"No—I see." She seemed completely stunned by this fresh blow.
Mrs. Parsley rose to go.
"Now, Miriam dear, just turn things quietly over in your own mind—I must go before it gets any later, I've lots of things to do, and I want very much to catch the five o'clock. There's nothing to worry about for the moment. Only we must act rightly and circumspectly, that's all. You know, dear, I would not be the one to bring more trouble upon you. I want to lighten what exists. Now don't be silly, there's a dear girl." Then she kissed her and hurried away.
From the window Miriam watched her slopping through the rain with her vigorous stride and her skirts half way up to her knees. She thought what a good creature she was—almost the only friend she had in the world; almost, because there was one other, whom she felt she could trust with her life. He would surely help her now, as he had always been ready to help her in the past.
Sick at heart she returned to her chair by the fire, and meditated on this new trouble which threatened her. And the more she thought the more bewildered she seemed to become. A knock at the door roused her. Would that girl ever learn to answer the bell within five minutes of its being rung? At last her mind was put at rest, for the Major, looking very much himself, was shown into the room.
"I've come to see if you'll take pity on me, Mrs. Arkel," he said, "so far as to give me a morsel of dinner. I've taken what the Scotch call a 'scunner' at my club."
"Of course I will, though I fear it will be little more than a morsel," replied Miriam. "Put your hat and coat in the hall—I'm so glad you've come."
This was sweet music to the Major's ears. But he noticed she seemed nervous and not quite herself.
"Nothing wrong, I hope," he said.
"Yes, indeed; very little's right," sighed Miriam, "but you mustn't tempt me to begin pouring my troubles into your ears directly you enter the door."