"What I have to show you is a manuscript," she said after a pause which
I did not break; "it is a drama. I thought that perhaps you would read
it."
"An authoress! This is worse than old lace," I said to myself in
dismay.--Then, aloud, "My opinion would be worth nothing, Miss Crief."
"Not in a business way, I know. But it might be--an assistance
personally." Her voice had sunk to a whisper; outside, the rain was
pouring steadily down. She was a very depressing object to me as she
sat there with her box.
"I hardly think I have the time at present--" I began.
She had raised her eyes and was looking at me; then, when I paused, she
rose and came suddenly toward my chair. "Yes, you will read it," she
said with her hand on my arm--"you will read it. Look at this room;
look at yourself; look at all you have. Then look at me, and have
pity."
I had risen, for she held my arm, and her damp skirt was brushing my
knees.
Her large dark eyes looked intently into mine as she went on; "I have
no shame in asking. Why should I have? It is my last endeavor; but a
calm and well-considered one. If you refuse I shall go away, knowing
that Fate has willed it so. And I shall be content."
"She is mad," I thought. But she did not look so, and she had spoken
quietly, even gently.--"Sit down," I said, moving away from her. I felt
as if I had been magnetized; but it was only the nearness of her eyes
to mine, and their intensity. I drew forward a chair, but she remained
standing.
"I cannot," she said in the same sweet, gentle tone, "unless you
promise."
"Very well, I promise; only sit down."
As I took her arm to lead her to the chair I perceived that she was
trembling, but her face continued unmoved.
"You do not, of course, wish me to look at your manuscript now?" I
said, temporizing; "it would be much better to leave it. Give me your
address, and I will return it to you with my written opinion; though, I
repeat, the latter will be of no use to you. It is the opinion of an
editor or publisher that you want."
"It shall be as you please. And I will go in a moment," said Miss
Grief, pressing her palms together, as if trying to control the tremor
that had seized her slight frame.
She looked so pallid that I thought of offering her a glass of wine;
then I remembered that if I did it might be a bait to bring her there
again, and this I was desirous to prevent. She rose while the thought
was passing through my mind. Her pasteboard box lay on the chair she
had first occupied; she took it, wrote an address on the cover, laid it
down, and then, bowing with a little air of formality, drew her black
shawl round her shoulders and turned toward the door.
I followed, after touching the bell. "You will hear from me by letter,"
I said.
Simpson opened the door, and I caught a glimpse of the maid, who was
waiting in the anteroom. She was an old woman, shorter than her
mistress, equally thin, and dressed like her in rusty black. As the
door opened she turned toward it a pair of small, dim blue eyes with a
look of furtive suspense. Simpson dropped the curtain, shutting me into
the inner room; he had no intention of allowing me to accompany my
visitor further. But I had the curiosity to go to a bay-window in an
angle from whence I could command the street-door, and presently I saw
them issue forth in the rain and walk away side by side, the mistress,
being the taller, holding the umbrella: probably there was not much
difference in rank between persons so poor and forlorn as these.
It grew dark. I was invited out for the evening, and I knew that if I
should go I should meet Miss Abercrombie. I said to myself that I would
not go. I got out my paper for writing, I made my preparations for a
quiet evening at home with myself; but it was of no use. It all ended
slavishly in my going. At the last allowable moment I presented myself,
and--as a punishment for my vacillation, I suppose--I never passed a
more disagreeable evening. I drove homeward in a murky temper; it was
foggy without, and very foggy within. What Isabel really was, now that
she had broken through my elaborately-built theories, I was not able to
decide. There was, to tell the truth, a certain young Englishman--But
that is apart from this story.
I reached home, went up to my rooms, and had a supper. It was to
console myself; I am obliged to console myself scientifically once in a
while. I was walking up and down afterward, smoking and feeling
somewhat better, when my eye fell upon the pasteboard box. I took it
up; on the cover was written an address which showed that my visitor
must have walked a long distance in order to see me: "A. Crief."--"A
Grief," I thought; "and so she is. I positively believe she has brought
all this trouble upon me: she has the evil eye." I took out the
manuscript and looked at it. It was in the form of a little volume, and
clearly written; on the cover was the word "Armor" in German text, and,
underneath, a pen-and-ink sketch of a helmet, breastplate, and shield.
