"Won't you reconsider?" cried her uncle. "I express my sincere regret for any annoyance I may have caused you."
She smiled bitterly. All the hate that she had nourished in her heart against this man was now heated to boiling point. Vehemently she burst out:
"I expect to suffer through coming in contact with a mean, mercenary nature like yours," she cried, "that's the penalty I pay for being 'your dear niece.' What I cannot understand and what I cannot forgive is your cruelty in blackening my dead father's memory—to stamp your own brother a lunatic and drunkard! Why, it's—it's horrible! Even the love of money in a degenerate age doesn't explain that. And my dead mother! Her name had to be dishonored, that I might be stamped as illegitimate. No accusation too scandalous, too shameful, or too degrading, could be made—because I had come between you and this miserable money!" Shaking her clenched fist in his face, she cried: "But you'll never get it, Uncle James, you'll never get it! You hear that, sir? You'll never get it—and, now—please go."
Mr. Cooley looked at her in silence for a moment, whispered a few words in Jimmy's ear, and then both men left the room.
CHAPTER X.
Paula now breathed freely for the first time in weeks. The enemy was utterly routed. Temporarily at least she might reasonably expect to be spared further annoyance. Her uncle, it was true, had control of her fortune, and until she came of age her hands were completely tied. But in another year she would be her own mistress. Then they would be powerless to molest her. Meantime, she devoutly hoped that they would leave her in peace to live her own life as she saw fit.
The excitement and turmoil incidental to the trial having quieted down, affairs at the boarding house soon resumed their normal aspect. Paula became more active daily in her Settlement duties, and was already well known as one of the most prominent and energetic workers in that humane organization. Conspicuous in the public eye as the heiress to a large fortune, the great interest she took in the condition of the poor attracted much attention in the newspapers. They printed her portrait with eulogistic comments, sent reporters to interview her, and printed statements, entirely unauthorized, to the effect that when she came into her inheritance she would devote her millions to the cause of charity. All day long she was busy downtown on her mission of mercy and even at night was frequently called away either to address some socialist gathering or attend a committee meeting.
Mr. Ricaby, ever attentive and devoted, always escorted her on these occasions, not realizing himself, perhaps, that he took keener pleasure in these nocturnal excursions than a legitimate interest in the case would warrant. Paula was grateful for his company, but that was all. For a pretty girl, full of life and sentiment, she was singularly heart whole. Of the deeper passions which disturb other normal healthy girls of her age she seemed entirely free. Men had declared her cold. The opposite sex appeared to have no attraction to her. But this was a mistaken impression. She was not cold. It was simply that the right man had not yet appeared. Certainly, Leon Ricaby with his grave manner and shattered illusions was not her ideal. She found him devoted, but dull. She found no pleasure in his society. Harry Parkes was shallow and impossible. The most interesting man she knew was Tod Chase. He was original and he interested her. His breezy manner and cheerful way of looking at things was just what her own life lacked. His mere presence, his droll utterance, and broad grin dispelled the blues and made her feel happier. She believed, too, that he was a friend. He had not called since her refusal to go and live with her uncle, but she had no reason to believe that he disapproved of her action. Perhaps he was afraid to intrude on her. She had offered to take him down to the slums to show him just how the poor people lived. Any day he might come to claim the promise.
But with all her courage Paula was far from happy. Often she wished that her father had not left her a cent, and that she was back in Paris, copying the old masters in the Louvre. All she had gone through could not have failed to affect her nervous system. She was singularly depressed. Try as she would, she was unable to shake off the idea, which soon became an obsession, that something serious was about to happen, that some catastrophe, compared with which all that had until now occurred were trifles, was hanging over her head. Never so much as now had she realized her utter loneliness and defencelessness. Mr. Ricaby and the Parkes were very kind and sympathetic, but at best they were only acquaintances. She had no real claim upon them. There was apparently nothing to fret about. Her uncle and Bascom Cooley gave no sign of life, yet still she worried. She tried to centre all her attention on her work, but always the silent question arose in her mind: "What is being plotted in the dark?" The uncertainty of suspense unnerved her so much that she was soon rendered unfit for work of any kind.