Standing erect abruptly, Tom cast a defiant glance at the chattering throng behind me and hurriedly made his way through a side door from the music-room. As I turned away from the piano I saw that Signorina Molatti's eyes were fixed upon his retreating figure with an expression that my worldly wisdom could not interpret. There was more of wonder than of admiration in her gaze, a gleam of questioning and longing that might, it seemed to me, readily flame into hot anger.
CHAPTER II.
REMSEN CONFRONTS A MYSTERY.
From memories that come not and go not;
Like music once heard by an ear
That cannot forget or reclaim it;
A something so shy it would shame it
To make it a show.
JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL.
After saying good-night to the last of my guests, who had expressed regret at the rumor that my husband was seriously indisposed, I hurried to the smoking-room, having learned that Tom had fled thither as a refuge from the curious and the congratulatory. As I came upon him he was alternately puffing a cigar and sipping a brandy-and-soda. On the instant the conflicting emotions that had beset me during the evening became a wave of anger, sweeping over me with irresistible force.
"Why have you deceived me, Tom Remsen?" I cried, sinking into a chair and resting my aching head against its back, as I scanned his pale, weary countenance attentively. "You have always pretended that you had no knowledge of music. I have heard you say that you could not whistle even a bar of 'Yankee Doodle' correctly. What a poseur you have been! And to-night, in a vulgar, theatrical way you suddenly exhibit the most astonishing talent. There is not an amateur in the world, Tom, who can interpret Chopin with such sympathy, such perfection of technique, such reserved power as you displayed this evening. You have placed me in a ridiculous position, and I can't conceive of any reasonable motive for your unnatural reticence. Why, Tom--answer me!--why have you concealed from me the fact that you are an accomplished--yes, a brilliant musician? Think of all the pleasure that we have lost in the last ten years by your deception and falsehoods--for that's what they were, Tom!" My voice broke a little, and I felt the tears creeping toward my eyes. "You have been cruel, Tom! Knowing my passionate love for music, why did you choose to hide a talent that would have drawn us so close together? And your revelation! It was the very refinement of brutality, Tom Remsen, to place me in such an awkward attitude! How could I explain my ignorance of your genius to our friends? They must consider me either a fool or a liar. As for what they think of you, Tom--"
"Stop it, Winifred!" cried my husband, hoarsely, putting up a hand protestingly. "I've had enough. I can't stand anything more to-night. If I tried to tell you the truth you wouldn't believe it, so you'd better leave me. I'll smoke another cigar. I'll never get to sleep again, I fear."
His last words sounded like a groan. My mood was softened by his evident distress.
"Do try to tell me the truth, Tom," I said, gently. "I'll believe what you say. There's a difference between positive and negative lying. I don't think you'd tell me a deliberate falsehood, Tom."
There was something in his appearance at this moment that suggested to me a wounded animal at bay. Presently he lighted a fresh cigar, and gazing at me steadily, said: