Miss Ayr of Virginia
& Other Stories

Miss Ayr of Virginia
& Other Stories

BY
Julia Magruder
AUTHOR OF “THE VIOLET”
“THE PRINCESS SONIA”

CHICAGO
HERBERT S. STONE & CO.
MDCCCXCVI

CONTENTS

Miss Ayr of Virginia

Miss Ayr of Virginia

When Miss Ayr of Virginia came down to take her place on the coach for the races, in company with her cousins, the Miss Ayrs of New York, there was a discrepancy between the former and the latter which could scarcely have failed to attract attention. It could not be denied that the advantage was on the side of the last-named ladies, though Miss Ayr of Virginia was exquisite, and they were plain.

Compared with such costumes as they wore, however, such chic, such height, such distinguished bearing, what was mere beauty? The little country girl, with her village-made costume, just saved from absolute dowdiness by a few touches from her cousins’ maid (which she had inwardly resented), was certainly a fish out of water in that jaunty party; and in her wretched little soul she felt it.

Moreover, her dress was not only countrified, it was unbecoming. Its style of construction quite disguised her slight and charming figure, and her hat was as complete a handicap for a beautiful face as could well have been invented.

She did not realize this, not having as yet entirely lost her buoyant belief in herself, which was one result of her being an only child and the spoiled darling of her father, besides being the recognized belle of her county. What she did realize, however, was that these fashionable cousins of hers found her a nuisance, and that the invitation which she had received from their father would never have come from themselves.

The Miss Ayrs of New York were partly right in what they said of their cousin, namely, that she had been badly brought up. This fact might possibly have been overlooked on the score of her having lost her mother in childhood, but for the other fact, that the Miss Ayrs of New York were in the same case, and yet felt proudly conscious that they could challenge the world as to their unimpeachable good form. There was one important difference between the two families, however. The Ayrs of New York were rich, while the Ayrs of Virginia were poor. The war, which had caused the impoverishment of the latter branch of the family was not yet so far back in the past but that days of opulence and ease could yet be remembered, even by this sole representative in the present generation, Miss Carter Ayr, who, now for the first time emerged from the safety and seclusion of her beloved South, was come to taste the delights of a season in New York.

The two brothers, who were the respective heads of the families, had both been left widowers, and neither of them had re-married; but John Ayr of New York had been able to give his daughters the very best that money could do for them, in the way of governesses and chaperonage and foreign travel, while Henry Ayr of Virginia had had to content himself with the ministrations of a gentle, old-maid cousin, who had been governess and chaperon in one, and had let Carter grow up much as she chose—a fact which had not in the least interfered with her father’s complete satisfaction with her.

There were three Miss Ayrs of New York, and they were all tall, and imposing, and perfectly dressed. They were particularly showy for an occasion such as the present, which was, perhaps, one reason why Jim Stafford, the young bachelor millionaire to whom all society did reverence, had invited all three of them to go out on his coach to-day. Jim was a very good-natured fellow, however, and often did things with no other prompting than that quality, and so, when Mr. Ayr, hearing the matter discussed over night, and no provision made for Carter, had insisted that one of the girls should yield her place to her cousin, Jim had good-naturedly said there was room for all, and Mr. Ayr had decreed that Carter should go. He generally interfered very little, but his daughters knew that when he spoke he meant to be obeyed.

So, in this way, it happened that little Carter Ayr found herself in the midst of that fluttering, chattering, bantering party, whose jargon was wholly unfamiliar, and whose manner toward herself seemed to surround her with an atmosphere of chill and constraint.

As the female element was so largely supplied by the ladies Ayr, most of the strangers whom Carter saw about her were men. She had never seen such men as these before, except in a tailor’s picture-plate, and she felt rather a contempt for them, as country-bred people are apt to feel toward those who dress as they have neither the means nor the knowledge to dress. Carter, with her provincial prejudice against fastidiousness in dress, particularly on the part of men, now got some sense of inward support by adopting a supercilious criticism of the exquisitely cared for details of the costumes of these men. She had a standard in her little Southern heart by which she liked to believe that she measured these fashionable gentlemen into puniness.

In spite of all her loyalty to a very different type, she could not help feeling lonely and depressed, as she was assisted to mount to her high seat, while the grooms could hardly keep in check the impatience of the four superbly harnessed horses. Carter, who knew the points of a horse, thought the harness rather outdid the horses themselves, but what did her opinion amount to in this company, where she was so evidently a supernumerary and an incubus?

It was an uncommonly pretty foot that she put on the ladder to mount, but it had on a very bad shoe. Even the big and clumsy feet of her cousins contrasted favorably with it, for the reason that their shoes were of shiny patent leather, with sharply-pointed toes, which made her little blunt ones look somehow stunted and shabby. But then, again, she had reason to reflect that no one was noticing her!

Who has not felt a certain sense of pity on festal occasions, for the friend who is brought? That person seems, somehow, surrounded with a sort of blight among the others who have come by a process of natural selection.

But if any heart, under those fashionable habiliments, felt a tender sentiment for Carter, no one showed it. Jim Stafford, himself, was wholly occupied with handling the reins, as they drove through the crowded streets. The Misses Gladys, Ethel, and Rosamond Ayr were making themselves as painstakingly agreeable to the men beside them as if it had been their business to divert attention from all the others present, and the married woman, who was acting as chaperon to the party, was the most cold and unapproachable of the lot—or so Carter had concluded, when one of her cousins had given her a casual introduction to Mrs. Emory, as “Miss Ayr of Virginia.”

Somehow, the intonation with which it had been said had given an indefinable offense to Carter, and when other members of the party took it up and said:

“Help Miss Ayr of Virginia to her place,” or “Miss Ayr of Virginia comes next,” or “Don’t crowd Miss Ayr of Virginia,” though it was all said in an amiable way, Carter’s sense of resentment deepened. There seemed to be a certain disrespect to her beloved State implied, and that was more than she could calmly bear.

It was a new and exciting experience to her to be whirled through the thronged city streets, and gazed at by admiring crowds, upon whom she looked down from such a great height that it almost made her dizzy. If she had been in a congenial atmosphere, it would have been delightful, for she was inherently pleasure-loving, and her blood was young and ardent; but, as things were, everything seemed to add to her sense of loneliness and depression.

The sky had been overcast when they started out, but now, suddenly, the sun appeared, and with it came a little gleam across the shadows on Carter’s face. She had felt bitterly the fact that she was ill-dressed (though, at home, these clothes had seemed to her good enough for any company in the world!) but with the appearance of the sunshine she had remembered the one really incontrovertibly handsome and imposing thing which she possessed—an elegant parasol, which she had bought the day before at a very fashionable place, and for a price which a week ago would have frightened her. Her father had paid over to her a little legacy from an aunt, and she had intended to invest this in jewels or some permanent thing, but she had heard her cousin Gladys admire that parasol, and, needing one, she had boldly purchased it.

So, here, at least, she could be confident, and it was with an air of satisfaction that she now unfurled her gorgeous sun-shade, and let the full glory of its laces and ribbons float to the breeze.

The motion that it made attracted general attention to her, and simultaneously with this she heard Gladys say, in a voice of excited protest:

“For heaven’s sake, tell Carter to put down that parasol!”

The word was then passed to Ethel, who, in the same excited tone, passed it to the man seated next to Carter.

“Miss Ayr of Virginia is requested to lower her parasol,” he said, with more amiability in his manners than her two cousins had used.

Carter, who had heard the behest, when it had originated with her eldest cousin, did not at once succumb, but said, from under the flaunting glory of the proscribed article:

“Why?”

“Of course, coming from Virginia she didn’t know,” she heard her cousin saying in a tone of contemptuous extenuation, which she hotly resented.

No one had answered her question, however, and so turning to the woman who sat nearest to her—it happened to be Mrs. Emory—she said:

“Why shouldn’t I raise my parasol, if the sun is out?”

“It isn’t done,” was the answer, given curtly and coldly, and Mrs. Emory returned at once to her talk with her neighbor.

Carter, of course, furled her offending sun-shade, feeling snubbed and sore. It would have been childish and rude to persist, but she was not only hurt, but puzzled. Being from the rural regions she had not as her cousin suggested, any knowledge of the fact that it was not considered smart to raise a parasol on a coach. This sacred tenet was so strictly adhered to, however, that although it was a warm and dusty autumn day, the ladies endured the heat unmurmuringly, staring with haughty superiority at the coaches on which the people were pleasantly shaded by their parasols.

By the time the entrance to the race-course was reached, Carter was completely miserable. She despised the trivial conventions to which she saw such importance attached, and she had a sense of suppressed rage at being forced into an inferior position by people to whom she felt herself superior.