"Grief certainly needs armor," I said to myself, sitting down by the
table and turning over the pages. "I may as well look over the thing
now; I could not be in a worse mood." And then I began to read.
Early the next morning Simpson took a note from me to the given
address, returning with the following reply: "No; I prefer to come to
you; at four; A. CRIEF." These words, with their three semicolons, were
written in pencil upon a piece of coarse printing-paper, but the
handwriting was as clear and delicate as that of the manuscript in ink.
"What sort of a place was it, Simpson?"
"Very poor, sir, but I did not go all the way up. The elder person came
down, sir, took the note, and requested me to wait where I was."
"You had no chance, then, to make inquiries?" I said, knowing full well
that he had emptied the entire neighborhood of any information it might
possess concerning these two lodgers.
"Well, sir, you know how these foreigners will talk, whether one wants
to hear or not. But it seems that these two persons have been there but
a few weeks; they live alone, and are uncommonly silent and reserved.
The people round there call them something that signifies 'the Madames
American, thin and dumb.'"
At four the "Madames American" arrived; it was raining again, and they
came on foot under their old umbrella. The maid waited in the anteroom,
and Miss Grief was ushered into my bachelor's parlor. I had thought
that I should meet her with great deference; but she looked so forlorn
that my deference changed to pity. It was the woman that impressed me
then, more than the writer--the fragile, nerveless body more than the
inspired mind. For it was inspired: I had sat up half the night over
her drama, and had felt thrilled through and through more than once by
its earnestness, passion, and power.
No one could have been more surprised than I was to find myself thus
enthusiastic. I thought I had outgrown that sort of thing. And one
would have supposed, too (I myself should have supposed so the day
before), that the faults of the drama, which were many and prominent,
would have chilled any liking I might have felt, I being a writer
myself, and therefore critical; for writers are as apt to make much of
the "how," rather than the "what," as painters, who, it is well known,
prefer an exquisitely rendered representation of a commonplace theme to
an imperfectly executed picture of even the most striking subject. But
in this case, on the contrary, the scattered rays of splendor in Miss
Grief's drama had made me forget the dark spots, which were numerous
and disfiguring; or, rather, the splendor had made me anxious to have
the spots removed. And this also was a philanthropic state very unusual
with me. Regarding unsuccessful writers, my motto had been "Vae victis!"
My visitor took a seat and folded her hands; I could see, in spite of
her quiet manner, that she was in breathless suspense. It seemed so
pitiful that she should be trembling there before me--a woman so much
older than I was, a woman who possessed the divine spark of genius,
which I was by no means sure (in spite of my success) had been granted
to me--that I felt as if I ought to go down on my knees before her, and
entreat her to take her proper place of supremacy at once. But there!
one does not go down on one's knees, combustively, as it were, before a
woman over fifty, plain in feature, thin, dejected, and ill-dressed. I
contented myself with taking her hands (in their miserable old gloves)
in mine, while I said cordially, "Miss Crief, your drama seems to me
full of original power. It has roused my enthusiasm: I sat up half the
night reading it."
The hands I held shook, but something (perhaps a shame for having
evaded the knees business) made me tighten my hold and bestow upon her
also a reassuring smile. She looked at me for a moment, and then,
suddenly and noiselessly, tears rose and rolled down her cheeks. I
dropped her hands and retreated. I had not thought her tearful: on the
contrary, her voice and face had seemed rigidly controlled. But now
here she was bending herself over the side of the chair with her head
resting on her arms, not sobbing aloud, but her whole frame shaken by
the strength of her emotion. I rushed for a glass of wine; I pressed
her to take it. I did not quite know what to do, but, putting myself in
her place, I decided to praise the drama; and praise it I did. I do not
know when I have used so many adjectives. She raised her head and began
to wipe her eyes.
"Do take the wine," I said, interrupting myself in my cataract of
language.
"I dare not," she answered; then added humbly, "that is, unless you
have a biscuit here or a bit of bread."
