V
It was nothing—nothing at all—for Olive to give up the hope of seeing Mr. Martin again. Twice only had her eyes rested upon his jolly, sunburned face, and it ought to have been very easy to forget that. His letters she had never seen, so they were surely nothing to think about. Altogether, he and his letters were only the briefest sort of episode in a life that might go on for thirty, forty, even fifty years longer.
She had so much to be thankful for—a good position, a comfortable home, and the immeasurable gratitude and devotion of her friend. Well, to be sure, she was as quietly good-tempered as usual, and gave no sign that she had not forgotten the whole thing; yet Miss Torrance knew that Olive hadn’t forgotten.
She could read it in the girl’s face, and she could read it in her own heart. She could understand how Olive felt about her lost Mr. Martin. She understood very well what it was to remember one face, one voice, so constantly that all others were a weariness.
“It really is like that!” she sometimes said to herself, with a sort of awe. “I didn’t believe it, but it’s true!”
She never spoke about this to Olive, nor did she think it necessary to tell her that a week after they left the boarding house[Pg 190] she had returned there, to see Mr. Robertson, and to get from him the address of the roving Mr. Martin. Mr. Robertson had gone away, the landlady didn’t know where, so Miss Torrance was spared that humiliation, and had no inclination to mention it. She had done away with the young man so effectively that now, when she would have given her right hand to get him back for Olive, she couldn’t find him.
She tried her very best to atone. She no longer attempted to interfere in Olive’s affairs, for she no longer felt herself supremely competent to manage other people’s affairs. Indeed, the poor little woman was sometimes so subdued, so crushed by remorse, that it was all Olive could do to enliven her.
There were times when Olive found it rather a strain to enliven any one, when she would have welcomed any one who would perform that kind office for her. To-day was one of those days. The work in the office had been very heavy, and the weather was warm and sultry. She wanted to go home and rest, and yet she was reluctant to enter the new boarding house, so discouragingly like the old one.
She closed the front door behind her, and sighed. The servant had forgotten to light the gas, and the hall was inky black. There wasn’t a sound in the house, and the only sign of life was a steamy smell of rice and mutton ascending from the basement.
Olive was about to go upstairs when the doorbell rang furiously, and she thought she would wait and see what it meant. There might be a telegram for herself. She knew of no living person to send her one, but still, who knows what may happen?
Anyhow, she lit the gas herself, and pretended to be looking at the letters on the rack. She heard the maid coming up the basement stairs. The bell rang again, louder and longer.
“Mercy on us!” said the servant. “You’d think it was a fire!” She opened the door, and in came a man, in great haste.
“Miss Torrance!” he said. “I want to see Miss Torrance at once!”
“She ain’t in,” said the maid, as if pleased.
“Look here!” said the stranger. “I made them tell me at her office where she lived, and this is the place, and I’m going to see her!”
“She ain’t—” the servant began again, when Olive stepped forward.
“Will I do?” she asked.
“You!” he cried.
Olive was not so much startled as he, because she had been looking at Mr. Martin ever since he entered. Nor did she seem pleased. Mr. Martin had apparently come here filled with rage against her Miss Torrance, and that she would not tolerate.
“What was it you wanted?” she inquired coldly.
“I came,” said Mr. Martin firmly, “about this story—in this magazine. It’s—it’s an outrage!”
“Oh!” cried Olive. “Oh! The—the story?”
He looked at her sternly, yet with a sort of compassion.
“Do you mean that you know about it?” he asked.
“Yes,” said Olive, in a faint little voice. “But—I didn’t think it was so—so bad.”
Mr. Martin looked at her with growing horror.
“Look here!” he said. “You don’t mean—you can’t mean—it was signed with a man’s name, but I felt sure Miss Torrance wrote it, because it’s based on a story I told her myself, about Robertson. I called him ‘Smith,’ but I suppose she knew all the time—”
“No!” Olive interposed. “No! Mr. Martin, I’m awfully sorry, but—I wrote that story!”
“What? You?”
“I’m awfully sorry,” Olive said again, and she looked so. “You see, Mr. Robertson told me the story himself, and he didn’t say that it wasn’t to be used.”
“Naturally he didn’t. It never entered his head that you would—”
“But, you see, I didn’t mean—I didn’t think—I only thought it was funny.”
“Funny!” cried Mr. Martin, all his indignation returning. “You thought it was funny to say—wait a minute!” He pulled a magazine out of his pocket and turned the pages. “This!” he said in a terrible voice. “You say, ‘The man went bowed under the weight of his infidelity. False to his duty, false to his inmost self, he—’”
“I didn’t!”
“Here it is in black and white. ‘Raising his glass in his shaking hand, he drank again, his bleared eyes peering—’”
“I did not!” cried Olive.
“You’ve made him out a drunken old beach comber—Robertson, the finest fellow who ever lived! You’ve got all the[Pg 191] facts there—any one could recognize ’em. You say—”
Olive could endure no more of this nightmare. She snatched the magazine out of his hands. “Remorse,” the story was called, and the author’s name was given as “John Hunt.” She suddenly collapsed upon the bottom step of the stairs.
For a moment the young man remained the just and stern judge. Then he bent over her and said, in a voice of quite human solicitude:
“I’m—perhaps you didn’t realize. Look here—I wish I hadn’t said all that! I’m—please don’t cry!”
“I’m not crying,” replied Olive, in a stifled voice. “Please forgive me! It really isn’t funny, but—oh, oh, I just can’t help it!”
He bent nearer.
“Are you laughing?” he demanded incredulously.
“Oh, please forgive me! It’s horrible, but—I’ll stop in a moment. You see, that awful story is Miss Torrance’s, but I wrote a story, too—only mine was better, I think, and funnier. You see, we both—”
“You and Miss Torrance each wrote a story about Robertson?”
“Yes, both of us, and neither of us knew. Oh, imagine the editors, and Miss Torrance, and poor Mr. Robertson, and you, and me—”
“Personally, I don’t see anything—” he began in a frigid tone, but it was of no use.
The dull, dingy old house rang with his great, hearty laugh.