'You must be more explicit, Palmyre,' said Mrs. Calverley, still without any trace of anger. Bold and haughty as she was, she had been somewhat disturbed at the idea of having to break to her companion the news of her dismissal, and now she thought the difficulty seemed materially lightened.
'It is a sad story,' said Pauline, 'but it will be interesting to you who have a benevolent heart.'
'It is about your cousin, I suppose?' said Mrs. Calverley.
'My cousin?' cried Pauline.
'Yes,' said Mrs. Calverley; your cousin, who was lying ill at the poor lodging, she who knew no one in London but yourself, could not speak our language, and was utterly helpless; she is worse, I suppose? Perhaps she is dead!'
'Tiens,' said Pauline to herself; 'it is lucky she reminded me about the cousin; in all the confusion and plotting I had almost forgotten what I had said. 'No, my dear friend,' she said aloud, 'my poor cousin still lives, and is, indeed, considerably easier and better than when I first went to her. A relation of hers, a brother-in-law, has found her out, and is being kind to her, as the poor are always kind to one another; not, indeed, that this brother-in-law can be called poor, except in comparison with persons of wealth like yours. He is an old friend of mine; he knew my father, the artillery officer at Lyons, and used often to come to my husband's house when we were in business there.'
'He admired you then, and he has made an offer now, and you are going to be married to him?' said Mrs. Calverley, with an icy smile. 'Is that it, Palmyre; is that the sacrifice you feel yourself called upon to make?'
'Ah, my friend,' cried Pauline, 'there is no question of anything of that sort for me; my heart is buried in grief. No, this worthy man, who has known me so long, knows that I am what you call in your language, but for which we have no word in French, respectable. He knows that I can be trusted, and he offers to me a place of trust; he asks me to undertake a sacred charge.'
'Dear me,' again ejaculated Mrs. Calverley; 'what might that be?'
'This old friend of mine finds himself left as guardian and trustee for the widow and orphan of his former ward, a wretched young man--he must have been born under an evil star, for nothing seemed to prosper with him--and who has just died of consumption at Nice. The widow is, as I understand, a weak creature, very young, very pretty, and utterly inexperienced. Her husband during his lifetime never allowed her to do anything, and the consequence is that she is quite ignorant of the ways of the world, and would be easily snapped up by any one who might choose to take advantage of her. Being, as I have said, very pretty, and having a small competence of her own, I need scarcely tell you that there would be plenty of wretches on the look-out for her.'