I found some biscuit; she ate two, and then slowly drank the wine,
while I resumed my verbal Niagara. Under its influence--and that of the
wine too, perhaps--she began to show new life. It was not that she
looked radiant--she could not--but simply that she looked warm. I now
perceived what had been the principal discomfort of her appearance
heretofore: it was that she had looked all the time as if suffering
from cold.
At last I could think of nothing more to say, and stopped. I really
admired the drama, but I thought I had exerted myself sufficiently as
an anti-hysteric, and that adjectives enough, for the present at least,
had been administered. She had put down her empty wine-glass, and was
resting her hands on the broad cushioned arms of her chair with, for a
thin person, a sort of expanded content.
"You must pardon my tears," she said, smiling; "it was the revulsion of
feeling. My life was at a low ebb: if your sentence had been against me
it would have been my end."
"Your end?"
"Yes, the end of my life; I should have destroyed myself."
"Then you would have been a weak as well as wicked woman," I said in a
tone of disgust. I do hate sensationalism.
"Oh no, you know nothing about it. I should have destroyed only this
poor worn tenement of clay. But I can well understand how _you_ would
look upon it. Regarding the desirableness of life the prince and the
beggar may have different opinions.--We will say no more of it, but
talk of the drama instead." As she spoke the word "drama" a triumphant
brightness came into her eyes.
I took the manuscript from a drawer and sat down beside her. "I suppose
you know that there are faults," I said, expecting ready acquiescence.
"I was not aware that there were any," was her gentle reply.
Here was a beginning! After all my interest in her--and, I may say
under the circumstances, my kindness--she received me in this way!
However, my belief in her genius was too sincere to be altered by her
whimsies; so I persevered. "Let us go over it together," I said. "Shall
I read it to you, or will you read it to me?"
"I will not read it, but recite it."
"That will never do; you will recite it so well that we shall see only
the good points, and what we have to concern ourselves with now is the
bad ones."
"I will recite it," she repeated.
"Now, Miss Crief," I said bluntly, "for what purpose did you come to
me? Certainly not merely to recite: I am no stage-manager. In plain
English, was it not your idea that I might help you in obtaining a
publisher?"
"Yes, yes," she answered, looking at me apprehensively, all her old
manner returning.
I followed up my advantage, opened the little paper volume and began. I
first took the drama line by line, and spoke of the faults of
expression and structure; then I turned back and touched upon two or
three glaring impossibilities in the plot. "Your absorbed interest in
the motive of the whole no doubt made you forget these blemishes," I
said apologetically.
But, to my surprise, I found that she did not see the blemishes--that
she appreciated nothing I had said, comprehended nothing. Such
unaccountable obtuseness puzzled me. I began again, going over the
whole with even greater minuteness and care. I worked hard: the
perspiration stood in beads upon my forehead as I struggled with
her--what shall I call it--obstinacy? But it was not exactly obstinacy.
She simply could not see the faults of her own work, any more than a
blind man can see the smoke that dims a patch of blue sky. When I had
finished my task the second time she still remained as gently impassive
as before. I leaned back in my chair exhausted, and looked at her.
Even then she did not seem to comprehend (whether she agreed with it or
not) what I must be thinking. "It is such a heaven to me that you like
it!" she murmured dreamily, breaking the silence. Then, with more
animation, "And _now_ you will let me recite it?"
I was too weary to oppose her; she threw aside her shawl and bonnet,
and, standing in the centre of the room, began.
And she carried me along with her: all the strong passages were doubly
strong when spoken, and the faults, which seemed nothing to her, were
made by her earnestness to seem nothing to me, at least for that
moment. When it was ended she stood looking at me with a triumphant
smile.
"Yes," I said, "I like it, and you see that I do. But I like it because
my taste is peculiar. To me originality and force are everything--perhaps
because I have them not to any marked degree myself--but the world at
large will not overlook as I do your absolutely barbarous shortcomings
on account of them. Will you trust me to go over the drama and correct
it at my pleasure?" This was a vast deal for me to offer; I was
surprised at myself.
"No," she answered softly, still smiling. "There shall not be so much
as a comma altered." Then she sat down and fell into a reverie as
though she were alone.