She was no more conceited than an only child, and an acknowledged belle and beauty might be excused for being, and she did know, in her heart, that she would have been incapable of treating the meanest slave on her father’s estate as unkindly as she felt that these people were treating her.

No one noticed her as they went bowling along in the crowded procession of vehicles, until, near the entrance, they came to a sudden halt, the carriage in front of them having halted also.

The footmen sprang down and went to the leaders’ heads, while necks were craned and eager questions put as to the cause of the blockade.

It was apparent enough. One of a pair of oxen, engaged in some heavy draught in connection with the preparing of the track and grounds, had fallen down, or else thrown itself down in a fit of sullenness and could not be got to move. The animal was strong and fat, and looked more obstinate than ill, but it was impossible not to feel pity for a creature so beaten and belabored and kicked, as it was, by the men about it. The thing had apparently been going on for some time, and the men looked as if their efforts were well-nigh exhausted.

Various suggestions were made and tried in vain. Many vehicles had emptied their passengers, and a crowd had gathered, while the ox, stubborn and defiant, still refused to budge.

The party on the coach, from their high position, could see all that was happening, and cries of distress soon began to rise from them.

“What are we to do?” “The creature hasn’t a notion of moving!” “We shall be kept here all day!” were some of the protesting remarks, through which a very sweetly modulated voice, with an accent so unlike theirs as to sound almost foreign, was heard to say:

“I could make it get up, in half a minute.”

“Hear! Hear!” cried Jim Stafford, turning toward the speaker, who was flushed, but perfectly composed. “Virginia to the rescue! Miss Ayr of Virginia undertakes to raise the stalled ox! Ten to one she does it!”

The bet was eagerly taken by another man, and Carter found herself the center of interest.

“Enter the field, Miss Ayr of Virginia,” said Jim Stafford. “Only explain your method of procedure, and I’m your backer. What do you propose to do?” And with the arrant childishness of the average pleasure-seeker all the men present became absorbed in this incident, which offered a new and unexpected diversion.

All the women, meantime, were looking at the young Southern girl with cold disapprobation.

“Now, Miss Ayr of Virginia,” said Jim Stafford, “give your orders. How do you propose to do it?”

“Could we possibly get some mud from anywhere?” asked Carter.

“Mud? not likely, in this dust!” said one man, but Stafford cut him short.

“Mud? Of course. Nothing simpler!” he said. “Here, Trollope, get a bottle of Apollinaris out of the lunch-basket and break it in the road;” and as the groom flew to comply with his order he turned to Carter.

“We’ll have the mud in a jiffy,” he said. “Now, what’s to be done with it?”

“Stop the ox’s nostrils with it,” Carter decreed next.

The young dudes on the coach gave a little “Hooray!” and in a moment they were down in the road, stirring the fizzing water into the yellow dust with their canes, with all the glee of children at a new game.

The mixture was soon turned into a stiff mud, and the immaculate Trollope was ordered to fill his hands with it and follow his master.

Every eye was fixed on Jim Stafford, as he approached the man who had the ox in charge and ask permission to try his experiment. Carter, left on the coach with the women, who she felt, instinctively, were not the friendly element of the party, watched with a confidence not unmixed with anxiety. How could she tell that these Yankee oxen would respond to Virginia treatment? And if they did not, where would she hide her humiliated head? She realized that, like many another act of daring, its only justification would be in its success.

“Stop up both nostrils at once, and hold it in,” she called to Trollope, in her pretty, low voice.

The crowd made way for the groom and his master to approach, and the performance was quickly accomplished.

The next instant, there was a heaving and panting on the part of the ox, and, with a frantic motion of consternation, it had scrambled to its feet, and stood there snorting out the mud and shaking its great head from side to side.

The man in charge of it caught hold of its harness, and without the least difficulty, led it away.

The road was open.

“Three times three for Miss Ayr of Virginia!” cried Jim Stafford, and his companions, imitating him, waved their hats around their heads and echoed his words.

It was not loud enough to be positively rowdy, but it was too loud, it seemed, to suit Mrs. Emory’s sense of decorum, for she was heard to say rather severely:

“Really, Jim, if you ask me to chaperon your parties, I must insist upon decent behavior. This is unbearable!” and she turned upon poor little Carter a glance that was meant to be perfectly annihilating.

“Get out, Mamie! You’re making a point about nothing,” her cousin answered, in an amiable, off-hand fashion. “If you’d been the heroine of that incident, you’d think you deserved cheers and you’d have had them. I’m not going to see Miss Ayr of Virginia deprived of the honor and glory which are her due.”

His cousin said nothing, but her face continued to look both offended and aggrieved, and she turned away to speak with some of the women of the party, who seemed promptly sympathetic.

Carter heard her name pronounced several times among them in a tone which she did not like, and it was Gladys whom she distinctly heard saying:

“This is what comes of giving a girl a man’s name and letting her run wild, as they do in the South.”

Carter felt indignant at the aspersion cast on her beloved South, but the assiduities which she was at that moment receiving from all the men in the party helped her to bear it.

It was not altogether her victoriousness in her recent undertaking that had made them rally round her so. It had at last penetrated their rather slow minds that the women were exercising a sort of tacit ostracism against this young stranger, and every one of them was ready with his protest.

Carter, moreover, had acquired a brilliant color, by reason of her late experience, and, now that their eyes had been drawn to her directly, they saw how uncommonly pretty she was, and regarded her unfashionable garments with a commiseration that had something akin to chivalry in it. She felt this, and, under the influence of sympathy, her beauty blossomed out like a flower. She became suddenly gay and at her ease. The men were so absolutely friendly that the women no longer frightened her.

When Jim Stafford had brought his four bays triumphantly into place and they had taken their position by the race-course, the grooms took the horses away, and the host of the party being liberated from his exacting duties as whip, was free to seek his own will and pleasure.

It was not long before the nature and direction of that became manifest, for he deliberately proposed a shuffling of seats and partners, by which he managed to seat himself next to Carter.

“I want to understand the philosophy of that splendid achievement of yours,” he said. “Why did the mud make the ox jump up so quickly?”

“Because the mud stopped its nostrils and it could not breathe.”

“But can’t oxen breathe through their mouths?”

“They either can’t, or they think they can’t, for they never make any effort to do it. It was having its breathing suddenly checked that so startled and terrified the creature that it instinctively sprang to its feet, and its whole mood was changed.”

“And where—if one may ask—did you become the possessor of such a unique and valuable piece of information?”

(By Jove, she was pretty, he reflected, and particularly so at that moment, when, for some reason, a flood of lovely rose-color suffused her face.)

“A neighbor of ours told me about it,” she said. “I am glad I happened to think of it.”

“I should think so, indeed! But for that timely thought of yours, we should probably have spent the day there, awaiting that brute’s pleasure!”

He knew that this was not so, but he suddenly found himself possessed of a consuming desire to do homage to this girl.

And to tell the truth, she looked not unused to homage. Indeed, she was far more natural and at her ease, now that she was being made much of and paid court to, than she had been, when neglected and left alone. There could be no doubt as to which of these conditions was her accustomed element.

When the racing began, the general interest centered on the track, of course, and as the different horses were led out, Carter showed and expressed such a knowingness on the subject that all the men listened with visible interest to what she had to say. The remarks of the other women sounded the merest banalités in comparison, for this little country maiden knew a horse as she knew a friend.

She was wildly excited over the first race, and had the good fortune to pick out the winner. As a consequence, the men all insisted on her betting on the second one, putting up gloves and candy recklessly. To their surprise, their overtures were promptly snubbed, the little Virginian looking so hurt at such a proposition that her big eyes showed a suspicion of tears. The other ladies of the party, however, took up the bets with avidity, though their opportunities were decidedly more limited.

At last the great race of the day was called. A grey horse named Quicksilver was the hot favorite in it, and was to be ridden by a colored jockey. This last fact caught Carter’s attention, and sent her thoughts flying wistfully Southward, and she was further interested because he wore the Confederate colors—white and red. She could not see his face, but it was easy to distinguish the silver-grey horse, and, to her delight, it came in first, though pushed hard by another horse named Hautboy.

The second heat was even more exciting, for now Quicksilver came tearing along the home stretch, neck and neck with Hautboy.

The two ran together superbly, their jockeys poised like birds upon their backs, but just before the judges’ stand was reached, there was a wild plunging and collision, and Hautboy came in ahead.

And then began a scene of frantic excitement. The little mulatto who had ridden Quicksilver was in a state of fury, bordering upon insanity. He vowed that Hautboy’s jockey had used some trickery, and appealed to the judges, who refused to sustain him. At this he went simply beside himself, and tossing away his whip, declared he would not ride the other heat. Threats, expostulations, bribes, oaths, abusive epithets, coaxing cajoleries were used in vain. He was simply maddened with fury, and stubbornly adhered to his refusal.

