The piano-pounding continued and I waited for what
seemed an interminable time. It was growing dark and
a maid lighted the oil lamps. I took a book from the
table. It was The Life of Benvenuto Cellini and "Marian
Devereux" was written on the fly leaf, by unmistakably
the same hand that penned the apology for
Olivia's performances. I saw in the clear flowing lines
of the signature, in their lack of superfluity, her own
ease, grace and charm; and, in the deeper stroke with
which the x was crossed, I felt a challenge, a readiness
to abide by consequences once her word was given.
Then my own inclination to think well of her angered
me. It was only a pretty bit of chirography, and I
dropped the book impatiently when I heard her step
on the threshold.
"I am sorry to have kept you waiting, Mr. Glenarm.
But this is my busy hour."
"I shall not detain you long. I came,"-I hesitated,
not knowing why I had come.
She took a chair near the open door and bent forward
with an air of attention that was disquieting. She
wore black-perhaps to fit her the better into the house
of a somber Sisterhood. I seemed suddenly to remember
her from a time long gone, and the effort of memory
threw me off guard. Stoddard had said there were
several Olivia Armstrongs; there were certainly many
Marian Devereuxs. The silence grew intolerable; she
was waiting for me to speak, and I blurted: "I suppose you have come to take charge of the property."
"Do you?" she asked.
"And you came back with the executor to facilitate
matters. I'm glad to see that you lose no time."
"Oh!" she said lingeringly, as though she were finding
with difficulty the note in which I wished to pitch
the conversation. Her calmness was maddening.
"I suppose you thought it unwise to wait for the
bluebird when you had beguiled me into breaking a
promise, when I was trapped, defeated,-"
Her elbow on the arm of the chair, her hand resting
against her check, the light rippling goldenly in her
hair, her eyes bent upon me inquiringly, mournfully,-
mournfully, as I had seen them-where?-once before!
My heart leaped in that moment, with that thought.
"I remember now the first time!" I exclaimed, more
angry than I had ever been before in my life.
"That is quite remarkable," she said, and nodded her
head ironically.
"It was at Sherry's; you were with Pickering-you
dropped your fan and he picked it up, and you turned
toward me for a moment. You were in black that
night; it was the unhappiness in your face, in your
eyes, that made me remember."
I was intent upon the recollection, eager to fix and
establish it.
"You are quite right. It was at Sherry's. I was
wearing black then; many things made me unhappy
that night."