"Have you written anything else?" I said after a while, when I had
become tired of the silence.
"Yes."
"Can I see it? Or is it _them_?"
"It is _them_. Yes, you can see all."
"I will call upon you for the purpose."
"No, you must not," she said, coming back to the present nervously. "I
prefer to come to you."
At this moment Simpson entered to light the room, and busied himself
rather longer than was necessary over the task. When he finally went
out I saw that my visitor's manner had sunk into its former depression:
the presence of the servant seemed to have chilled her.
"When did you say I might come?" I repeated, ignoring her refusal.
"I did not say it. It would be impossible."
"Well, then, when will you come here?" There was, I fear, a trace of
fatigue in my tone.
"At your good pleasure, sir," she answered humbly.
My chivalry was touched by this: after all, she was a woman. "Come
to-morrow," I said. "By the way, come and dine with me then; why not?"
I was curious to see what she would reply.
"Why not, indeed? Yes, I will come. I am forty-three: I might have been
your mother."
This was not quite true, as I am over thirty: but I look young, while
she--Well, I had thought her over fifty. "I can hardly call you
'mother,' but we might compromise upon 'aunt,'" I said, laughing. "Aunt
what?"
"My name is Aaronna," she gravely answered. "My father was much
disappointed that I was not a boy, and gave me as nearly as possible
the name he had prepared--Aaron."
"Then come and dine with me to-morrow, and bring with you the other
manuscripts, Aaronna," I said, amused at the quaint sound of the name.
On the whole, I did not like "aunt."
"I will come," she answered.
It was twilight and still raining, but she refused all offers of escort
or carriage, departing with her maid, as she had come, under the brown
umbrella. The next day we had the dinner. Simpson was astonished--and
more than astonished, grieved--when I told him that he was to dine with
the maid; but he could not complain in words, since my own guest, the
mistress, was hardly more attractive. When our preparations were
complete I could not help laughing: the two prim little tables, one in
the parlor and one in the anteroom, and Simpson disapprovingly going
back and forth between them, were irresistible.
I greeted my guest hilariously when she arrived, and, fortunately, her
manner was not quite so depressed as usual: I could never have accorded
myself with a tearful mood. I had thought that perhaps she would make,
for the occasion, some change in her attire; I have never known a woman
who had not some scrap of finery, however small, in reserve for that
unexpected occasion of which she is ever dreaming. But no: Miss Grief
wore the same black gown, unadorned and unaltered. I was glad that
there was no rain that day, so that the skirt did not at least look so
damp and rheumatic.
She ate quietly, almost furtively, yet with a good appetite, and she
did not refuse the wine. Then, when the meal was over and Simpson had
removed the dishes, I asked for the new manuscripts. She gave me an old
green copybook filled with short poems, and a prose sketch by itself; I
lit a cigar and sat down at my desk to look them over.
"Perhaps you will try a cigarette?" I suggested, more for amusement
than anything else, for there was not a shade of Bohemianism about her;
her whole appearance was puritanical.
"I have not yet succeeded in learning to smoke."
"You have tried?" I said, turning round.
"Yes: Serena and I tried, but we did not succeed."
"Serena is your maid?"
"She lives with me."
I was seized with inward laughter, and began hastily to look over her
manuscripts with my back toward her, so that she might not see it. A
vision had risen before me of those two forlorn women, alone in their
room with locked doors, patiently trying to acquire the smoker's art.
But my attention was soon absorbed by the papers before me. Such a
fantastic collection of words, lines, and epithets I had never before
seen, or even in dreams imagined. In truth, they were like the work of
dreams: they were _Kubla Khan_, only more so. Here and there was
radiance like the flash of a diamond, but each poem, almost each verse
and line, was marred by some fault or lack which seemed wilful
perversity, like the work of an evil sprite. It was like a case of
jeweller's wares set before you, with each ring unfinished, each
bracelet too large or too small for its purpose, each breastpin without
its fastening, each necklace purposely broken. I turned the pages,
marvelling. When about half an hour had passed, and I was leaning back
for a moment to light another cigar, I glanced toward my visitor. She
was behind me, in an easy-chair before my small fire, and she was--fast
asleep! In the relaxation of her unconsciousness I was struck anew by
the poverty her appearance expressed; her feet were visible, and I saw
the miserable worn old shoes which hitherto she had kept concealed.
