Ainslee's, Vol. 15, No. 5, June 1905

“I may have lost my temper a little,” he said, “which one should never do – but I can’t take anything back.”

That afternoon Miss Whiting was strangely silent. Held at the opening of the tent by her hostess, people passed before her unseen. What she said she hardly knew. What her words meant she could not have told. She was only aware that her voice sounded unnatural, and that her laugh – when laugh she must – struck discordantly and strangely on her ears. She felt that the time would never come when she could be alone – to think.

II

Mrs. Gunnison’s dinners, like all else of the establishment, were always large. The classic limits authoritatively imposed she would have scorned – if she had ever heard of them. If she could have timed it, the greater the number of minutes required by the procession to the dining room in passing a given point, the better she would have been satisfied. She only felt that she “entertained” when she beheld serried ranks of guests stretching away from her on either hand. Therefore, when Miriam turned and discovered Leeds at her right, they found themselves in such semi-isolation as only exists at a very large dinner table.

“I am sorry,” he said, pleadingly.

“So am I,” she answered. “Very – oh, you think I mean that to be pleasant in that way, too – ”

She hastily averted her face, and engaged vigorously in conversation with the man on the other side. Leeds stared moodily before him. During the passing of the many courses which Mrs. Gunnison’s idea of fitting ceremony demanded, the lady whom he had taken in found him neither communicative nor responsive. The dinner dragged on. Miss Whiting’s soft right shoulder remained constantly turned on him. Her discourses, which he could not help hearing, continued actively and unceasingly. At last Mrs. Gunnison darted restless glances about. She had already begun to stir uneasily in her chair.

Miriam suddenly veered round upon him.

“I want to tell you something,” she almost whispered. “What I said – what I tried to say this afternoon was true.”

He looked at her with fixed earnestness.

“Oh!” she cried, passionately. “I can’t bear to have you study me as if I were a specimen of something – of mendacity, you think. But no matter about that. You must believe me. Don’t you?”

“How can I,” he answered, slowly, “with – ”

“With my reputation,” she caught up, quickly, as he paused. “Do not try to spare me – now. Can’t you hear – can’t you see, now, that I am speaking the truth?”

He gazed at her without answering.

“Oh, I can read in your eyes that you do not. I want you to believe me. Can’t you believe – even that?”

He shook his head half smilingly.

“You do not know all that I have heard,” he answered.

“Who can have been so unfair – so cruel? I – I never wanted to be believed so before. Oh, you think that is only a part of it; that the habit is so strong with me – that I am only flattering.”

“If I have been – warned,” Leeds continued.

“As if I were a peril – an evil – ”

“Perhaps you might be,” he muttered.

“I will not bear it. You shall believe me. I am not flattering.”

“At least, that you should have been willing to take the trouble to try was in itself a distinction.”

“You are hard on me.”

“I must protect myself.”

Mrs. Gunnison had arisen, and a rustling stir was spreading down the table.

“I am not a harpy,” she cried.

“A siren was a bird more beautiful, but not less dangerous,” he said.

She rose straightly and swiftly.

“You feel that you can speak to me like that because you believe I am what you think. Very well. There may be satisfaction for you to know it. I am, then, everything that you have implied. More – more than you have said. I am false. I do flatter people – cajole them – deceive. I do it for my own interest. Now are you satisfied? Could anything be worse? I confess, even, that I have deserved the way you have treated me.”

“Believe me – ” he began, hastily.

But she had swept from him, and, amid the group of retreating women, he found no chance to finish the sentence.

III

Miriam Whiting said “good-night” very early. A greater accuracy might demand the statement that the time at which she had “gone upstairs” was relatively not late – for the hours of the house were expansive, and not only had morning a way of extending into afternoon, but midnight into morning. As a general thing, she had only disappeared with her hostess, but on this particular evening she pleaded weariness – sleepiness – had even hinted at a headache, which no one had ever known her to have. Thereupon she departed, followed by the reproaches of the rest. Once in her room, she hurried her maid, and, finally, abruptly dismissed her. When she was alone, she went to the window and threw wide both the shutters. She leaned with her elbows on the sill, gazing out at the moonlit country.

Perfectly round, with a burnished sky about it, such as may sometimes be seen when the circle is absolutely full, the white disk hung in the heavens. Below, about the quiet edges of the fountain, the light lay with silken sheen. Only, where the drops fell tremulously, the water was broken into glittering sparks. All was very still. Far off a dog barked fitfully. That was the one sound which broke the silence, with the exception of the occasional distant laughter of some men on the terrace at the end of the spreading wing. With her fingers buried in her thick hair, carefully gathered for the night, she looked straight before her, although she was wholly unconscious of the scene.

A light knock at the door was repeated twice before she heard it and spoke.

“It’s I,” the voice said, insistently. “May I come in?”

“Of course,” Miriam answered, without moving.

The door opened quickly, and a small figure darted into the room.

“There was some one coming,” said Mrs. Brough, as she glanced down at the voluminous silken folds in which her little body was lost. “I am not in a condition to be seen – generally.”

She came forward slowly.

“My room is near yours. I saw your light. I thought that you had not gone to sleep. I wanted to come to speak to you.” She put her hands on Miriam’s shoulder. “You have been crying.”

“Yes,” said Miriam, quietly.

“I saw at dinner that you were not yourself – and I am troubled, too. I have a confession to make.”

Miriam looked at her curiously.

“You know that I am your friend – now,” the other went on. “Since we have been here together, we have come to know each other as I never thought that we should. There was a time before, though, when I did not understand so well. I had watched you, and I did not like you. I distrusted you – or, rather, did not trust you – ”

“I understand. You were clever enough to see through me – ”

“I thought that with your – insincerities that you were all false. I should have been wise enough to know differently. But what will you? – to assume evil is easy, and always gives one a proud sense of superior perspicacity. I condemned you, Miriam, without a hearing, and I told Arthur Leeds.”

“You did it?” the girl murmured, dully.

“Yes, I warned him.”