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

“Probably – but still you have unduly lost your head. You would not know if people were laughing at you – ”

Leeds flushed slightly. Miriam caught her breath sharply, and reached forward to take up a fan which lay within her reach.

“I am altogether a monster?”

“No,” she replied, calmly. “A very ordinary young man, I should say.”

“I’d be kind to dumb animals and not kick a baby – ”

“I am quite serious,” she answered. “You objected to any little pleasantness on my part because what I said might not be altogether sincere. Now we are going to have facts. Indeed, you are the type of man I dislike.”

“At least, we know where we are now,” he responded.

“Yes. And as we are staying in the same house it may be as well.”

Miriam rose slowly. She walked decidedly across the room, and ostentatiously placed herself beside Mrs. Gunnison. Leeds, deserted, did not move. He sat staring at the floor, as he softly drummed with his fingers on the couch’s leather arm.

As well as in certain other particulars, the life of a country house is microcosmical in this – escape from the requirements of human relationship is impossible. Indeed, the demands are made greater, the bonds more firmly fixed. In fact, the condition of all may be more fitly described as the condition of two united in matrimony – they take each other for better or worse. Constantly through the day they must meet. The terms on which they are thrown together impose intimacy. If latent antipathy exists with the revealing conditions of constant companionship it must be discovered. If inherent sympathy is to be found the two gravitate toward each other with inevitable certainty. As the birthplace of aversion quickly reaching a maturity of detestation and hate; as the hothouse of interest growing speedily into full bloom of liking and love, there is no place like a country house. All existence there, in its condensed form, is a forcing process. Without any awkwardly abrupt transition or disconnecting jolts, those who begin to talk about mutual friends in the morning may easily reach a discussion of their own souls in the afternoon, and be far on the broad and easy path of sentiment by evening. Like or dislike, more or less strong, must surely and quickly follow. There is in the social chemistry a certainty of repulsion or attraction, out of which the most unexpected combinations result – of a surprisingly lasting nature.

In the daily routine Miriam saw Leeds constantly. Though she might come down late for breakfast, she always found him. Even if she breakfasted in her room, when she descended he was always smoking in the hall.

“I did not expect to stay so long,” he explained to her on one occasion, rising as she paused at the foot of the stairs.

“Then why do you?” she asked, coldly.

“Don’t you know?” he demanded. “Should you feel it pleasanter if I went away?”

“Really – as I have undertaken to be perfectly frank with you – how can your going or staying make the least difference in the world to me?”

“Still,” he said, looking at her curiously, “there must be something tiresome in having to be scorning somebody all the time.”

“I think,” she said, briefly, “I hear voices in the billiard room. I am going in there.”

If at dinner Leeds found himself next to her he discovered that she spoke to him no more than the strict letter of the law governing the conduct of guests in the same house demanded. What she said was of the most indifferent nature. If he sought to reach a more personal basis he found himself checked.

“Miss Whiting,” he said, suddenly, on the third evening, “I am going away to-morrow morning.”

Miriam swung about swiftly.

“To-morrow!” she exclaimed, with a catch in her voice.

“Yes, I think I had better go, though there is something I want to tell you before I do. I have thought of all that you have said. I have profited by the new light that you have thrown upon myself – my actions – my life.”

“What do you mean?” she murmured.

“I have realized that very likely I am a prig. I understand the futility of what I am trying to do. I see that I have been mistaken in my power. I’m going to give up.”

“Give up?” she replied.

“You have shown that I was attempting more than I was able to do. The Donaldsons have asked me to go in their yacht round the world. The Vierna starts on Thursday. I am going away to be lazy and careless, and live the life for which you think I’m fitted.”

“You are going to give up everything?” she exclaimed.

“Yes,” he answered. “It is your doing. You must take the responsibility of it.”

“But what I say – what I think, can make no difference,” she almost entreated. “I am not of enough importance to you – you cannot consider me enough – ”

“All that is something of which you know nothing,” he answered, gravely. “Something of which I have told you nothing. I am going away – with the Donaldsons.”

“People like that!” she interrupted.

“People like that. I am going with them to lead their life – to be gone for a year, unless one thing happens. As I said, you are responsible.”

“But I can’t be,” she implored. “It isn’t possible. I can’t count for anything.”

“Let me assure you that you do.”

“Then I can’t take the responsibility. I won’t.”

“Unless one thing happens I am going,” he went on, inflexibly. “There are some, I think, who believe in me – who will think I am making a mistake.”

“But your future – your career,” she began, and paused abashed, as she saw the way he watched her.

“I thought we were to have no – insincerities – no flatteries. Since I know what you really think, such civil implications can mean nothing.”

She bit her lips, pale as her cheeks were white.

“Oh!” she cried, “how horrible!”

Through all of dinner she hardly spoke. If she said nothing to Leeds, neither would she address the man on her other side, only giving such monosyllable answers as were necessary. The evening dragged slowly. Leeds did not approach her. Once or twice she looked toward him, but he did not appear to notice her. Indeed, he only came late from the smoking room and returned after a brief appearance in the big hall.

“When,” she asked once, in a timid voice, of Mrs. Gunnison, “does Mr. Leeds go?”

“The early train,” the lady answered. “I believe he leaves the house before seven, or at some equally unearthly hour.”

The fresh sunlight of the early morning was flooding through the open hall door as Leeds came down the wide, main stairs. He saw, under the porte-cochère, the trap ready to take him to the station, and into which the second man, with the help of the groom, was lifting his trunk. Here and there a housemaid was busy with duster and cloth. The machinery of the establishment was being set in running condition, and there was the accompanying disorder. The place seemed strange and unfamiliar.

“Your keys, sir,” the butler said, holding out the bunch.

“Yes,” he answered, “I’m ready.”

As he spoke he started. Clearly in the stillness of the morning he heard a few soft notes struck on the piano. At that hour the sound was most unusual. He listened. The Flower Music of “Parsifal.” With a swiftness that left the astonished butler staring after him, he darted toward a door. In a moment he had torn the portière aside and had crossed the polished floor of the music room. Miriam was seated at the piano, her fingers resting on the keys.

“You are down!” he exclaimed.

“Yes,” she answered, neither turning round nor looking up.

“You are very early.”