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 couldn't 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, Winii;red!" 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:
"The cold, hard truth is this, Winifred: I never touched the keys of a piano in my life until an hour ago. I remember being drawn irresistibly to the instrument. What happened afterward I don't know. The first thing that I can recall was being hit in the head with some fool woman's bouquet. I remember saying, 'No flowers, please,' in a silly kind of way, but what it all meant I didn't know, and I don't know now. Do you?"
I sat speechless, gazing at Tom in bewilderment. He had never, in the twelve years of our betrothal and marriage, told me an untruth. I had often caught myself envying women whose husbands spiced the realism of domestic life with a romantic tale now and again. I know a woman who derives great intellectual enjoyment from cross-questioning her lesser half every twenty-four hours in an effort to prove that nature designed her for a clever detective. She would have drooped and died had she married Tom.
As I watched his honest face, pale now and careworn, I realized that I was confronted by two explanations of the present crisis, either one of which was inconceivable. Tom had told me a deliberate lie, or a miracle, to use an unscientific word, had been wrought through forces the existence of which I had always denied.
"No, Tom, I don't know what it means," I answered presently. "How did you happen to choose the Chopin ballad for your début?"
I had not intended to hurt the poor fellow's feelings, but the change in his expression from weariness to wonderment filled me with remorse.
"I didn't choose anything," he muttered, reproachfully. "If I made an ass of myself, Winifred, I was not responsible. What the deuce did I do? You haven't told me—and I don't know."
By an effort of will I controlled the nervous chill that was threatening me, and said, quietly:
"Tom, you played Chopin's Ballad No. 3, Opus 47, in a way that would have satisfied Chopin himself. No performer living could have equaled your rendition. It was masterly."