“In how short a time could you pack, Mrs. Halsey?” she inquired.
“Pack, ma'am? I'm not accustomed to doing packing. I'll send one of the maids. Is it your things, ma'am?”
“No,” said Mrs. Weatherstone. “It is yours I refer to. I wish you to pack your things and leave the house—in an hour. One of the maids can help you, if necessary. Anything you cannot take can be sent after you. Here is a check for the following month's wages.”
Mrs. Halsey was nearly a head taller than her employer, a stout showy woman, handsome enough, red-lipped, and with a moist and crafty eye. This was so sudden a misadventure that she forgot her usual caution. “You've no right to turn me off in a minute like this!” she burst forth. “I'll leave it to Madam Weatherstone!”
“If you will look at the terms on which I engaged you, Mrs. Halsey, you will find that a month's warning, or a month's wages, was specified. Here are the wages—as to the warning, that has been given for some months past!”
“By whom, Ma'am?”
“By yourself, Mrs. Halsey—I think you understand me. Oscar will take your things as soon as they are ready.”
Mrs. Halsey met her steady eye a moment—saw more than she cared to face—and left the room.
She took care, however, to carry some letters to Madam Weatherstone, and meekly announced her discharge; also, by some coincidence, she met Mr. Matthew in the hall upstairs, and weepingly confided her grievance to him, meeting immediate consolation, both sentimental and practical.
When hurried servants were sent to find their young mistress they reported that she must have gone out, and in truth she had; out on her own roof, where she sat quite still, though shivering a little now and then from the new excitement, until dinner time.