank into a corner, while with a burst of execrations on the reigning sovereign of our country. Captain Edgar proclaimed himself the rightful heir to the