“There never had been any great exchange of confidences between Ada and me since our school-days. I could have told her a great deal about the ways of men,—you see,” the narrator hastened to add, “I had been a very good observer, and had learned some things that it is to the advantage of every girl to know. I mean, you understand, about love. It is only people with a silly view of that subject that ever get into trouble. Girls of Ada’s disposition have no sense; they invariably suffer through lack of perception and strength.
“Although I did not see much of her, it at last became evident that something serious was the matter. Her manner became softer and gentler, her sympathies were keener, and there was a light in her eyes that an observing woman cannot misunderstand. I was somewhat older than she, and that gave me an advantage in the plan that I decided upon; but of greater advantage was her reliance upon me. It was necessary that I should gain her full confidence, as I didn’t wish to take any step in the dark, nor one that might have proved useless. You will understand that in all I afterward did and caused to be done I acted solely from a regard for her welfare. I believed that she had formed an attachment for this—this fiddler—bah! Everything in me revolts when I think of it. Here was a girl that was pretty, sweet, gracious, the soul of trust and fidelity, ready to throw herself away upon an unspeakable fiddler! And there was no excuse whatever for it. A score of men adored her,—men of her own station in life,—men of wealth, men of culture, men of strength and character, men of birth, men of consequence in the world. Incredible as it may seem, they passed over other girls far more capable in every way, and sighed for this shy violet.
“I knew that there was something wrong in her refusal to accept the attentions of any of them. I knew that her inherited tastes, the examples all around her, and her natural regard for the wishes of her parents and friends, ought to have induced her to give her affections to a man worthy of her. I determined to find out what that obstacle was; and it was solely for her own good that I did so. I knew that if she married this—this low musician, her life would be filled with bitterness, disappointment, and regrets. I knew that she would soon come to be ashamed of the alliance. I knew——”
“How did you know all that?” came in a voice so strange, so constrained, so distant, that she turned in wonder toward her host. He sat looking into the fire, the ruddy glow of which concealed the death-like pallor that during the last few minutes had been deepening in his face.
“How did I know it?” she responded in surprise. “That is a singular question from one who ought to be as well aware of it as I.”
He made no reply, and she turned her head to the window and watched the snow steadily rebuilding the bank that her host had so recently cleared away.
“Perhaps,” she remarked, with a slight sneer, “you asked that question to get an argument with me, for I have heard you express romantic and sentimental views on the subject of love. But of one thing I am confident: I know that you have been a man of the world, and that you understand life and human nature; and I know that while men like to assume a sentimental attitude toward love, it is merely a pose. I will not argue the matter with you. You know as well as I that such a marriage would have been a fatal mistake.”
She said this in a hard, emphatic way that indicated her desire to end the discussion. Then she resumed her story.
“I got into her confidence by professing sympathy with her, and adopting her point of view,—by anticipating it, I mean, for she was too guarded to disclose it. The poor little idiot fell into the trap. She had been carrying her secret for months, and the burden of it was wearing her out. You know, a nature of that kind must have sympathy, must have some one to listen, must have a confidant. She had not dared to trust her parents, for she knew that they would put a stop to her folly. When she found, as she thought, that I was in full sympathy with her, she laid her poor foolish heart completely open. And what do you think she was going to do?”
She turned toward her host as she asked the question, and found him still sitting immovable and looking into the fire. He seemed not to have heard her, for he made no answer; and his stony silence and stillness gave her a strange sensation that might have weighed more with her had she not been so deeply interested in her narrative, and so well satisfied with her part in its happenings. She turned her glance again toward the window, and resumed: