“Oh, Mamma!” cried Winnie, choking back a sob, “some terrible trouble has come upon Leslie; and Alan Warburton is at the bottom of it!”
“My child!”
“I tell you he is!” vehemently. “And only yesterday Leslie would have told me all, but for him.”
“Winnie, compose yourself; try and be calm,” said Mrs. French soothingly.
“I can’t compose myself! I won’t be calm! I want to be so angry when Alan Warburton returns for me, that I can fairly scorch him with my contempt! I want to annihilate him!” And Winnie flung herself upon her mother’s breast, and burst into a fit of hysterical sobbing.
Sorely puzzled, and very anxious, Mrs. French soothed her daughter with gentle, motherly words, and gradually drew from her an account of the events of the past two days, as they were known to Winnie.
“And so, between his interruption and your refusal to listen to him afterward, you are quite in the dark as to this strange misunderstanding between Leslie and Mr. Warburton?” said Mrs. French musingly.
“Misunderstanding! You give it a mild name, Mamma. Would a mere misunderstanding with any one, bring such a look to Leslie’s face as I saw there when I left her alone with him? Would it leave her in a deathly faint at its close? Would it drive her from her home, secretly, like a fugitive? Would it cause Alan Warburton to address such words to me as those he uttered in his study? Because of a simple misunderstanding, would he implore me to judge between them? Mamma, there is more than a misunderstanding at the bottom of all this mystery. Somewhere, there is a monstrous wrong!”
But discuss the mystery as they would, there seemed no satisfactory, no rational explanation. The evening wore on, and the ringing of the door-bell suddenly apprised them of the lateness of the hour.
“It’s Alan!” exclaimed Winnie, starting nervously. “Mamma, we can’t, we won’t, go with him.”