Quicksilver, meanwhile, was being walked about, switching his tail viciously and glaring wickedly to right and left. He was an evil-tempered brute, and this young darkey was the only rider who seemed equal to him. Immense sums had been put up on the race and desperate measures were resorted to to bring the obstreperous jockey to his reason.

But it was all in vain. He reiterated his refusal with excited fury. He said a million dollars wouldn’t make him ride the other heat, and that he’d die first.

All this time Carter had been watching the scene with eagerness, their coach being very near to the judges’ stand, and now, as the little darkey, bearing her beloved Southern colors, turned his defiant face upward toward the judges’ stand, and she saw it clearly for the first time, a suspicion, which had been slowly dawning on her, was turned into reality—a reality that thrilled her through with excitement.

“He must do it! He shall!” she said, in a low tone to Jim Stafford. “Take me down there, and I’ll make him!”

Stafford looked at her aghast. He was excited enough himself, for the time was flying, and, with a little more delay, the race would be declared off.

“By Jove!” he said, in one second’s hesitation, and then, remembering the ox, he added, “Come on, then, quickly,” and in another instant she was nimbly descending the ladder and he was making a way for her to get to the railing.

The party on the coach stared protestingly, and Gladys made an effort to recall her, but little heed paid Carter, as she found herself close up to the railing, toward which the colored jockey was even now advancing, in his defiant resolution to leave the field.

A dozen men were following him, with urgent beseechings and threats, to which he turned an absolutely deaf ear, until suddenly, across this clamor a soft, clear voice said, with a ring of command:

“You, Little Tom!”

The darkey turned, as if shot, and looked the speaker full in the face.

“Get up on that horse this instant!” said the same clear voice, imperiously. “Bring him here,” it added, to the man who was holding Quicksilver’s bridle, and as the restive animal was brought near, it suddenly became apparent that the human creature had been subdued.

The bewildered jockey stared full at the young lady before him, and when she said:

“Get up—quick, I say! You haven’t a second to lose.”

The resolute command was immediately obeyed, and the red-and-white-shirted jockey was on the horse and in his place, five seconds only before the order to start was given.

Only those in the immediate neighborhood had seen and heard what passed, and even they were so preoccupied by the paramount excitement of the moment, that, in their eagerness to follow the horses now flying away down the track, they forgot to think about the girl who had saved the day by some occult authority which she possessed, and so she managed to slip through the crowd almost unobserved, and to regain her seat upon the coach, followed by Stafford in a state of ecstacy over her success.

Meantime, the horses, like a pack of hounds, were bunched together on the other side of the course, but now the grey could be seen to be steadily gaining, and soon the red and white colors could be distinguished. Quicksilver was ahead, and every instant was an advance for him. As his slight young rider, leaning forward with his mount, rose in his stirrups, and rested in delicate poise, the breeze whipping into fluttering folds the striped silk of his shirt, and seeming to blow backward, in its strong current even Quicksilver’s lowered ears, the crowd sent up a wild yell of enthusiasm, in which one alien-sounding voice was heard exclaiming:

“Good for you, Little Tom!”

The voice was so low, however, that no one heard it very plainly except Stafford, and now, as the race ended, with Quicksilver first, and no second, he turned delightedly to his companion, saying:

“Good for you, Miss Ayr of Virginia! It was you who saved the day, and now will you be good enough to tell me how you did it? If ever I saw a creature determined to go his own way and defy consequences, it was that angry negro, until you spoke to him, when he came down like a lamb. How you managed it—(and without even the aid of mud!)—is what I want you to explain.”

“O, there is nothing wonderful in it when you come to find out,” said Carter. “It’s our Little Tom, who ran off from home some time ago and his mammy has been grieving for him ever since. Of course when I spoke to him, he would not dare to disobey me.”

“So it appeared,” said Stafford, “though he did not scruple to disobey and defy a dozen determined men! I must say I don’t understand it. And since he is a grown man, why do you call him ‘Little Tom,’ may I ask?”

“To distinguish him from the other Toms on the place,” said Carter. “There were so many of them—Little Tom, and Tom, and Uncle Tom, and Old Uncle Tom, and Old Old Uncle Tom.”

This explanation, which Carter made so simply, proved immensely amusing to the men of the party, who laughed and enjoyed it sufficiently to hide, in part, the lack of enthusiasm which the ladies had shown.

Stafford insisted on going and looking Little Tom up, and bringing him to drink a glass of champagne in honor of his triumph. He came, sheepishly enough, when he heard who had sent for him, though he had borne himself with a good deal of swagger in the crowd where Stafford found him.

“Howdy, Miss Kyarter,” he said, taking off his cap, and dangling it nervously in his hands, as he stood on the ground looking up at her. “I sut’ny is glad tuh see yuh. Them white folks kinder confused me ’bout dat race, en mammy ain’ whup all the temper out’er me yit! I sut’ny is glad you bin come ’long, en mek me ride. I leet more loss dat money! En I gwine let yuh tek half of it home wid yuh, fuh a presen’ tuh mammy.”

“That’s right, Little Tom,” said Carter. “It’ll please mammy mightily. I’m going to tell her about the race and what a fine horse you rode.”

“Yes’m, he’s right smart fine, Quicksilver is, but I don’ think he ekills we all’s Whitefoot. I ain’ see none dese yer horses dat’s up to Whitefoot yet! Ef ole Mars’d lemme bring Whitefoot on hyar, en ride ’im at a race, he’d beat ’em all, en dat’s what I tell ’em every time.”

Carter, who was intimately acquainted with Little Tom’s character and points of view, smiled to herself at this compliment to poor old Whitefoot, whose best days were so far in the past. She knew it was only done to impress strangers with the importance of the people to whom, in spite of his desertion of them for scenes more congenial to his adventurous spirit, he was and would always remain loyal.

After this little episode, Carter’s timidity vanished, and, being the centre of attraction on the coach now, she felt far more at her ease, and she talked much and talked well. But, with it all, her voice was so low, her speech so gently modulated, as she told negro anecdotes and imitated their talk, that her cousins found nothing to say afterward, except that she had made herself rather conspicuous, and Carter, who felt that they would gladly have said more, felt that she could well endure that.

Miss Ayr of Virginia had certainly been very unfortunate in the specimens of New York women whom she had so far encountered, and, being very rash and impulsive, she must be forgiven for making the great mistake of judging all New York women by these cousins of hers and their associates in “the smart set.” And as a convert to any faith is always more zealous and infatuated than those who have been born to it, so the Miss Ayrs of New York were the extreme examples of this type.

The little Virginian, who was accustomed to using her wits, had discovered one thing during that day’s experience at the races, which disturbed her very much. This was that she was badly dressed. It stung her pride at first to be compelled to own it, but having done so, she set about the task of remedying this defect. She had naturally a genial and affectionate nature, and her first step was to try to get some help from her cousins. They, however, showed so very little interest in the matter that Carter, who now realized that she was heavily handicapped by her dresses and bonnets, was led to believe that they did not wish to see this disability removed. This thought hurt her, at first, and then inspired her to a course of resolute and independent action.

She knew that her father would be distressed if she came home suddenly and gave her real reasons for such a course; and, besides, she could not travel alone, and the time which her father had set to come for her was still weeks off, so she made up her mind to stay, and to provide herself with such an outfit as would change the face of her staying.

Finding her cousins quite indisposed to give her their aid, she made a note of an address on the belt of one of their dresses, and next morning she went to that address and held a conference with that high authority.

The woman recognized her as a pretty subject, and they put their heads together and got up two charming costumes, one for street, and the other for evening wear. The dressmaker happened not to be very busy, and the dresses were promised in a few days’ time. Then Carter, who had taken in a good deal of the prevailing modes from her yesterday’s experiences, went boldly, all by herself, and bought a hat, and gloves, and shoes.

Every moment it was borne in on her more plainly what a countrified little being she was, and she felt that if she now got safely housed once more, she would not venture out, until she could spread her wings in her new plumage.

It was, therefore, a real regret to her when she presently encountered Jim Stafford, immaculately dressed and gloved and booted, walking down Fifth Avenue with a bunch of fresh violets in his button-hole and a smile on his good-natured face, which deepened into a look of real pleasure as he recognized her and lifted his tall hat.

She would have been quite content to bow and pass on, but he turned and walked with her.

“What luck!” he said, in his jolly way. “Would you believe that I was that moment thinking of you? The stories of the ox and the jockey are all over town to-day, and everybody is wanting to see you. When will you go out on my coach again?”

