Stories by American Authors | Page 2

visitor so cavalierly if I had not felt
sure that she was eccentric and unconventional--qualities extremely
tiresome in a woman no longer young or attractive. If she were not
eccentric she would not have persisted in coming to my door day after
day in this silent way, without stating her errand, leaving a note, or
presenting her credentials in any shape. I made up my mind that she
had something to sell--a bit of carving or some intaglio supposed to be
antique. It was known that I had a fancy for oddities. I said to myself,
"She has read or heard of my 'Old Gold' story, or else 'The Buried God,'
and she thinks me an idealizing ignoramus upon whom she can impose.
Her sepulchral name is at least not Italian; probably she is a sharp
countrywoman of mine, turning, by means of the present æsthetic craze,
an honest penny when she can."
She had called seven times during a period of two weeks without
seeing me, when one day I happened to be at home in the afternoon,
owing to a pouring rain and a fit of doubt concerning Miss
Abercrombie. For I had constructed a careful theory of that young
lady's characteristics in my own mind, and she had lived up to it
delightfully until the previous evening, when with one word she had
blown it to atoms and taken flight, leaving me standing, as it were, on a
desolate shore, with nothing but a handful of mistaken inductions
wherewith to console myself. I do not know a more exasperating frame
of mind, at least for a constructor of theories. I could not write, and so I
took up a French novel (I model myself a little on Balzac). I had been
turning over its pages but a few moments when Simpson knocked, and,
entering softly, said, with just a shadow of a smile on his well-trained
face, "Miss Grief." I briefly consigned Miss Grief to all the Furies, and
then, as he still lingered--perhaps not knowing where they resided--I
asked where the visitor was.
"Outside, sir--in the hall. I told her I would see if you were at home."
"She must be unpleasantly wet if she had no carriage."
"No carriage, sir: they always come on foot. I think she is a little damp,
sir."

"Well, let her in; but I don't want the maid. I may as well see her now, I
suppose, and end the affair."
"Yes, sir."
I did not put down my book. My visitor should have a hearing, but not
much more: she had sacrificed her womanly claims by her persistent
attacks upon my door. Presently Simpson ushered her in. "Miss Grief,"
he said, and then went out, closing the curtain behind him.
A woman--yes, a lady--but shabby, unattractive, and more than
middle-aged.
I rose, bowed slightly, and then dropped into my chair again, still
keeping the book in my hand. "Miss Grief?" I said interrogatively as I
indicated a seat with my eyebrows.
"Not Grief," she answered--"Crief: my name is Crief."
She sat down, and I saw that she held a small flat box.
"Not carving, then," I thought--"probably old lace, something that
belonged to Tullia or Lucrezia Borgia." But as she did not speak I
found myself obliged to begin: "You have been here, I think, once or
twice before?"
"Seven times; this is the eighth."
A silence.
"I am often out; indeed, I may say that I am never in," I remarked
carelessly.
"Yes; you have many friends."
"--Who will perhaps buy old lace," I mentally added. But this time I too
remained silent; why should I trouble myself to draw her out? She had
sought me; let her advance her idea, whatever it was, now that entrance
was gained.

But Miss Grief (I preferred to call her so) did not look as though she
could advance anything; her black gown, damp with rain, seemed to
retreat fearfully to her thin self, while her thin self retreated as far as
possible from me, from the chair, from everything. Her eyes were cast
down; an old-fashioned lace veil with a heavy border shaded her face.
She looked at the floor, and I looked at her.
I grew a little impatient, but I made up my mind that I would continue
silent and see how long a time she would consider necessary to give
due effect to her little pantomime. Comedy? Or was it tragedy? I
suppose full five minutes passed thus in our double silence; and that is
a long time when two persons are sitting opposite each other alone in a
small still room.
At last my visitor, without raising her eyes, said slowly, "You are very
happy, are you not, with youth, health, friends, riches, fame?"
It was a singular