Stories by American Authors | Page 3

beginning. Her voice was clear, low, and very sweet
as she thus enumerated my advantages one by one in a list. I was
attracted by it, but repelled by her words, which seemed to me flattery
both dull and bold.
"Thanks," I said, "for your kindness, but I fear it is undeserved. I
seldom discuss myself even when with my friends."
"I am your friend," replied Miss Grief. Then, after a moment, she added
slowly, "I have read every word you have written."
I curled the edges of my book indifferently; I am not a fop, I hope,
but--others have said the same.
"What is more, I know much of it by heart," continued my visitor.
"Wait: I will show you;" and then, without pause, she began to repeat
something of mine word for word, just as I had written it. On she went,
and I--listened. I intended interrupting her after a moment, but I did not,
because she was reciting so well, and also because I felt a desire
gaining upon me to see what she would make of a certain conversation
which I knew was coming--a conversation between two of my

characters which was, to say the least, sphinx-like, and somewhat
incandescent as well. What won me a little, too, was the fact that the
scene she was reciting (it was hardly more than that, though called a
story) was secretly my favorite among all the sketches from my pen
which a gracious public has received with favor. I never said so, but it
was; and I had always felt a wondering annoyance that the aforesaid
public, while kindly praising beyond their worth other attempts of mine,
had never noticed the higher purpose of this little shaft, aimed not at the
balconies and lighted windows of society, but straight up toward the
distant stars. So she went on, and presently reached the conversation:
my two people began to talk. She had raised her eyes now, and was
looking at me soberly as she gave the words of the woman, quiet,
gentle, cold, and the replies of the man, bitter, hot, and scathing. Her
very voice changed, and took, though always sweetly, the different
tones required, while no point of meaning, however small, no breath of
delicate emphasis which I had meant, but which the dull types could
not give, escaped an appreciative and full, almost overfull, recognition
which startled me. For she had understood me--understood me almost
better than I had understood myself. It seemed to me that while I had
labored to interpret, partially, a psychological riddle, she, coming after,
had comprehended its bearings better than I had, though confining
herself strictly to my own words and emphasis. The scene ended (and it
ended rather suddenly), she dropped her eyes, and moved her hand
nervously to and fro over the box she held; her gloves were old and
shabby, her hands small.
I was secretly much surprised by what I had heard, but my ill-humor
was deep-seated that day, and I still felt sure, besides, that the box
contained something which I was expected to buy.
"You recite remarkably well," I said carelessly, "and I am much
flattered also by your appreciation of my attempt. But it is not, I
presume, to that alone that I owe the pleasure of this visit?"
"Yes," she answered, still looking down, "it is, for if you had not
written that scene I should not have sought you. Your other sketches
are interiors--exquisitely painted and delicately finished, but of small

scope. This is a sketch in a few bold, masterly lines--work of entirely
different spirit and purpose."
I was nettled by her insight. "You have bestowed so much of your kind
attention upon me that I feel your debtor," I said, conventionally. "It
may be that there is something I can do for you--connected, possibly,
with that little box?"
It was impertinent, but it was true; for she answered, "Yes."
I smiled, but her eyes were cast down and she did not see the smile.
"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