“Not until I get some better clothes to wear,” said Carter, in her impulsive way. “I never knew, until yesterday, how countrified country people are!”

“And who undertook to enlighten you, I’d like to know?” said her companion, frowning. “Some spiteful woman, of course! There’s nothing the matter that I can see, and if I were you I’d pay no attention to their criticisms.”

“You wouldn’t? Then you are distinctly not me, for I’m mending my ways with the utmost rapidity. You mustn’t ask me to appear again in public, until I can look like other people.”

“But that’s exactly what I don’t want. It’s just because you look—and are—unlike other people that I like you. It would be a perfect shame for you to be changed into one of the people you are going to imitate.”

“Never fear that,” said Carter, with a sudden seriousness. “We are utterly different peoples, I think—the North and the South! I have never been in the North before, and I feel I’m in a foreign land.”

“Don’t say that! I can’t bear to have you feeling that way. What could one do to make you feel at home here?”

“Nothing—I verily believe! The South is in my veins—but I think, in a way, kindness makes one feel at home everywhere—and you have been kind to me!”

By this time they had reached her uncle’s house and she held out her hand as if to say good-bye. Her look was so sweet and winning as he took that little hand, awkwardly gloved as it was, that he felt an inward protest at being dismissed.

“Why may I not come in?” he said.

“There’s no one at home,” she answered, innocently, “the girls were all going to a tea.”

“Decidedly, I shall come in,” he said, as he rang the bell. “Why didn’t they take you to the tea?”

“O, they said they thought I wouldn’t care for it, and they were right.”

When the servant opened the door and ushered them into the drawing-room, he stopped to ask if he should serve tea there.

Carter hesitated a second, but Stafford said promptly:

“Yes, Thompson, you may. I am going to get Miss Ayr to give me a cup.”

So in a very few moments Carter found herself seated before the exquisitely appointed tea-tray, pouring out a fragrant cupful, for this pleasant and friendly man, who was evidently enjoying himself thoroughly.

There was an undeniable sense of pleasure in it. The room was so large and beautiful and luxurious; Thompson deferred to her wishes in such an agreeable manner; the tea was so good; the china and silver so delicate; the man facing her was so soigné in all the appointments of his dress—in short, there was about her everywhere the sense of ease and luxury which money alone brings—and Carter had never cared a rap for money! Her wants had been so few and small that they had always been readily supplied; in fact she had never before imagined the mere material comfort which it was possible to miss out of life.

“Do tell me something more about the darkies,” said her companion, sipping his tea enjoyingly, when Thompson had gone, “I’ve been chuckling ever since, over those stories you told us yesterday.”

Carter knit her pretty brow to try to think up something. It was very pleasant to her to try to amuse this amiable man, for she really felt grateful to him, and anxious to please him.

“O, I’ll tell you about Uncle Enos, when he got religion,” she said, smiling at the remembrance. “It was such a clever thing in him! Enos was our white-washer, and he had been notoriously bad and irreligious, until his conversion. The very next day he came to me and told me of it, and added that, early that morning, while he was white-washing a fence, a serious danger had threatened him in his new life. ‘Miss Kyarter,’ he said, ‘I was wuckin’ away en thinkin’ ’bout de blessed change whar done bin cum tuh me, en I look up en see one o’ them miser’ble, low-life, God-forsaken niggers, whar I had done bin use tuh keep comp’ny with, a-cummin’ down de road. I see him begin tuh laugh en sner, ez soon ez he cum nigh me, en I knowed ’twus kus I done jine de army o’ de Lord. He stop short on t’other side de fence, en he low since I bin done got religion, he s’pose I b’lieve everything de Bible say is true? I tell him, ‘Yes, bless de Lord!’ ‘Well,’ he say, with one o’ his wicked, mischeeveous grins, ‘don’t de Bible say dat when de Lord done finish all He wuks, He bin look at ’em all, en behol’ dey was all good?’ ‘Yes,’ I tell him, ‘dem is de ve’y words o’ de blessed book.’ ‘Well,’ he say, ‘didn’ de Lord mek de Devil? How was dat?’ en he slaps his impident fat sides en busted out a-laughin’! He had jiss turn roun’ to go way, when I call him back. ‘Hol’ on, you blasphemious black-skinned raskill!’ I say, ‘you think yuh dun kotch me, do yuh? But wasn’ he a mighty good Devil?’”

Stafford laughed, with a feeling of zest that he had not known for a long while. He was evidently immensely amused at the negro characteristics, as Carter unfolded them to him, and the girl, catching sight of a guitar, tucked away in a corner, ran and brought it, in her natural and impulsive way, and, with her head prettily turned on one side, began to tune it.

“I’m going to sing you some plantation hymns,” she said. “Shall I?”

As he responded with the most evident enthusiasm, she got her chords attuned and began to sing to an indescribably plaintive tune:

“O, send down de angel to trouble o’ de water,

O, send down de angel to trouble o’ de water,

O, send down de angel to trouble o’ de water,

And to let God’s saints come in.”

Her voice was exquisitely clear and sweet and she possessed the unusual charm of looking especially attractive when she sang. Altogether, the experience was new to Stafford, and very interesting. To see that pretty creature, in her country-made gown, with the hat thrown aside from her charming head, which it had roughened into picturesque disorder, singing that wistful, yearning tune about God’s saints, with such an absence of any self-consciousness, except that she was giving pleasure, was really a rare delight to the young man of fashion. His whole life was the pursuit of pleasure, and he found it in a very piquant form here.

She sang next a hymn beginning “De Gospel train am coming roun’ de bend,” and then passed into the tripping measure of “Who’ll be de Leader, when de Bride-Groom comes?” a catching little air with which he was enchanted.

Altogether he had not been so well entertained for a long time, and the next morning came a note asking that Miss Ayr of Virginia and one of her cousins would take seats on his coach for an expedition to be got up in special compliment to the first-named Miss Ayr.

It was a surprise to her cousins and, as Carter could see, not a welcome one. Gladys, being spokesman, said that she thought it best to mention the fact that, in her conspicuous seat by the driver, her costume would be a target for criticism.

“Oh, I don’t mind that,” said Carter, lightly. “Mr. Stafford didn’t ask me for my clothes.”

“You would feel awkward, I should think—” began Gladys, but Carter interrupted her:

“Not a bit, I assure you!” she said. “I’ll feel as happy as possible.”

She was malicious enough to keep her secret, and she even suspected some malice on her cousin’s part, in looking forward with satisfaction to finding herself proved to be in the right when the appointed hour should come.

And when it did come, and Miss Ayr of Virginia stepped forth arrayed, she was a charming enough vision to have accounted for a good deal of feminine envy and uncharitableness!

The fit of her gown was faultless, and it was a well-nigh faultless figure which was fitted. The color was fresh and pure and so were the tints of hair, and eyes, and lips, and cheeks. The hat was youth and grace itself, and all smaller details of her toilet were beyond criticism. She was a clever creature, this little Miss Ayr of Virginia, and her present costume gave ample evidence of it.

When the party was ready to set off, she was feeling a wonderful sense of companionship and friendliness with Stafford, and he with her.

“Stunning, by Jove!” he said, as she climbed to her place beside him. “It looks as if Miss Ayr of Virginia was going to beat them on their own ground. It’s really almost too bad of you!”

What a pleasant, light-hearted, boyish creature he was, she thought, and how nice to be so cordially liked by him and to bowl along in the place of honor at his side, the observed and admired of all who passed them!

And not the least pleasant part of it all was the sense of bien-être, which came from the consciousness of her irreproachable costume. It made her feel brave and confident even with the women of the party, and, this time, her somewhat timid overtures to them were far more kindly met. Gladys, who had elected to be the one of her cousins to accompany her, treated her rather differently, she thought, and, altogether, it was a delightful occasion.

“Are you enjoying yourself?” asked Stafford, just as this thought was in her mind.

“Oh, yes, tremendously,” she said. “For the first time since I got here I am almost forgetting to be home-sick. Almost, but not quite.”

“Home-sick?” he said. “I don’t like that. Why should you be home-sick?”

“Oh, I’ve almost died of it,” said Carter. “The other day, going to the races, on the line of all those splendid carriages I saw, at the side of the road, an old horse eating oats out of a nose-bag, with a ragged old darkey standing by, and somehow it made me think so of home that I almost burst into tears.”

“But why should you feel so? What is it that you miss so much that could not be supplied here?”

“Here? Oh, I could never feel at home here! What I miss is simply everything—the earth, and the sky, and the trees, and the darkies, and the people, and everything!”

“I should like to see that wonderful country. Will you let me, some day?”

