“Dear me! you must be tired with walking so far.”
“Oh no, not tired with walking; but the fact is I am a little Mondayish.”
“A little what?”
Mr. Thomas giggled a little. “Ah, you young ladies, of course, don’t know what that means. I had to conduct a service in the country yesterday, and am rather fatigued. I am generally so on Mondays, and I always relax on that day.” This, it is to be remembered, was his first Monday.
Pauline regretted very much that she had no wine in the house; neither had they any beer. They were not total abstainers, but nothing of the kind was kept in their small store-closet.
“Oh, thank you; never mind.” He took a bottle of smelling-salts from the mantelpiece and smelt it. The conversation flagged a little. Pauline sat at the window, and Mr. Thomas at the table. At last he observed.
“Are you alone all day?”
“Generally, except on Sunday. Father does not get home till late.”
“Dear me! And you are not dull nor afraid?”
“Dull or afraid! Why?”
“Oh, well,” he sniggered, “dull—why, young ladies, you know, usually like society. At least,” and he laughed a little greasy laugh at his wit, “we like theirs. And then—afraid—well, if my sister were so attractive”—he looked to see if this pretty compliment was effective—“I should not like her to be without anybody in the house.”
Pauline became impatient. She rose. “When you come again,” she said, “I hope my father will be here.”
Mr. Thomas rose too. He had begun to feel awkward. For want of something better to say, he asked whose was the portrait over the mantelpiece.
“Major Cartwright.”
“Major Cartwright! Dear me, is that Major Cartwright?” He had never heard of him before, but he did not like to profess ignorance of a Major.
“And this likeness of this young gentleman?” he inquired, looking at Pauline sideways, with an odious simper on his lips. “Nobody I know, I suppose?”
“My father when he was one-and-twenty.” She moved towards the door. Mr. Thomas closed his fat eyes till they became almost slits, simpered still more effectively, as he thought, trusted he might have the pleasure of calling again, and departed.
Pauline returned, opened the window and door for ten minutes, and went upstairs. When she saw her father she told him briefly that she had entertained a visitor, and expressed her utter loathing of him in terms so strong that he was obliged to check her. He did not want a quarrel with any of Isaac’s friends.
Mr. Thomas, having returned to the college, did not delay to communicate by mysterious hints to his colleagues that he was on visiting terms with a most delightfully charming person, and sunned himself deliciously in their bantering congratulations. About three weeks afterwards he thought he might safely repeat his visit; but he was in a difficulty. He was not quite so stupid as not to see that, the next time he went, it ought to be when her father was present, and yet he preferred his absence. At last he determined he would go about teatime. He was quite sure that Mr. Coleman would not have returned then; but he could assume that he had, and would propose to wait for him. He therefore duly presented himself at half-past five.
“Good evening, Miss Coleman. Is your father at home?”
“No, not yet,” replied Pauline, holding the door doubtingly.
“Oh, I am so sorry;” and, to Pauline’s surprise, he entered without any further ceremony. She hardly knew what to do; but she followed him as he walked into the room, where she had just laid the tea-things and put the bread and butter on the table.
“Oh, tea!” he cried. “Dear me, it would be very rude of me to ask myself to tea, and yet, do you know, Miss Coleman, I can hardly help it.”
“I am afraid my father will not be here till eight.” He sat down.
“That is very unfortunate. You will tell him I came on purpose to see him.”
Pauline hesitated whether she should or should not inform Mr. Thomas that his presence was disagreeable, but her father’s caution recurred to her, and she poured out a cup for her visitor.
It was one of his peculiarities that tea, of which he took enormous quantities, made him garrulous, and he expatiated much upon his college. By degrees, however, he became silent, and as he was sitting with his face to the window, he shifted his chair to the opposite side, under the pretence that the light dazzled his eyes. Pauline shifted too, apparently to make room for him, but really to get farther from him.
“Do people generally say that you take after your mother?” he said.
“I believe I am like my mother in many things.”
Another pause. He became fidgety; the half smile, half grin which he almost perpetually wore passed altogether from his face, and he looked uncomfortable and dangerous. Pauline felt him to be so, and resolved that, come what might, he should never set foot in the house again.
“You have such black hair,” he observed.
She rose to take away the tea-things.
“I am afraid,” said she, “that I must go out; I have one or two commissions to execute.”
He remained seated, and observed that surely she would not go alone.
“Why not?” and having collected the tea-things, she was on the point of leaving. He then rose, and she bade him goodbye. He held out his hand, and she took it in hers, but he did not let it go, and having pulled it upwards with much force, kissed it. He still held it, and before the astonished Pauline knew what he was doing his arm was round her waist. At that moment the little front gate swung back. Nobody was there; but the Reverend Thomas was alarmed, and in an instant she had freed herself, and had placed the table between them.
“What do you mean, you Gadarene pig, you scoundrel, by insulting a stranger in this way?” she cried. “Away! My father will know what to do
