She led the way into a sort of parlor behind the "bar," placed writing materials on the table, looked at my companion as only one woman can look at another under certain circumstances, and left us by ourselves.
It was the first time I had ever been in a room with her alone.
The embarrassing sense of her position had heightened her color and brightened her eyes.
She stood, leaning one hand on the table, confused and irresolute, her firm and supple figure falling into an attitude of unsought grace which it was literally a luxury to look at.
I said nothing; my eyes confessed my admiration; the writing materials lay untouched before me on the table.
How long the silence might have lasted I cannot say.
She abruptly broke it.
Her instinct warned her that silence might have its dangers, in our position.
She turned to me with an effort; she said, uneasily,
"I don't think you ought to write your letter to-night, sir."
"Why not?"
"You know nothing of me.
Surely you ought not to recommend a person who is a stranger to you?
And I am worse than a stranger.
I am a miserable wretch who has tried to commit a great sin—I have tried to destroy myself.
Perhaps the misery I was in might be some excuse for me, if you knew it.
You ought to know it.
But it's so late to-night, and I am so sadly tired—and there are some things, sir, which it is not easy for a woman to speak of in the presence of a man."
Her head sunk on her bosom; her delicate lips trembled a little; she said no more.
The way to reassure and console her lay plainly enough before me, if I chose to take it.
Without stopping to think, I took it.
Reminding her that she had herself proposed writing to me when we met that evening, I suggested that she should wait to tell the sad story of her troubles until it was convenient to her to send me the narrative in the form of a letter.
"In the mean time," I added, "I have the most perfect confidence in you; and I beg as a favor that you will let me put it to the proof.
I can introduce you to a dressmaker in London who is at the head of a large establishment, and I will do it before I leave you to-night."
I dipped my pen in the ink as I said the words. Let me confess frankly the lengths to which my infatuation led me.
The dressmaker to whom I had alluded had been my mother's maid in f ormer years, and had been established in business with money lent by my late step-father, Mr. Germaine.
I used both their names without scruple; and I wrote my recommendation in terms which the best of living women and the ablest of existing dressmakers could never have hoped to merit.
Will anybody find excuses for me?
Those rare persons who have been in love, and who have not completely forgotten it yet, may perhaps find excuses for me.
It matters little; I don't deserve them.
I handed her the open letter to read.
She blushed delightfully; she cast one tenderly grateful look at me, which I remembered but too well for many and many an after-day.
The next moment, to my astonishment, this changeable creature changed again.
Some forgotten consideration seemed to have occurred to her.
She turned pale; the soft lines of pleasure in her face hardened, little by little; she regarded me with the saddest look of confusion and distress.
Putting the letter down before me on the table, she said, timidly:
"Would you mind adding a postscript, sir?"
I suppressed all appearance of surprise as well as I could, and took up the pen again.
"Would you please say," she went on, "that I am only to be taken on trial, at first?
I am not to be engaged for more"—her voice sunk lower and lower, so that I could barely hear the next words—"for more than three months, certain."
It was not in human nature—perhaps I ought to say it was not in the nature of a man who was in my situation—to refrain from showing some curiosity, on being asked to supplement a letter of recommendation by such a postscript as this.
"Have you some other employment in prospect?" I asked.
"None," she answered, with her head down, and her eyes avoiding mine.
An unworthy doubt of her—the mean offspring of jealousy—found its way into my mind.
"Have you some absent friend," I went on, "who is likely to prove a better friend than I am, if you only give him time?"
She lifted her noble head.
Her grand, guileless gray eyes rested on me with a look of patient reproach.
"I have not got a friend in the world," she said.
"For God's sake, ask me no more questions to-night!"
I rose and gave her the letter once more—with the postscript added, in her own words.