“Strangers are always welcome in the South,” she said; “but you would remain a stranger there. The life would never suit you.”

She felt instinctively that he did not like this, and—out of pure compassion at having hurt a person who had been so good to her—she set to work to make herself as delightful to him as she could, and with such success that Gladys, who was taking notes from a back seat, formed a conclusion, which definitely modified her future course toward her cousin.

So marked was this that when, at the end of the excursion, Gladys invited their late host to come and dine informally that evening, if he had no other engagement, and when he had delightedly accepted and driven away, she followed her little country cousin to her room and offered in the pleasantest way to help her out with an evening toilet.

“I have one, thank you,” Carter said, “but I’m just as much obliged.”

She hadn’t it in her to bear malice, and far enough from her consciousness was any suspicion of the real reason of her cousin’s change toward her. Had she been present a few moments later at a conversation which took place between the three sisters much light would have been thrown upon this point. Here Gladys boldly avowed her belief that Carter would be asked to become Mrs. Stafford. Never, she said, had she seen Jim treat any girl as he treated Carter, and without the necessity of much talk about it, the sisters were unanimously agreed that it would be a good thing to have Jim Stafford in the family on any terms. It was only too evident that there was no chance of this on terms more close and acceptable than the present ones, for his attitude toward the Miss Ayrs of New York had been strictly limited to the off-hand intercourse of old friends and neighbors. And Carter, in her guileless heart, would never have imagined a further reason yet. This existed in the fact that Jim Stafford had been so ardently angled for by so many of their friends that it would be a triumph, in a way, to the Ayr girls to have him even for a cousin. Their thoughts had gone even farther than that, and they looked forward to being on cousinly terms in the establishment over which Jim Stafford’s wife would preside in New York.

So when Carter came down to dinner that evening, innocent as a lamb of any such designs and imaginings as occupied the worldly hearts about her, she was received with great friendliness by her cousins, and her gown was pronounced “as smart as possible” by Gladys, “very chic” by Ethel, and to have “quite a cachet” by Rosamond.

And indeed it was a charming thing, and she was a charming thing in it! No one could have dreamed of such a neck and such arms, under their former unbeautiful coverings, and the clear cool green of her crêpey draperies brought out the pure tints of skin and hair and eyes.

Jim Stafford, when he came, looked at her quite adoringly, and nobody could wonder! One or two others of the bachelor habitués of the house had been bidden to the impromptu dinner and Carter drew all eyes upon herself, with as little volition and consciousness as a magnet.

After dinner, Stafford got hold of the guitar and beguiled her into the library, and she sang to him about God’s saints and the gospel train and the Bridegroom, until every other member of the party followed and gathered around her.

This was more agreeable to Carter, perhaps, than to her companion, for he found any further tête-à-tête with her impossible, and, to make up for it, he asked her, on leaving, if he could see her to-morrow at some appointed hour. She said yes, certainly, and fixed the time. Gladys, who happened to be standing not far off, heard this.

When Carter went to her room that night, she looked long, and with great satisfaction at the image which the cheval glass reflected. She knew that she was pretty, but, indeed, she had never dreamed that she could look so charming as this. Money was a wonderful thing, and she would not be able in the future to wear such clothes as these, and she did like them! She liked admiration, too, and to-night she had had it unstintedly. Whence was it, then, that came this sense of lack, of wanting, of imperfectness? She felt it, to a degree that positively oppressed her, and as she doffed her brave attire and made herself ready for bed she could scarcely keep the tears out of her eyes. Two, at least, refused to be suppressed and lay wet upon her cheek as she finally fell asleep.

Next morning, when she joined her three cousins in their upstairs sitting-room, a very smiling welcome greeted her.

“We were just talking of you, Carter,” Gladys said, “and of how well you looked last night. Jim Stafford thought so, evidently! And, by the way, we were wondering how much you really know about Jim Stafford.”

“I don’t know a great deal,” Carter answered. “Very little, in fact, except that he is very kind and nice; and also, as I hear, very rich.”

“Do you know how rich?” said Gladys, with solemnity.

“No! How should I?” said Carter, looking rather wondering.

“I don’t know myself,” said Gladys, “but it’s a great many millions in money; besides a superb house, horses, carriages, pictures, and all sorts of things.”

“And a house at Newport,” put in Ethel, “a simply magnificent place!”

“And a yacht that is absolute perfection!” said Rosamond.

“And a collection of pearls of all colors, set in bracelets, necklaces and rings, which he has been collecting for years as a wedding present for his wife,” said Gladys with grave ardor.

Indeed, the solemnity of all these announcements seemed to Carter so funny that she said with a little laugh:

“What are you all so serious about? There does not seem to me anything profoundly solemn in all this.”

“The subject of Jim Stafford is more serious than you realize, perhaps,” said Gladys. “I think it best to tell you that we all think that he is going to make you an offer of marriage.”

Carter looked from one to the other with genuine surprise.

“I don’t believe it,” she said, and the next minute a crimson flush suffused her face, and she added in a tone of indignation, “If there is the least chance of such a thing it must be prevented.”

“Prevented!” said three voices at once in different tones of surprise and protest.

“Yes—prevented,” Carter said. “I like him too much to want to hurt his feelings, and if what you say is so, he must be stopped before he goes farther.”

“Carter Ayr,” said Gladys, in a tone of voice thoroughly provoked, “I’d like to know what you are thinking of and what you expect! You Southern people do act as if you owned the earth! What prospects in life have you got to make you throw away such a chance as this—the most brilliant marriage that any girl here could hope to make! If Jim Stafford asks you to marry him—as I believe he will—I’ll not believe it that you’ll be such an idiot as to refuse him.”

Carter rose to her feet, and flashed upon her a pair of angry eyes.

“Why should I not refuse him?” she said. “There is but one cause for marriage, and that does not here exist. Do you, for an instant, suppose that I, my father’s daughter, one of the Ayrs of Virginia, would marry a man for his millions, and his houses, and his yachts, and his pearls?”

She hit these several objects off, with a tone which seemed to turn them into chips, and blocks, and sawdust, and shavings, and then, with a sudden softening of all her face, a sudden lowering of her voice and another blush, she said, as she sank back into her seat:

“Besides—to settle the matter at once—I am engaged.”

“Engaged!” said her cousins together, and Gladys added:

“To whom, pray? Some neighbor in Virginia?”

Then, once more, Carter sprang to her feet, and stood there palpitating, as she said:

“Yes—to a neighbor in Virginia!—a man whose only earthly possession is a small farm, which is all that is left of a great estate. But he is a man, and not a dude—and he works, instead of playing, and has paid off thousands of dollars of debts which he did not make, working day and night for the money, which, after all, is less than you are accustomed to see thrown away at a day’s racing! He is not fashionable, and you would scorn his looks and his dress, too, as you did mine, if he were to come among you—but he is handsomer and stronger than any man I’ve seen here—and dearer and better than any man in all the world! Do you think I’d give up such a man as that for money?” (accentuated as if it had been dirt!) “You don’t know him, you don’t know me, you don’t know Virginia if you can think that! I like Mr. Stafford, and I hope you are wrong in what you think; but if not, I believe he would understand me, whether you do or not.”

“Carter,” said her cousin, insistently, “are you going to be fool enough to throw away such a chance as this, for the sake of a mere school-girl’s sentiment? You can’t play fast and loose, after your Southern fashion, with a man like Jim Stafford. If you throw him aside to-day, you can’t count on getting him back.”

Carter’s eyes were fairly blazing. She moved toward the door, but before she passed it, she turned, and said proudly:

“What I have to say to Mr. Stafford is my own affair and his. You would not understand, but he, I think, would.”

What she said to him was simply this (and he gave her occasion to say it, two minutes after she came down to see him, dressed in one of her homely little Virginia gowns):

“Don’t say any more, Mr. Stafford, please. You have been so good to me, and I like you so much that I can’t bear to make you sorry, but I’m engaged to be married to a man in Virginia, whom I love with all my heart, and so that settles it.”

It settled it simply and at once for the poor young fellow, but he took it hard. New York saw him no more that season, and when Carter was married in the spring his magnificent collection of pearls was sent to Virginia with a note which implored her to take them as a wedding present, and said that unless she consented to wear them, no other woman ever should.

He believed it, poor fellow, but Carter didn’t. That was the only thing that comforted her as she stood, with her lover’s arm around her waist, turning over the splendid jewels.

“Of course they must go back,” she said, “but not just yet. I can’t bear to hurt him.”

“Poor, poor fellow!” was her companion’s response, spoken in tones of heart-felt commiseration, “what a beggar he is, with all his millions, and how criminally rich I feel!”

