|The passage was quite dark. From the end of it, directly behind me,
came the response, “Yes, Leonard.”
“Ah, you are there?” I questioned.
“I have been waiting for you to wake. I did not wish to disturb your
sleep,” she explained.
“And they--where are they now?”
“Mr. Fairchild is in the guest-chamber, where he is to sleep. Miriam is
in her room. I could not come to you so long as they were together. It
would not do to leave them alone. That is why I wrote the note.”
By this time we were between my own four walls, and I had closed the
door behind us.
“And now, for Heaven's sake, explain to me what this means,” I said,
holding up the sheet of paper.
“It means what it says. He has recognised Miriam.”
“Oh, it is impossible,” I declared.
“I only wish you were right,” sighed Josephine dolefully.
“But how--but why--but what--what makes you think so?” stammered I.
“His action when he first saw her--when she and t entered the room where
he was, to greet him, this forenoon.”
“Oh, it is impossible--impossible!” I repeated, helplessly. “What was
his action? What did he do?”
“He caught his breath, he started, he coloured up, and then turned
white, and then red again.”
“Merciful Heavens!” I gasped, panic-stricken.
“What shall we do? What can we do?” my poor sister groaned.
“Did--did Miriam notice his embarrassment?”
“I think not. She did not appear to, anyhow.”
There befell a pause, during which I tried to collect my wits, and to
reflect upon the situation.
“Well,” persisted Josephine, after the silence had continued for a
minute or two, “what shall we do?”
“It is impossible, it is absolutely impossible,” I said. “Her own mother
would be unable to recognise her. She is altered beyond recognition.
Why, that dead woman would by this time be nearly thirty years of age;
whereas Miriam doesn't look two-and-twenty. Besides, the whole character
and expression of her face are changed. There remain the same bony
structure and the same general complexion: that is all that remains the
same. Confess that the thing is impossible.”
“When he saw her, he started and coloured up.”
“Well, even so. What of it. He started and coloured up. What does that
prove? Perhaps it was because of her resemblance to the dead woman, whom
we will suppose him to have known. But as for identifying them as one
and the same, he'd never dream of it. A merry, innocent young girl, of
one or two-and-twenty, and a sad-eyed, sorrow-stricken, sinful woman,
eight years her senior! The thing is on the face of it absurd. Absurd,
too, is the supposition that he ever knew Louise Massarte at all. He
started and coloured up at sight of Miriam, for the very simple reason
of her exceeding beauty. He is a young man, and he is an artist. What
quick-blooded young man, what artist, would not colour up at the sight
of so beautiful a girl? Or else, it is imaginable, he has seen Miriam
herself somewhere before--in the street, in an omnibus, or where
not--and has been impressed by her loveliness; and then he started for
surprise and pleasure at finding himself under the same roof with
her. You, my good Josephine, you have jumped to a most unwarranted
conclusion. Your fear was the father of your thought.--Afterwards, for
instance? Did he follow up his start with such conduct as was calculated
to justify you in your suspicion?”
“No. He simply returned our salutations, and behaved toward her as he
did toward me--as if she were a perfectly new acquaintance.”
“Good! And then, consider the freedom and the nonchalance with which he
talked to her at luncheon. No, no; it is impossible. Well, I will keep
an eye upon him during dinner. And when you and Miriam leave us to our
cigars, I'll seek to find out what the true explanation of the matter
may be.”
And my sister and I descended to the drawing-room.