After looking at her for a moment I returned to my task and took up the
prose story; in prose she must be more reasonable. She was less
fantastic perhaps, but hardly more reasonable. The story was that of a
profligate and commonplace man forced by two of his friends, in order
not to break the heart of a dying girl who loves him, to live up to a
high imaginary ideal of himself which her pure but mistaken mind has
formed. He has a handsome face and sweet voice, and repeats what they
tell him. Her long, slow decline and happy death, and his own inward
ennui and profound weariness of the role he has to play, made the vivid
points of the story. So far, well enough, but here was the trouble:
through the whole narrative moved another character, a physician of
tender heart and exquisite mercy, who practised murder as a fine art,
and was regarded (by the author) as a second Messiah! This was
monstrous. I read it through twice, and threw it down; then, fatigued,
I turned round and leaned back, waiting for her to wake. I could see
her profile against the dark hue of the easy-chair.
Presently she seemed to feel my gaze, for she stirred, then opened her
eyes. "I have been asleep," she said, rising hurriedly.
"No harm in that, Aaronna."
But she was deeply embarrassed and troubled, much more so than the
occasion required; so much so, indeed, that I turned the conversation
back upon the manuscripts as a diversion. "I cannot stand that doctor
of yours," I said, indicating the prose story; "no one would. You must
cut him out."
Her self-possession returned as if by magic. "Certainly not," she
answered haughtily.
"Oh, if you do not care--I had labored under the impression that you
were anxious these things should find a purchaser."
"I am, I am," she said, her manner changing to deep humility with
wonderful rapidity. With such alternations of feeling as this sweeping
over her like great waves, no wonder she was old before her time.
"Then you must take out that doctor."
"I am willing, but do not know how," she answered, pressing her hands
together helplessly. "In my mind he belongs to the story so closely
that he cannot be separated from it."
Here Simpson entered, bringing a note for me: it was a line from Mrs.
Abercrombie inviting me for that evening--an unexpected gathering, and
therefore likely to be all the more agreeable. My heart bounded in
spite of me; I forgot Miss Grief and her manuscripts for the moment as
completely as though they had never existed. But, bodily, being still
in the same room with her, her speech brought me back to the present.
"You have had good news?" she said.
"Oh no, nothing especial--merely an invitation."
"But good news also," she repeated. "And now, as for me, I must go."
Not supposing that she would stay much later in any case, I had that
morning ordered a carriage to come for her at about that hour. I told
her this. She made no reply beyond putting on her bonnet and shawl.
"You will hear from me soon," I said; "I shall do all I can for you."
She had reached the door, but before opening it she stopped, turned and
extended her hand. "You are good," she said: "I give you thanks. Do not
think me ungrateful or envious. It is only that you are young, and I am
so--so old." Then she opened the door and passed through the anteroom
without pause, her maid accompanying her and Simpson with gladness
lighting the way. They were gone. I dressed hastily and went out--to
continue my studies in psychology.
Time passed; I was busy, amused and perhaps a little excited (sometimes
psychology is exciting). But, though much occupied with my own affairs,
I did not altogether neglect my self-imposed task regarding Miss Grief.
I began by sending her prose story to a friend, the editor of a monthly
magazine, with a letter making a strong plea for its admittance. It
should have a chance first on its own merits. Then I forwarded the
drama to a publisher, also an acquaintance, a man with a taste for
phantasms and a soul above mere common popularity, as his own coffers
knew to their cost. This done, I waited with conscience clear.