A New Thing Under the Sun

A New Thing Under the Sun

During the months of summer Belton was usually crowded with city guests, but the last of these departed, as a rule, with the falling leaves, and by the time winter had set in the little town had relapsed into its normal monotony.

One year, however, there was an exception, and Mrs. Bryan, who had pleasant accommodations in her large, old-fashioned house, received, for a stay understood to be indefinite, a city boarder, who arrived in midwinter, and took two of her best rooms at the highest summer rates.

This lady was duly indorsed and recommended—as Mrs. Bryan’s boarders were required to be—in spite of the fact that she was coming with the avowed purpose of getting a divorce from her husband.

The new arrival—Mrs. Leith—proved to be young and exceedingly pretty. All her simple, dark costumes were made in the highest fashion, and had the names of the best French dressmakers on their linings. She was an extremely small woman, exquisitely made, and with minutely perfect hands and feet. She had with her an immense Angora cat, and an old negro servant-woman, who had been her nurse. Her companions are mentioned in the order of their estimation in Mrs. Leith’s regard. The great, white, sleepy, selfish, unresponsive cat was her very idol; and the old negress, who loved and watched over and toiled and suffered for her, was taken little account of, and even, at times, made the object of unreasonable and unjust irritation. But “Mauma,” as her mistress called her, cared nothing whatever for that. The days of slavery were over, but she was held by chains more binding and restrictive than any that they could forge or break.

This old woman had an immense power of reserve, and her lips were sealed as to any revelations concerning the past life of her young mistress. Mrs. Bryan, however, made a few notes from her own observation. She noticed, for instance, that Mrs. Leith always looked forward to the coming of the mail with an eager interest, and that, no matter what letters were received, the expression of her face was always the same—disappointment. She wrote few letters, herself, and seemed to take little interest in those that she got. Mrs. Bryan came to know, moreover, that on the not infrequent occasions when Mrs. Leith would excuse herself from coming to meals, the cause was generally a fit of crying which, no doubt, gave rise to the headache which Mauma would name as her excuse. Once or twice, when Mrs. Bryan had accidentally got a glimpse of the inner room, where she had gone to make inquiries, she had seen the same picture—the old negress in a big rocking-chair before the fire, in her arms her young mistress, dressed in a little silk dressing-gown that looked like a baby’s long frock. Mauma was rocking her backward and forward, patting and soothing her, while the poor little creature clung around her neck and sobbed.

The one real interest in Mrs. Leith’s life was Fleecy, the Angora cat; and when, at rare intervals, she chose to show off her accomplishments, and catch the rubber ball her mistress rolled on the floor and bring it to her, Mrs. Leith would grow gay, and laugh until her cheeks were flushed with a rosy and becoming color. Mrs. Bryan had sometimes watched this game, when she would go up with her knitting to Mrs. Leith’s sitting-room.

She had assisted also at another pastime of Fleecy’s, which was more to the cat’s fancy, but much less to that of its mistress.

Mrs. Leith had a standing offer among the servants for live mice, which it afforded Fleecy the highest ecstasy to catch. Always, when the poor little captives would be brought (and fortunately they seemed hard to secure, and were not numerous), there would be a sharp conflict in the mind of Mrs. Leith.

“Oh, I hate to see them frightened and tortured so!” she would say; “but nothing in the world gives Fleecy such delight, and they don’t suffer long. Still, I wish Fleecy liked the dead ones as well.”

She would take her darling in her arms, and say: “Mouse, Fleecy, mouse!” and there was no sort of doubt that the cat understood. She would prick up her ears and great plumy tail, and quiver with delighted anticipation. Then, when the trap was opened and the mouse let loose, Mrs. Leith would clap her hands with delight to see the joy and activity of her great, indolent pet as she would scamper about, over chairs and under tables, wildly pursuing her prey. Invariably, however, when the final moment came, and the piteous little dying squeaks would be heard, Mrs. Leith would turn away and shut her eyes tight, and put her fingers in her ears. Sometimes, when Fleecy had finished her meal, and sat licking her lips, and drowsing in complacent repletion by the fire, Mrs. Leith would give way to reproaches of both her pet and herself, and would think of the sufferings of the poor little victim, till the tears came into her eyes. In spite of that, however, when another mouse was offered, the same scene was invariably re-enacted.

She loved this cat with a passionate affection; more, indeed, than that bestowed by many mothers on their children. She spent hours in combing and brushing its long fur and tying on various ribbons, and she often kissed and squeezed it so ardently as to get scratched in return for her tenderness. She called it by a hundred tender names when this would happen, and blamed herself for her roughness.

There were certain little oddities in Mrs. Leith’s behavior, now and then, which Mrs. Bryan was quick to observe. For instance, one day, when someone remarked that Mr. Manning, the lawyer who was conducting her divorce case, was a very handsome man, Mrs. Leith smiled to herself, in a confident, abstracted way that piqued curiosity; and again, when another man was commended for having very delightful manners, Mrs. Leith said with the same look on her face:

“Oh, do you think so, really?”

Even Mrs. Bryan, who was not very imaginative, got the idea that the little creature had some standard in her mind, measured by which she found these men very small.

Mrs. Leith spent almost her entire time in her own room, sometimes singing to herself, to a guitar accompaniment, impassioned love songs that made her tremble from head to foot with emotion, and often break into uncontrollable weeping. When she was in her not infrequent fits of despondency, even Fleecy was no comfort to her, and she would sometimes complain that she slept so contentedly on the rug.

“She doesn’t love me. She only wants to eat and sleep and be comfortable,” she said one day, in an outburst of despair. “Oh, nobody loves me, nobody loves me! If God would only let me die!”

“Mauma loves you, honey,” the old woman answered. “God ain’ gwine tek you ’way from po’ ole Mauma.”

“What’s the use of your loving me, when you don’t love Bertie? You hate him, and you hate Fleecy, too—you know you do! I don’t want anybody to love me, if they don’t love them. Oh, I’m so wretched!” and she went off into low wails of anguish that subsided, as usual, in sleep.

Many a time would old Mauma sit and hold her so, until her arms and shoulders ached. Small and childish as she was, she was much heavier than a child, but she had no more than a child’s consideration for the trouble she gave, and Mauma would no more have reproached her with this than a mother her baby.

Mrs. Bryan, out of sheer pity, began to feel herself growing attached to her boarder. She seemed to make, however, but little progress in her acquaintance, and things remained just as they had begun, until there came a break in the monotony of their intercourse, caused by the sudden illness of Fleecy.

Mrs. Leith flew wildly downstairs, one morning, her face pallid with fear, and dragged the astonished widow up the stairs, exclaiming that Fleecy was dying. When they got into the room, the big white cat was lying on the lounge, stretching and jerking its body, and giving every indication of the vulgar malady of fits. Mauma was bending over the lounge, but her little mistress flew at her and pulled her away.

“You shan’t touch her,” she cried, angrily, “go away! You have always hated her, and you’ll be glad if she dies! Oh, Mrs. Bryan, you will help me! Do you think she is going to die? Oh, Fleecy, Fleecy, my poor baby, don’t go and leave me! You are all I’ve got in the world.”

The old negress shrugged her shoulders and moved away. It was evident that the reproaches of her mistress amounted to nothing with her. Mrs. Bryan, out of pity for the poor child’s grief, went to work to try to render aid, and, after a little doctoring, Fleecy showed signs of recovery. The gratitude showered upon Mrs. Bryan was touching to see. Mrs. Leith, usually so cold and abstracted in her manner, became suddenly affectionate and effusive. She kissed Mrs. Bryan’s hands and then her face, and begged her not to leave her. When she was entirely reassured about Fleecy, and had her darling sleeping on her lap, she suddenly caught hold of Mrs. Bryan’s hand and said, impulsively:

“You are good and kind. You have a tender, loving heart. I’d like to talk to you, and tell you about my troubles. May I? Oh, if you knew how unhappy I am, and how no one understands and sympathizes with me!”

Mrs. Bryan moved closer to her, and begged her to speak, assuring her, beforehand, of the sympathy which showed plainly in her face.

Then, still holding the big cat on her lap, and touching it with tenderness from time to time, Mrs. Leith told her story.

A singular one it was, and Mrs. Bryan, as she listened, could not altogether wonder at the friends who had refused to sympathize with Mrs. Leith in her position.

