A WOMAN ONE DOES NOT MEET EVERY DAY.
"Gone--and I always loved that girl so well,
Gone--like the old proverbial fair gazelle;
Or like the piece of toast so broad and wide,
That always tumbles on the buttered side."
--Anon.
"Burpee, my dear son, be careful in your choice of a wife; it is an
event in life which every young man should look into with all possible
keenness of judgment; and, my dear boy, I beg of you to be very
careful."
Lady Streathmere taps her silver-headed cane on the deep piled, plush
carpet. She is very anxious about the person who is to be the future
bride of her wayward son.
"Yes, mother, you are very good about giving your advice, but I hope I
have sense enough to understand what I am doing. I know my own mind,
too, although you seem to think I don't."
Lady Streathmere feels hurt; she looks past her son, out the window into
the garden, where the pretty flowers have faded and died by the frost's
bitter, chilly blast.
"'In buying horses and taking a wife, shut your eyes and commend
yourself to God,' is an old Italian proverb, often quoted by your
father; it contains all that is necessary, my son. I will leave your
choice in hands higher and better than mine."
Burpee, Lord Streathmere, laughs gaily; he has become so accustomed to
those little lectures from his mother that they go in one ear and out
the other.
"Well really, mother, I actually believe my fate is sealed, at last; the
girl I have selected, is a woman you don't meet every day."
The sweet perfume of mignonette and roses float through the long,
handsome rooms, from the lovely vases fixed around in such sweet,
artistic profusion. Lady Streathmere sighs. Whatever is she to do if
Burpee brings home a wife whom she will blush to present to her friends?
"Who is she?" she asks, faintly, after a moment's reflection.
"She is a sister in the convent of St. Marguerite, one of the best and
noblest of women. I know, when you know her goodness, you will say the
same." Lord Streathmere leaves the mantel, where he has been standing,
and goes over to the table, where his mother sits.
"Oh, my son, my son," she moans, "is it so bad as that? You surely are
trying to jest with me."
"No, mother, not jesting. If she will have me I intend to marry her,
although I have never spoken to her."
"Heaven grant you never may," groans Lady Streathmere. She is in an
agony of doubt; it is even worse than she had expected.
"I was so sure you would take a fancy to Rea Severn. Such a nice, pretty
girl; although there was none I should have liked better for a daughter
than charming Dolores Litchfield. I think you are very cruel, Burpee, to
treat your poor old mother so."
Burpee is busy selecting a fragrant rose to pin in his coat; it is more
than probable he has not taken in all his mother has been saying.
"I never saw any girl looking so wretched as Rea Severn; I wonder what
ails the girl?" asks Lady Streathmere.
"I should be very thankful, if I were you, that my son had enough
discretion not to marry a girl who is killing herself by eating opium,"
Lord Streathmere says, deciding on a cream instead of a pink rose. "As
for Dolores, she did me the honor to refuse me, but in such a nice way
that, 'pon my word, I forgot to feel bad over it."
Burpee, Lord Streathmere, possesses a good, though rather effeminate
face, and now, when lit up by enthusiasm, he looks the ideal of an easy,
good-tempered fellow, of whom any mother might well be proud. Certainly
Mrs. St. James must have exaggerated when she had described him as a
"horrid, quarrelsome little boy"; for a better, nor a more peaceful
young man never existed.
"Burpee, how dare you speak so unkindly of Rea Severn, who has always,
to my knowledge, been beyond reproach," Lady Streathmere says, sternly.
"Mrs. St. James is a friend of mine, and I am sure Arial never mentioned
such a thing." To be sure, she had heard many people remark about Rea's
complexion, her scarlet cheeks and the feverish looking sparkle in her
eyes, but the girl was always in such high spirits, she never seemed
ill, and Lady Streathmere always understood opium eaters were nervous;
altogether it all seems very perplexing. Burpee strides over to the
piano and fusses around among the music.
