out and stood beside me. It was Mr. Langenau. I started up and
exclaimed, "Mr. Langenau, how imprudent! Oh, go back at once."
He seemed weak, and his hand shook as he leaned against the casement,
but his eyes were glittering with a feverish excitement. He did not
answer. I went on: "The Doctor forbade your coming out for several days
yet--and the exertion and the night-air--oh, I beg you to go back."
"Alone?" he said in a low voice.
"No, oh no, I will go with you. Anything, only do not stay here a moment
longer; come." And taking his hand (and how burning hot it was!) and
drawing it through my arm, I started toward the hall. He had to lean on
me, for the unusual exertion seemed to have annihilated all his
strength. When we reached the library, I led him to a chair--a large and
low and easy one, and he sank down in it.
"You are not going away?" he asked, as he gasped for breath, "For there
is something that must be said to-night."
"No, I will not go," I answered, frightened to see him so, and agitated
by a thousand feelings. "I will light the lamp, and read to you. Let me
move your chair back from the window."
"No, you must not light the lamp; I like the moonlight better. Bring
your chair and sit here by me--here." He leaned and half-pulled toward
him the companion to the chair on which he sat, a low, soft, easy one.
I sat down in it, sitting so I nearly faced him. The moon was shining
in at the one wide window: I can remember exactly the pattern that the
vine-leaves made as the moonlight fell through them on the carpet at our
feet. I had a bunch of verbena-leaves fastened in my dress, and I never
smell verbena-leaves at any time or place without seeing before me that
moon-traced pattern and that wide-open window.
"Pauline," he said, in that low, thrilling voice, leaning a little
toward me, "I have a great deal to say to you to-night. I have a great
wrong to ask pardon for--a great sorrow to tell you of. I shall never
call you Pauline again as I call you to-night. I shall never look into
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