The unhappy young wife, who was in Belton for the sole purpose of getting a divorce from her husband, began her narration by describing him in terms of glowing enthusiasm, as the handsomest, the cleverest, the most charming, gifted, lovable being that mind could conceive. “You think Mr. Manning is handsome,” she said, “and you thought that other man’s manners were charming! If you could see Bertie! It makes me cross to hear Mr. Manning and those other people talked about. Why, Bertie is like what you would imagine a great big angel to be, if it hadn’t any wings and wore clothes. He’s so tall and strong that he can lift me about like a baby, and never get tired in his shoulders, as Mauma does after the least little while. He’s got a figure more beautiful than any statue that was ever made, and hair that curls in little shiny rings the moment he lets it get long enough. Oh, once, in Italy,” she broke off, as a sudden memory came to her, “I persuaded him to let it grow. We were in the country, where no one knew us, and it came down all about his neck. It was so funny. We used to row a great deal, and, though he wore a big peasant’s hat, he got brown as a berry, but his neck was always fair, where his hair hung over it. I used to say it was the only place left for me to kiss, because the sun had made him brown as an Italian, so I wouldn’t kiss him, except there. I always said I felt as if I were kissing some Italian woman’s husband. O Mrs. Bryan,” she said, in a choking voice of pain, “we were so happy then! He loved me so! He never got tired of me, and couldn’t bear me out of his sight. I don’t see why I didn’t die then. If joy could kill, I would have.” She paused a second, and then went on, with a return to her former tone: “You would have to see him before you could understand how poor all other men seem after him. His voice is like a great strong lark’s, that can sing and fly together. He used to sing until he could be heard for miles, all the time that he was rowing me over those tremendous waves that shook our little boat about like a chip. I never dared to go with any one else, but with him I never had a fear. I often used to think we would be drowned, but I would laugh at the idea, and tell him it would be only to wake up in another heaven with him. Then you were talking about manners! Oh, you can’t have any idea of Bertie’s manners, and I couldn’t give you any! He never goes into a crowded room that everybody doesn’t look at him and speak about him. He seems to know, at once, the ways of every country, and never makes a mistake. And gentle! why, he’s gentler than any woman that ever lived! Children always love him, and so do animals. Fleecy loves him fifty times better than she does me, and you ought to see how he loves Fleecy. I thought it was so good of him to let me keep my dear kitty. I offered to give her up, but he would not let me. I know she’d be happier with Bertie, and I did offer, but when he said no, I was glad, for Fleecy was all I had left. If Bertie had been here to-night, he would have nursed and doctored her just as you did, instead of getting cross like Mauma. Sometimes I hate Mauma!” she broke off with a vicious snap of her little regular teeth.

For a long time Mrs. Leith talked on, dwelling on the attractions and perfections of the man from whom she was seeking a divorce, until finally her companion, unable to keep down her curiosity any longer, said abruptly:

“I can’t help asking, Mrs. Leith, why you want to be divorced from such a man as that.”

“Want to be!” she exclaimed, rising to her feet, and forgetting even Fleecy, who fell to the floor. “Want to be? Why, I should think you could see that it is killing me! Do I look like a person doing what she wants to do? If you had seen me a year ago you would not say that. Look at my poor thin arms,” pulling up her sleeve. “They used to be so plump and round that Bertie never tired of kissing and praising them. And look at my face, so white and pasty, when I used to have a color like a rose! Oh, I’m glad he can’t see me now! I’m glad he doesn’t know how I have changed!”

“Then why do you get the divorce?” Mrs. Bryan couldn’t help saying. “You are doing it, and not he—aren’t you? What makes you do it?”

“Because he wants it,” she answered with a look of defiance. She expected nothing else but that Mrs. Bryan would hold with all her other friends, and she wanted to show her, at once, that she did not care.

“And why does he want it?”

“Because he is tired of me—simply that. No one but me can make allowances for him, and I don’t expect it. I know you are shocked and indignant and all that, but you may save yourself the trouble. It is terrible and unfortunate for me, of course, but I can see, if no one else does, that it is not unnatural. He is highly cultivated and intellectual, and I am not a companion for him. It was long before I would acknowledge it, but I have looked it in the face at last. I was never worthy of him—but oh, while he loved me, it didn’t matter in the least that I was so inferior to him! And he did love me—he did! he did!—as much as he can love anybody—as much, I do believe, as he will ever love that beautiful, wicked woman he is going to marry.”

“Going to marry!” exclaimed Mrs. Bryan, almost breathless, but the little creature who stood near by with her cold hands pressed against her burning cheeks, and her excited eyes fixed on the fire, paid no attention to the reflection of astonishment in her voice.

“Yes, going to marry,” she said. “That is why he was so determined to have the divorce. I knew he had begun to weary of me; I knew I had nothing in me to keep the love of a great creature such as he is, but I think he would have stayed with me and let me go on loving him, at least, if he had not seen that widow, who made up her mind to have him the moment she laid eyes on him, and saw how far above other men he was.”

“But you could have prevented it! He couldn’t have got the divorce from you. Didn’t he know that?”

“Of course he knew it,” she answered, in the petulant tone she often used to Mauma. “He’s a man thoroughly informed on every subject. He knew he could never get it, and that the only way was for me to do it. He made a great mistake, though, and gave himself and me six miserable months of suffering.”

“How do you mean?”

“He tried to force me to sue for a divorce,” she said; “and used every means that he could think of. My friends were wildly excited, and demanded that I should get the divorce, but they might as well have talked into the air. I had but one answer: ‘I love him—love him—do you understand? And there is nothing love cannot forgive!’”

“Love—yes,” retorted Mrs. Bryan, now no longer able to control her indignation. “Love is all very well—but where is your pride?”

The tiny creature standing on the rug drew herself to her full height, and looked her in the eyes, as she answered:

“I have none, where he is concerned.”

“Merciful goodness!” exclaimed the other, with a deep-drawn breath. “Then if you haven’t any pride, what induced you to agree to the divorce?”

“Love,” said the other, solemnly. “If he had understood that—if he had made that appeal at first—he might have had his way in the beginning, instead of the end. If, instead of subjecting me to all the shame and outrage that he made me endure, he had done at first what he did at last, he might have spared himself as well as me much suffering.”

“You don’t mean to say you consented because——”

“Because I loved him,” she replied, in a voice beginning to shake, as her eyes began to fill. “Oh, why do I talk about it? No one will ever understand. You are all alike, and blame me, because you don’t know what it is to love, as I love him. He came to me at last, after those awful months, and when he came into the room and shut the door behind him, and I looked up and feasted my hungry eyes on the sight of him, the love that shook my breast then was a thing you other women don’t know. He called my name. ‘Mimi,’ he said, ‘you have it in your power to make me happy, if you will.’ And I said: ‘I will do anything you ask.’ He came then and took me in his arms and told me he wanted me to get the divorce. He said he was selfish and vile and unworthy of me, that I would be happier without him, and a great deal more such trash, and I told him I had but one desire in the world, and that was to make him happy, and that I would give him the divorce. With those arms around me, and those eyes looking into mine beseechingly, there was nothing I could have denied him—only I had rather it had been the last drop of my blood he had asked for. That was not what he wanted, though, and I gave him what he did want. I asked him if it would not please him better if I were dead, and if he had said yes, I would have killed myself. But he said no, that would make him wretched; he only wanted me to let him be free, and to be free myself to marry some good man who would make me happy as I deserved. He knows that woman isn’t good; he told me so himself—at least he said she was utterly different from me, and so much more fit to be the companion of a poor devil like himself. I don’t know how it is,” she broke off, passionately, “but if being a devil could make him love me again, I’d be a devil, too, if I could! Of course you’re shocked, but I would! Well, no matter what happens, I’ve got that evening to remember. He had not been pleased with me for so long, that it was like heaven on earth to have him as he was then. He let me sit on his lap, and hold him tight around the neck, and kiss his curls and his eyes and his darling mouth. You needn’t look so horrified,” she said with sudden resentment, “he was my husband still, and he’s my husband now, and I’m proud and happy I can say it a little while longer.”

At the last words her voice gave way completely, and she threw herself down on the lounge and burst into violent sobbing. It was piteous to see her, and Mrs. Bryan, in spite of the tempestuous indignation this recital had aroused in her, felt her heart grow soft with sympathy as she looked at the little figure, no bigger than that of many a child of fourteen, shaken with great sobs of anguish—the deep and incurable anguish of a loving and despised wife.

She did her best to comfort her, and forced herself not to criticise, knowing intuitively what the poor little thing must have already suffered at the hands of her friends.

She found, however, that the task of comforting her was an impossible one. All she could do was to soothe and speak lovingly to her, and to avoid abuse of her husband; she felt it would be the cause of hopeless estrangement between them, if she allowed herself to express her true opinion of him.

At last, when Mrs. Leith had consented to be covered up, and made physically comfortable, and had drunk a cup of tea, Mrs. Bryan left her to try to get a nap. She had Fleecy in her arms, with her head peeping out above the coverlet, and had laid her cheek against it with a degree of affectionateness that she seemed unable to show to the human beings about her.

