Faber.

Dinner-time came, and passed, and still Richard did not come.  At eight o’clock Ann brought the tea, as usual, and it stood nearly an hour upon the table; and then I told her to take it away.

By this time I had begun to feel uneasy.  Something must have happened.  It would necessarily be something uncomfortable, perhaps something that would frighten me, and give me another shock.  And I dreaded that so; I had had so many.  But perhaps, dreadful though it might be, it would bring me a release.  Perhaps Richard was only angry with me, and that might bring me a release.

At nine o’clock I heard a ring at the bell, and then his step in the hall.  He was slower than usual in coming in; everything made me feel confused and apprehensive.  When he opened the door and entered, I was trying to command myself, but I forgot all about myself when I saw him.  His face was white, and he looked haggard and harassed, as if he had gone through a year of suffering since last night, when I left him with the lamp and cigar in the library.

I started up and put out my hand.  “What is it, Richard?  You are in some trouble.”

He said no, and tried to speak in an ordinary tone, sitting down on the sofa by my chair.

I was confused and thrown back by this, and tried to talk as if nothing had been said.

“Will you have a cup of tea?” I asked; “Ann has just taken it away.”

He said absently, yes, and I rang for Ann to bring the tea, and then went to the table to pour it out.

He sat with his face leaning on his hand on the arm of the sofa, and did not seem to notice me till I carried the cup to him, and offered it.  Then he started, and looked up and took it, asking my pardon, and thanking me.

“Are you not going to have one yourself?” he said, half rising.

“No, I don’t want any to-night.  Tell me if yours is right.”

“Yes, it is very nice,” he said absently, drinking some.  Then rising suddenly, he put the cup on the mantleshelf, and said to me, “Send Ann away, I want to talk to you.”

I told Ann I would ring for her when I wanted her, and sat down by the lamp again, with many apprehensions.

“You asked me if anything had happened, Pauline, didn’t you?” he said.

“No,” I answered.  “But I was sure that something had, from the way you looked when you came in.”

“It is something that—­that changes things very much for you, Pauline,” he resumed, with an effort, “and makes all our arrangements unnecessary—­that is, unless you choose.”

I looked amazed and frightened, and he went on.

“I made a discovery last night in the library.  The will is found, Pauline.”

I started to my feet, with my hands pressed against my heart, waiting breathlessly for his next word.

“Everything is left to you—­and I have come to tell you, you are free—­if you desire to be.”