Phases of an Inferior Planet Part 47

Miss Ramsey raised the wick of the lamp, yawned behind her hand, and came to where Mariana was standing.

"Are you tired?" she asked. "The opera was very long."

Mariana started and looked at her.

"You poor little thing," she said. "It half killed you. No, don't go.

Sit down for a moment. I want to talk to you."

As she spoke she unfastened her gown, slipped it off, and threw it across a chair. Then she put on a wrapper of white flannel, and, seating herself on the rug before the fire, loosened her heavy hair.

"I want to talk," she repeated.

Miss Ramsey drew a chair beside her and sat down. She laid her hand on Mariana's hair.

"Shall I braid it?" she asked.

Mariana shook her head.

"I don't want you to wait on me," she replied, half pettishly. "Janet can do that. I want you to love me."

Miss Ramsey smiled.

"How shall I begin?" she inquired.

But Mariana was silent, staring moodily into the fire, where the ruddy coals a.s.sumed sharp and bizarre designs. As the light flickered over her face it brought out the changes in her eyes and the warmth of her mouth.

"Do you see that head in the fire?" she asked, suddenly. "It is the head of the Sphinx--and before it there is a burning desert--do you see?"

Then she laid her head in Miss Ramsey's lap, and her voice sounded faint and far off.

"I want to be told that I am good," she said; "that I have been good all my life--that I am a saint, like that splendid creature who came to speak to me to-night. Am I as good as she?"

"I do not know her," responded Miss Ramsey.

Mariana raised her eyes to her face.

"Am I like I used to be--at The Gotham?"

Miss Ramsey smiled.

"You are older."

"And wiser?"

"I don't think you will ever be wise, my dear."

"I am afraid not," said Mariana. "I am wedded to folly." Then she sighed softly. "Am I better?" she asked.

"You are very good to me."

"Am I better--to look at?"

Miss Ramsey shook her head gently.

"Dress makes a good deal of difference," she returned, presently.

Mariana rose and kissed her good-night.

"Sleep well," she said. "And don't make your bed in the morning--please don't. Yes, I am very sleepy."

But when the door had closed after Miss Ramsey she sat looking into the grate until the crimson coals had waned to livid ashes. The room grew cold and the shadows deepened in the folds of the curtains at the windows, which were stirred by a faint draught. From the street below an occasional noise rose, vague, unseizable--the roll of a wagon or the tramp of a pa.s.ser-by upon the sidewalk. In a distant room a clock struck twice, with a soft whirring sound. From her gown, thrown across the back of a chair, the bruised violets diffused a fading sweetness. The embers waned one by one, and the visions in the fire grew spectral, like living faces which the warm blood forsakes. As the last one died she rose and went to bed.

When she awoke in the morning it was to find Miss Ramsey standing beside her, holding her breakfast-tray.

"You were sleeping very soundly," she said. "Did you have a good night?"

"Oh yes," Mariana responded. She yawned and turned upon the pillows, stretching her arms above her head. The lace on her sleeves fell away from her bare elbows.

"I slept very soundly, and I am sleepy still. The mere fact of getting up in the morning makes life a failure. Until I have had my bath I am always a pessimist."

She sat up drowsily, running her hands through her hair. Then she turned to her tea, which was placed on a table beside her.

"There are your violets also," remarked Miss Ramsey, pointing to a couple of florist's boxes; and, as an afterthought, she added: "Men are odd creatures."

Mariana laughed.

"Oh, they imagine that they are laying up treasures on earth," she answered, stirring her tea. "And they have overlooked the fact that moths corrupt. I shall advise them to transfer their attentions to Heaven. Who was it that called me 'unpropitious'?"

"I don't like it," said Miss Ramsey. "I may be old-fas.h.i.+oned, but I don't approve of married men living as if they had no responsibilities."

"Nor do I," agreed Mariana. "It bores one awfully."

"And it makes people say unkind things of you, my dear. It is so hard for them to draw the distinction between imprudence and infamy."

"Yes," admitted Mariana, pus.h.i.+ng her cup aside. "I suppose it is--and I suppose I am imprudent."

"I wish you would try to be a little more careful."

Mariana caught her hand and pulled her down on the bed beside her.

"What a treasure you are!" she said. "Do you know you are the one woman I absolutely believe in? You might have made a fortune by reporting scandals about me, and you haven't done so."

The maid brought in several letters, and Mariana took them from her and broke the seals carelessly.

"Mr. Gore is coming forward again," she remarked, tossing an open sheet on the counterpane. "You knew he did not like that wors.h.i.+pful old uncle of his leaving me his property. He says it has made me too independent.

Well, it has made me independent of him, for which Heaven be praised.

When I heard of it I repeated the Thirty-nine Articles, fifty _Hail Mary's_, and as much of the Shorter Catechism as I could think of. I feel _so_ thankful."