Stories by American Authors | Page 4

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