Four weeks passed. During this waiting period I heard nothing from Miss
Grief. At last one morning came a letter from my editor. "The story has
force, but I cannot stand that doctor," he wrote. "Let her cut him out,
and I might print it." Just what I myself had said. The package lay
there on my table, travel-worn and grimed; a returned manuscript is, I
think, the most melancholy object on earth. I decided to wait, before
writing to Aaronna, until the second letter was received. A week later
it came. "Armor" was declined. The publisher had been "impressed" by
the power displayed in certain passages, but the "impossibilities of
the plot" rendered it "unavailable for publication"--in fact, would
"bury it in ridicule" if brought before the public, a public
"lamentably" fond of amusement, "seeking it, undaunted, even in the
cannon's mouth." I doubt if he knew himself what he meant. But one
thing, at any rate, was clear: "Armor" was declined.
Now, I am, as I have remarked before, a little obstinate. I was
determined that Miss Grief's work should be received. I would alter and
improve it myself, without letting her know: the end justified the
means. Surely the sieve of my own good taste, whose mesh had been
pronounced so fine and delicate, would serve for two. I began; and
utterly failed.
I set to work first upon "Armor." I amended, altered, left out, put in,
pieced, condensed, lengthened; I did my best, and all to no avail. I
could not succeed in completing anything that satisfied me, or that
approached, in truth, Miss Grief's own work just as it stood. I suppose
I went over that manuscript twenty times: I covered sheets of paper
with my copies. But the obstinate drama refused to be corrected; as it
was it must stand or fall.
Wearied and annoyed, I threw it aside and took up the prose story: that
would be easier. But, to my surprise, I found that that apparently
gentle "doctor" would not out: he was so closely interwoven with every
part of the tale that to take him out was like taking out one especial
figure in a carpet: that is, impossible, unless you unravel the whole.
At last I did unravel the whole, and then the story was no longer good,
or Aaronna's: it was weak, and mine. All this took time, for of course
I had much to do in connection with my own life and tasks. But, though
slowly and at my leisure, I really did try my best as regarded Miss
Grief, and without success. I was forced at last to make up my mind
that either my own powers were not equal to the task, or else that her
perversities were as essential a part of her work as her inspirations,
and not to be separated from it. Once during this period I showed two
of the short poems to Isabel, withholding of course the writer's name.
"They were written by a woman," I explained.
"Her mind must have been disordered, poor thing!" Isabel said in her
gentle way when she returned them--"at least, judging by these. They
are hopelessly mixed and vague."
Now, they were not vague so much as vast. But I knew that I could not
make Isabel comprehend it, and (so complex a creature is man) I do not
know that I wanted her to comprehend it. These were the only ones in
the whole collection that I would have shown her, and I was rather glad
that she did not like even these. Not that poor Aaronna's poems were
evil: they were simply unrestrained, large, vast, like the skies or the
wind. Isabel was bounded on all sides, like a violet in a garden-bed.
And I liked her so.
One afternoon, about the time when I was beginning to see that I could
not "improve" Miss Grief, I came upon the maid. I was driving, and she
had stopped on the crossing to let the carriage pass. I recognized her
at a glance (by her general forlornness), and called to the driver to
stop: "How is Miss Grief?" I said. "I have been intending to write to
her for some time."
"And your note, when it comes," answered the old woman on the crosswalk
fiercely, "she shall not see."
"What?"
"I say she shall not see it. Your patronizing face shows that you have
no good news, and you shall not rack and stab her any more on _this_
earth, please God, while I have authority."
"Who has racked or stabbed her, Serena?"
"Serena, indeed! Rubbish! I'm no Serena: I'm her aunt. And as to who
has racked and stabbed her, I say you, _you_--YOU literary men!" She
had put her old head inside my carriage, and flung out these words at
me in a shrill, menacing tone. "But she shall die in peace in spite of
you," she continued. "Vampires! you take her ideas and fatten on them,
and leave her to starve. You know you do--_you_ who have had her poor
manuscripts these months and months!"
"Is she ill?" I asked in real concern, gathering that much at least
from the incoherent tirade.
"She is dying," answered the desolate old creature, her voice softening
and her dim eyes filling with tears.
"Oh, I trust not. Perhaps something can be done. Can I help you in any
way?"
"In all ways if you would," she said, breaking down and beginning to
sob weakly, with her head resting on the sill of the carriage-window.
"Oh, what have we not been through together, we two! Piece by piece I
have sold all."