“It is only because Bertie loves Fleecy, and she loves him,” said the little creature, answering the unspoken thought which she had read in Mrs. Bryan’s eyes.

As the latter passed through the outer room, where Mauma was sitting at the window running the narrow ribbons in and out of the eyelet holes in Mrs. Leith’s dainty French underclothes, she stopped and looked at the old woman inquiringly.

“She bin tell you all ’bout it, has she?” said Mauma, looking up over the top of her brass-rimmed spectacles. “I knowed how it gwine be, soon ez I see you done tech her heart, by nussing o’ that black varmint.” (It always seemed to give Mauma great satisfaction to apply the word “black” to Fleecy’s creamy whiteness.) “I’m glad you kin mek out to show some likin’ fur de dirty thing, en to please Missy I’d do it myself, ef I could. De Lord knows ef anythin’ kin please her, I want her to have it, but it’s more’n I got sense to do, to ack like I love dem two darlin’s o’ hern.”

“Then you don’t like Mr. Leith, either?” said Mrs. Bryan, tentatively.

“Like him? Nor’m, I don’t like him, I don’ like him for nuthin’—a good-for nuthin’, low-life raskill, as ain’t worthy to tech Missy’s feet! Thar ain’ but one thing in the worl’ I won’ do for Missy, en that’s it! I ain’ gwine say I like him, kus I pintedly don’t, en I’d wring he neck same ez a chicken’s, ef I had de chance. Lor’, mistiss, you don’ know. You don’ know nuthin’! De sights he is tuk dat air little angel-chile through is enough to tun yer hyar right white. ’Tain’ no kine o’ shame en meanness he ain’ bin heap up on her—a puppus to mek her git de divoce. En you think she’d do it? Nor’m, she wouldn’! She bin quoil wid ev’ry fr’en’ she got in de worl’ ’long o’ that! She ain’ ’low nobody to say nuthin’ gin’ him. All she say is, ‘When you love, you kin furgive anything.’ He mought ’a’ kep’ on, twel jedgmen’-day, en he mought ’a’ drug her through de streets by de hyar o’ her hade, en she wouldn’ nuver ’a’ uttered a complaint. De warn’ but one way he could ’a’ got her to git dat divoce, en he jis dat mean en sneakin’ dat he bin foun’ dat way out. He come to her at las’ wid all he impident, sweet ways, en he jiss coax en beg for it. I knowed den ’twas all up. She ain’ nuver been able to say no to him in her life, en she couldn’t say it den. So she tell him. Yes, she do it fur de sake o’ makin’ him happy en pleased wid her. She sont right off fur de lawyer, en made all de ’rangements. I hear him tell her myself dat ’twas easy ’nough to do. Yes, Lord! I reckon ’twas easy, wid dem scan’lous doin’s o’ his! Lor’, honey, you don’ know,” and the old woman ended, shaking her head with an air of deep mystery.

The ice once broken between Mrs. Bryan and her boarder, frequent confidences followed, but it was always the same thing, with more or less detail, as to the charm, superiority and lovableness of the husband she had renounced, or was now making it her business in life to renounce. It was evident to Mrs. Bryan that the days passed all too quickly for Mr. Manning’s client, and that she clung desperately to the mere form that retained him as her husband.

In the monotonous regularity of her life at Belton she began to improve in health and looks. Mauma attributed it to the fact that she no longer had the torment of discussions and protest from her relatives and friends, who had one and all abandoned her to her own devices. So indomitable a will in so slight a body, it was certainly strange to find. After the promise to her husband she had never faltered, though the idea of the divorce was evidently terrible to her beyond words. She told Mrs. Bryan that she was twenty years of age, but it was hard to believe it. She looked a mere slip of a girl, and was made with such exquisite perfection, that that fact seemed to make her look smaller than she really was. Every one who saw her was fascinated by her beauty, but she was cold to all overtures of friendship, and seemed to have exhausted on her husband and Fleecy all her capacity for affection. She still cared scrupulously for her toilet, though she wore only the one or two dark dresses in which she had appeared on first coming to Belton. Her mother had been a Creole, and from this source she had got her little French name, Mimi, which she told Mrs. Bryan her husband usually abbreviated into “Mim.” There was also a trace of her French origin in her utterance—a certain peculiarity of the r—that gave her a sort of unusualness which added to her charm.

One day, the morning of which had passed in the usual uneventful way, Mrs. Leith was sitting with Mrs. Bryan in the latter’s sitting-room, when a telegram was brought in. Mrs. Bryan took it, and then handed it to her companion, to whom it was addressed. As she read it she sprang to her feet and uttered a cry—unmistakably a cry of joy.

“Read it—he is coming!” she said.

Mrs. Bryan put on her glasses and read these words:

“Must see you on important business. Arrive at eight o’clock.

“B.”

“I must go—I must get ready. Where is Mauma? Mauma!” she called as she hurried from the room, and ran up the stairs.

Half an hour later Mrs. Bryan went to her boarder’s room. She found everything in confusion. Trunks stood open in the middle of the floor; Eastern stuffs were scattered all about; exquisite dresses were lying in heaps, and poor old Mauma, with protest written on the very curve of her back, was diving into a trunk, and tranquilly accepting a scolding for not knowing where some indispensable article was.

“I am going to hang these stuffs about the room, and get out a few ornaments,” Mrs. Leith explained. “I won’t hurt anything, but Bertie does so love to see things look ‘homey and comfy,’ as he calls it. Will you send someone to the florist, and tell him I want lots of flowers—all that he has? Oh, Mrs. Bryan, do tell me—honestly and candidly—which of these dresses I look best in. You see, I can’t tell just what humor he will be in. Sometimes he likes to see me dressed as richly as possible—and then again I can’t be too simple. Oh, yes, I forgot—I know what I’ll wear! I’d rather he’d see me very simple—for I can imagine he’s seen plenty of magnificence lately. I’ll wear just this little white crêpe gown—one he used to love. Perhaps he’ll remember he praised it once, and be pleased at my remembering. Oh, Mauma, where’s the girdle? You don’t seem to know where anything is, and if you’ve lost that girdle—” she stopped, with sudden tears of vexation in her eyes.

Mauma came toward her with the girdle in her hand. She darted forward to take it, and gave the old woman a sudden hug, as she said, coaxingly:

“Don’t be cross with me to-day, Mauma—please don’t. I’m so happy. You ought to be glad your child is going to be happy once more in her life. He’s sure to be pleased with me, for I’ve done every little thing he wants. Oh, to think I’m going to see him once more!” Then, with a sudden change of tone, she added: “Don’t be vexed with me if I’m cross and rude to-day. I’m so wild with joy that I can’t stand the suggestion of anything else. And oh, Mrs. Bryan, if you saw him, you would not wonder. Promise me this,” she cried, seizing the other woman by both hands with intense earnestness, “promise me that you will go to the door, yourself, when he comes, and that you’ll just say some little thing to him, so as to make him speak. I want you to hear his voice, and get some idea of his manner. Then, after that, if you talk about Mr. Manning or Mr. Anybody else, I’ll promise to listen to you!”

Mrs. Bryan agreed to do as she wished, and went away more puzzled and astonished at the ways of her boarder than she had been yet.

Shortly before eight o’clock that evening, Mrs. Bryan, dressed in her neatest black dress, and wearing her freshest cap, went up to Mrs. Leith’s sitting-room. When she entered, she hardly recognized it, and felt as if she must be in a dream. Wax candles, with pink shades, were set about in groups; the walls and furniture were decorated with rich embroideries and Eastern stuffs, and beautiful flowers were massed together on tables and mantel. Fleecy had been freshly washed, and was ornamented with a gay pink ribbon tied in an enormous bow at the back of her neck, suspending a little gold bell, which tinkled as she walked about with her great tail in the air. A glowing wood fire burned on the hearth, and on a white fur rug, which had been spread in front of it, stood Mimi. The metamorphosis in her was quite as startling as in the room. She was dressed in a scant and clinging little gown of white crêpe, half-low about the throat, from which a fall of creamy lace hung down. It was loosely gathered in about the waist by a silver girdle, and had great flowing sleeves, from which her little hands came out divested of all ornament, except her wedding-ring. Her tiny feet were cased in white slippers worked with silver. But the wonder of it all was her face. It was nothing short of radiantly beautiful this evening. Her eyes sparkled and her cheeks were pink as roses. Her hair, instead of being twisted, as usual, into a decorous knot, was falling free about her shoulders. It was not long, but curly and fluffy as a child’s.

“You look about twelve years old,” was Mrs. Bryan’s comment.