But he was only partially right, for when I left that room he understood several things. He banged the door shut, and then seated himself at his writing table, leaving me to stand at his opposite side, as a culprit stands before a judge. I looked at him and saw all the narrow, gray man’s meanness, his eager curiosity that was like that of a scandal-monger’s. Yet, I gave him one chance, for when he demanded: “Well, now, Miss?” I said: “Mr. Hyler, you _must_ know, there is nothing wrong about dear Miss Linda’s kind message to me--she simply--” “Stop, where you are!” he cried. “I’ll have no prevarication! Where there is secrecy there is shame! No one ever conceals what is right! I’ll have the truth, now, and the meaning of this message!”
And I answered: “Yes, sir, you shall have the truth!” and I told him briefly of Miss Linda’s silent singing, and of her undying sorrow for her lost lover. As I spoke, utter amazement grew upon his face--he stammered out: “Why--why--what are you saying? She never spoke of him! Why--nearly three years had passed--since--since--the--r--the break--and ’er--you don’t know what you are talking about--she did not grieve!”
“Oh, yes, she did!” I tranquilly replied. “That was why she would never have a light in her room at night for fear the picture might be seen. She slept with it beneath her cheek, and washed it with her tears, and dried it with her kisses. Oh, yes, she grieved!”
His eyes began to look sunken and his face was working convulsively. Then I told him how I had found the picture and wrapped it in a handkerchief and had given it silently to her in his presence, and she had been grateful, not because she was ashamed of her love or her sorrow, but because she wished to spare him suffering. And with his clenched fist he struck the table, blow after blow, crying furiously: “You lie--you baggage--you lie!” Then suddenly turning his trembling hands palms upward, he pleaded: “Carrie--tell me that you lie!” But coldly I answered: “I do not lie at all, sir--and you know I do not--besides, here are dear Miss Linda’s very own words: ‘Every day of my life I lose my love--and every day the pain is fresh and new!’”
His eyes roamed from side to side--little bubbles formed in the corners of his lips, his hand went up to his throat and tried to loosen his collar, and I could just hear the whispered words that left his lips: “Linda--Linda--Linda!” and then, I struck my last blow at him. (Oh, Miss Linda, to-day, I ask your pardon, but then I was hard and pitiless, as only the very young can be.) And I went coldly on: “She said to me, she did not wish you to know of her sorrow, because, _perhaps_”--I leaned on the table and brought myself nearer to him--“_perhaps_ you _might_ feel remorse!”