“She said she must apologize for Mr. Crawley; he had been quite unexpectedly called away and would not return until evening; but she was acquainted with my business, and would I kindly step inside for a moment. I followed her into a small room, a miserable sort of attempt at a parlour, wretchedly furnished. I took a seat and almost forgot my business—I was so taken up with the woman. She was to ask if I knew Captain Macshawser, and if that officer would join me in a bill. I felt ashamed to talk about the subject to a woman, and especially such a pretty one, and I said as much, but in a different way.”
“You let her see that you were admiring her, of course,” said Mr. Williamson, adding, sotto voce, “innocent youth!”
“How it was I don’t know, but we got into a long conversation, and it came out quite by accident that she knew Severntown, and she spoke about the place so familiarly that I felt sure I had seen her before. I thought so at first, and was convinced of it when she mentioned the old cathedral city. I don’t know how long I stayed, but I said no more about money, and I never felt so much pleasure in talking to a girl in all my life. I went away, promising to call again, and I secretly hoped that Mr. Crawley would still be from home at my next visit.”
“And who was the lady, pray?” asked the barrister.
“I did not inquire at that time,” said Paul; “I longed so to see her again, that I called in the afternoon, and she was out; I was very much disappointed. The boy said she would be in soon, and I sat down and waited. I felt miserable, I hardly knew why. I asked the scrubby-looking clerk if the young lady were Mr. Crawley’s daughter? He said ‘No.’ Was she his sister? I asked. ‘No,’ he said again. Somehow, I felt as if I dare not ask if she were his wife. Whilst I was thinking and wondering who she could be—such a sweet charming girl in such a place (Paul went on excitedly)—in she came. I jumped up and shook hands with her, and felt as if I had known her for years.”
Here Paul rose from his seat and walked about the room. Mr. Williamson had never seen him so agitated before. He had no idea that there was so much fire and enthusiasm in the young fellow. The barrister left the ships at sea, and watched his young friend with a kindly interest which he had not exhibited hitherto during the conversation.
“She asked me to come in,” said Paul, still pacing the room. “We talked again of anything and everything but the business upon which I was supposed to have called. I could see that she was troubled about something—how I had courage enough to press her upon the subject I don’t know, but I did, and she began to cry.”
“Curse their tears!” said the barrister, between his teeth, as he removed his legs from the vacant chair, and, planting them firmly on the floor, gazed steadfastly at Paul.
“I took her hand; I don’t know what I said, but I think it was that I loved her, and begged to know how I could be of service to her. She looked up at me—with such despair that I could almost have cried myself—and begged me not to talk of love; she was married!”
“Good heavens!” exclaimed Mr. Williamson. The remark was wrung from him, not so much by Paul’s story as by a touch of memory.