"Everyone knows it, and I dislike Mrs. St. James most heartily." Burpee
dashes off into a breezy little ballad that used to be a favorite of
Dolores, and Lady Streathmere leaves the room. She has no patience with
the boy when he is in a mood like the present. Lord Streathmere dislikes
being left alone, so he goes down town, and meets Sir Barry Traleigh.
"Look here, Sir Barry," he says, taking the Scotchman's arm, "Will you
get me acquainted with Sister Jean? I am going to marry that girl, if
she will have me. Day after day I have watched her go on her dreary
visit to the jail to see Fanchon. Such devotion I never heard of. I want
you to plead my cause for me, to my mother. Tell her the girl's story;
you are more plausible about such things than I am." Sir Barry looks
amused.
"What will Lady Streathmere say?" he asks.
"I want you to tell her, and get me acquainted as soon as you can; will
you?" Sir Barry looks at his watch.
"I am afraid it will be no use Streathmere. Her first taste of married
life has been so bitter, it is very doubtful if she would care to try it
a second time." Lord Streathmere looks distressed, and Sir Barry goes
on. "Of course I don't want to discourage you, but you will do well to
be prepared for a refusal."
The pretty little Bijou Theatre is ablaze with lights, brilliant jewels
and handsome women. And over there in a box sits Lady Streathmere, and
leaning over her plush chair back stands handsome Sir Barry Traleigh.
Many pairs of bright, eager eyes are levelled upon this society
favorite. But alas for them, Sir Barry is too deeply interested, by what
he is saying, to be conscious of the flattering scrutiny. He is relating
Jantie's sad love story to the high bred looking lady.
"What a brave, forgiving, sympathetic girl." There are tears in Lady
Streathmere's kind eyes. She feels deeply interested in the story of
this girl, whom Sir Barry Traleigh has been telling her about.
"She it is whom Burpee has decided to select for his wife." Sir Barry
has been ordered by Lord Streathmere to tell his mother, and this is the
way he tells her.
The music and acting go on, but Lady Streathmere, sitting there in her
beautiful silk and lace dress, waving the feather fan she holds, pays no
heed to anything but the words Sir Barry is uttering. No one could have
told her better, for she had Sir Barry's word for it, that the woman who
was to bear their old ancient name, was a woman faithful, honest, and
true. So she thanked heaven Jantie was as good as Sir Barry said she
was, and Lady Streathmere had to make up her mind to do the best she
could with her future daughter-in-law.
"You will never have cause to feel ashamed of her, Lady Streathmere.
Jantie is a lady in every sense of the word, but I feel rather certain
that Burpee will find it a difficult matter to cage his pretty bird."
"Why?" Lady Streathmere asks, coldly. She is at a loss to see why
anyone, let alone a poor, friendless girl like Miss Mackeith, should
have the audacity to hesitate a moment when considering a match like
Burpee, Lord Streathmere.
"Do not misunderstand me, Lady Streathmere. When you come to consider
that the girl knows nothing of the honor in store for her, you will see
there is some weight in my remark," he says, stiffly. He is not going to
allow Lady Streathmere to snub him in that tone.
"Silly boy," she says playfully; going on earnestly, "you will pardon a
mother's pride and anxiety. I did not wish to wound you, Sir Barry; you
have told me very kindly, but I cannot help wishing that Burpee could
have trusted his mother enough to have told me, what you have done,
himself."
So when Burpee comes in later his mother greets him with a smiling look,
and the faint-hearted lad knows Sir Barry has overcome all his
difficulties for him, as far as Lady Streathmere's anger was concerned.
The next day, when Lord Streathmere, accompanied by Sir Barry, called at
the convent of St. Marguerite, they heard that Sister Jean had been
called away, to take charge of a person who was ill. Nothing could be
learned about her farther. She had gone, and it was against the rules of
the convent to give information to strangers concerning the habits or
whereabouts of the inmates. Lord Streathmere was disconsolate. She was
gone, and he had loved her so well. Now what was to become of him? It
required Sir Barry's deepest chaffing powers to be called into play, in
order to keep the disappointed boy from falling into despair.