I am good-hearted enough, but I do not like to have old women weeping
across my carriage-door. I suggested, therefore, that she should come
inside and let me take her home. Her shabby old skirt was soon beside
me, and, following her directions, the driver turned toward one of the
most wretched quarters of the city, the abode of poverty, crowded and
unclean. Here, in a large bare chamber up many flights of stairs, I
found Miss Grief.
As I entered I was startled: I thought she was dead. There seemed no
life present until she opened her eyes, and even then they rested upon
us vaguely, as though she did not know who we were. But as I approached
a light came into them: she recognized me, and this sudden
revivification, this return of the soul to the almost deserted bod, was
the most wonderful thing I ever saw. "You have good news of the drama?"
she whispered as I bent over her: "tell me. I _know_ you have good
news."
What was I to answer? Pray, what would you have answered, puritan?
"Yes, I have good news, Aaronna," I said. "The drama will appear." (And
who knows? Perhaps it will in some other world.)
She smiled, and her now brilliant eyes did not leave my face.
"He knows I'm your aunt: I told him," said the old woman, coming to the
bedside.
"Did you?" whispered Miss Grief, still gazing at me with a smile. "Then
please, dear Aunt Martha, give me something to eat."
Aunt Martha hurried across the room, and I followed her. "It's the
first time she's asked for food in weeks," she said in a husky tone.
She opened a cupboard-door vaguely, but I could see nothing within.
"What have you for her?" I asked with some impatience, though in a low
voice.
"Please God, nothing!" answered the poor old woman, hiding her reply
and her tears behind the broad cupboard-door. "I was going out to get a
little something when I met you."
"Good Heavens! is it money you need? Here, take this and send; or go
yourself in the carriage waiting below."
She hurried out breathless, and I went back to the bedside, much
disturbed by what I had seen and heard. But Miss Grief's eyes were full
of life, and as I sat down beside her she whispered earnestly, "Tell
me."
And I did tell her--a romance invented for the occasion. I venture to
say that none of my published sketches could compare with it. As for
the lie involved, it will stand among my few good deeds; I know, at the
judgment-bar.
And she was satisfied. "I have never known what it was," she whispered,
"to be fully happy until now." She closed her eyes, and when the lids
fell I again thought that she had passed away. But no, there was still
pulsation in her small, thin wrist. As she perceived my touch she
smiled. "Yes, I am happy," she said again, though without audible
sound.
The old aunt returned; food was prepared, and she took some. I myself
went out after wine that should be rich and pure. She rallied a little,
but I did not leave her: her eyes dwelt upon me and compelled me to
stay, or rather my conscience compelled me. It was a damp night, and I
had a little fire made. The wine, fruit, flowers, and candles I had
ordered made the bare place for the time being bright and fragrant.
Aunt Martha dozed in her chair from sheer fatigue--she had watched many
nights--but Miss Grief was awake, and I sat beside her.
"I make you my executor," she murmured, "as to the drama. But my other
manuscripts place, when I am gone, under my head, and let them be
buried with me. They are not many--those you have and these. See!"
I followed her gesture, and saw under her pillows the edges of two more
copybooks like the one I had. "Do not look at them--my poor dead
children!" she said tenderly. "Let them depart with me--unread, as I
have been."
Later she whispered, "Did you wonder why I came to you? It was the
contrast. You were young--strong--rich--praised--loved--successful: all
that I was not. I wanted to look at you--and imagine how it would feel.
You had success--but I had the greater power. Tell me, did I not have
it?"
"Yes, Aaronna."
"It is all in the past now. But I am satisfied."
After another pause she said with a faint smile, "Do you remember when
I fell asleep in your parlor? It was the good and rich food. It was so
long since I had had food like that!"
I took her hand and held it, conscience-stricken, but now she hardly
seemed to perceive my touch. "And the smoking?" she whispered. "Do you
remember how you laughed? I saw it. But I had heard that smoking
soothed--that one was no longer tired and hungry--with a cigar."
In little whispers of this sort, separated by long rests and pauses,
the night passed. Once she asked if her aunt was asleep, and when I
answered in the affirmative she said, "Help her to return home--to
America: the drama will pay for it. I ought never to have brought her
away."