With a design quite patent, Charlotte again addressed her mother.
"Do not forget Clay," she remarked; and the vagrant memory instantly fastened upon the name.
"I remember perfectly that we were discussing Clay," was the petulant retort, "when I was directed away from the topic. Pray do not intimate that I am forgetful, Charlotte. I hope you do not so far forget the duty and respect you owe me that you can entertain such a ridiculous idea, to say nothing of uttering it. Proceed, Slade, with what you were saying about my son."
He fixed his beady eyes upon Charlotte, and coughed dryly behind his knuckly hand.
"When the girl goes," said he, recovering in a measure his composure. "Remember, I asked for and you granted an audience—private."
"An audience?"—the word caught—"a conference? Why, certainly, Slade." The request was granted with a sudden assumption of dignity—a fleeting, simple remnant of other times—that caused the daughter much concern. Charlotte feared the result of a refusal to withdraw quite as much as she feared to leave her mother alone with Slade; but with many misgivings she reluctantly turned away and departed from the room, closing the door behind her.
No earthly interest was powerful enough to allow her to remain where she might overhear one word not intended for her ears; still, the feeling of dread, in spite of Mr. Slade's assurances, was real and insistent; above all things she wanted to linger within sound of her mother's voice.
What powerful motive had dictated to-night's intrusion? For, earnestly as she despised the man, she could not imagine him pushing his way into the house upon a mere whim, or for any trifling matter. She cast back over the past as far as her memory could penetrate, but no circumstance appeared to afford the slightest explanation of the mysterious visit, unless—unless it had, indeed, to do with her brother. And here her thoughts faltered, for there were many reasons why the idea should increase her anxiety.
She glided noiselessly to the front door, and throwing it open, looked out into the night. An overwhelming sense of her loneliness and isolation fell upon her. The feeling was but momentary, however, since she attacked such encroachments of depression with as much ardor as she could muster forth from her dauntless spirit. Occasionally the black humor mastered her, but it would not do to give way to-night. What did William Slade, son of a treacherous steward, want of her mother—the poor wreck of womanhood who could bestow nothing? But Atropos, in severing the past from the present, was cutting with her shears a strange pattern, the outlines of which neither Charlotte's nor any eye could perceive.
The faint murmur of voices came to her where she stood, and although she strove not to permit her interest to acquire listening ears, it was unavoidable that she should hear and note certain things: that the caller was doing most of the talking; that, while the words were wholly unintelligible, he seemed to be speaking with vehemence, and that her mother's share in the conversation was apparently limited to occasional ejaculations of surprise. This continued for many minutes, during which Charlotte stood motionless, her tall, willowy form drawn into a rigid erectness. Under the tensity of her anxious expectation, her sensitive nostrils distended and contracted, and her eyes glowed, in the dimly lighted hall, with an unnatural brightness.