“Excuse me, ma’am, but I know you. I don’t mean to do you any ’arm, only to tell you that I’m Stanton, Mr. Clide’s valet; you are my master’s wife!”
He was excited, but respectful in his manner.
“You are mistaken,” replied the lady, shrinking into the doorway. “I know nothing about you. I never heard of Mr. Clide, and I’m not married!”
Stanton was of course prepared for the denial, and showed no sign of surprise or incredulity; but, in spite of himself, her tone of assurance staggered him a little. He could not say whether the sound of the voice resembled that of Mrs. de Winton. Its echoes had lingered very faintly in his memory, and so many other voices and sounds had swept over it during the intervening years that he could not the least affirm whether the voice he had just heard was hers or not. Before he had found any answer to this question, footsteps were audible pattering on the tarpauling of the narrow entry, and a slip-shod servant-girl opened the door. The lady passed quickly in; Stanton followed her.
“You must leave me!” she said, turning on him. “This is my papa’s house, and if you give any more annoyance he will have you taken into custody.” She spoke in a loud voice, and as she ceased the parlor door was opened, and a gentleman in a velveteen coat and slippers came forward with a newspaper in his hand.
“What’s the matter? What is all this about?” he demanded blandly, coming forward to reconnoitre Stanton, who did not look at all bland, but grim and resolute, like a man who had conquered his footing on the premises, and meant to hold it.
“Sir, I am Stanton, Mr. Clide’s valet; this lady knows me well, if you don’t.”
“Papa! I never saw him in my life! I don’t know who Mr. Clide is!” protested the young lady in a tremor. “This man has annoyed me all the way home. Send him away!”
“I must speak to you, sir,” said Stanton stoutly. “I cannot leave the house without.”
“Pray walk in!” said the gentleman, waving his newspaper towards the open parlor; “and you, my dear, go and take off your bonnet.”