Stories by American Authors | Page 7

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