Democratic Sentinel, Volume 1, Number 27, Rensselaer, Jasper County, 17 August 1877 — THE STORY OF A RING. [ARTICLE]

THE STORY OF A RING.

It seemed to me the most unfortunate position in the world. I had arrived, about ten minutes before, at the house of an aunt whom Iliad never seen, and who was sick. I was to be her nurse and companion. Her servant had shown me into |his wretched trap, as I now called it in anguish of spirit, though it was really a pretty, cheerful little room, opened by a curtained arch from the parlor, informing me that the, housekeeper would be there immediately to conduct me to my aunt. And here was I, an utter stranger, assistin'* at a lover’s quarrel. Two persons had entered the room an instant after I seated myself. It was twilight, and the lamps were not yet lighted, I was wholly invisible, and they evidently imagined themselves to possess the solitude befitting their conversation. “ This farce may as well end here,” had said a woman’s voice at the moment of her crossing the threshold. “ For my part lam weary of the play. Ino longer love you, and I will not pretend affection merely to flatter your vanity, which is as limitless as your impertinence in persisting in attentions that you see I detest.” It was the most intolerably proud voice that could be imagined. “ I still love you, and you know it. And I have far too much faith in your former professions to credit the words put into your mouth by the anger of an unfortunate moment. You are utterly mistaken in your supposition. My love for you is always ” “ Your love for me ! Your love !” with an accent of angry scorn that defies description. “Never dare to mention to me again a word that you cannot comprehend. It is an insult to me to hear it —an insult that I will not-endure. And to'Ciire your apprehension of my repentance, let me tell you that I, who know the meaning of this word that you utter so glibly—l love some one else.” She stepped swiftly to the window and threw it open. There, was an instant’s silence. There was audible the rustle of her sleeve as she tossed something from her with force.

“ I have thrown your ring away,” she explained, with a nonchalance in extraordinary contrast with her former violence. “I threw it toward the cistern. Possibly it has slipped through some ere vice or other, ami gone down into the water. I hope so. In that case it is impossible that the sight of it can ever again insult me with the remembrance that I have worn it. Permit me to wish you an exceedingly good evening.” It was easy to imagine the mocking reverence of the courtesy she now swept him; tljen she was gone. Immediately altar, and silently, he also left the apartment. They did not go too soon, whoever they were. A cold perspiration dampened my forehead; I really trembled. The vehemence of the feeling engaged, the certainty felt by the actors of their complete isolation, and my own iniiocent guilt in overhearing, all quite overpowered mo.

Half a minute did not elapse after the last, sound of the gentleman’s footsteps before the parlor door again opened, and a prim little woman entered, with a lamp in her hand. She looked in all the corners, as one might search for a pockethandkerchief, and at last perceived the newcomer. “Ah, miss, I have kept yon waiting quite a time, to be sure ! But your aunt took a sudden notion to put mustard draughts on her ankles—though Dr. Richardson had just gone, and he never thought of ordering them ! —and have ’em she must. And I supposed you’d be comfortable here. ” “ Quite comfortable, thank you. The servant said you would come presently.” “Well, you’d best have some tea before you see your aunt. She told me to give you some. I shall try to find something you like, though what with all these people flying about the house th;d nave got no business here—this company, I mean—l don’t know whctheJl I’m on my head or feet.” I received the refreshments she brought me gratefully, after which I was conducted to my aunt’s room. Consideration for’the feelings of other people was not one of the old lady’s characteristics, and, after a few disparaging remarks on my personal appearance, I was dismissed for the night. The sun was just rising next morning when I took courage to step outside and look about me. The grass was very wet with dew, but how it sparkled in the fresh light I AU at once I stopped and stared before me. There, glittering in the grass, lay the ring. I stood like one fascinated, gazing at it very foolishly, for I knew well what ring it was. Presently, I heard some one calling far off, and, not stopping to think, I picked the ring up, and ran back to the house, all trembling. At breakfast I endeavored to discover the hero and heroine of last evening’s drama. Two of the ladies were sisters, tall, languid blondes, very beautifully dressed and very dainty. They trifled elegantly with their knives and forks, and carried on airy, summer morning flirtations with two gentlemen who were each dark, and, like the ladies, dressed with care a little too exquisite. The third lady, Miss Huntingdon, was alittle person, with soft, pleasant, vivacious manners, in whose conversation was always a concealed sarcasm. But it was far too indifferent and too good-natured to belong to the lady of last night. Besides, her sweet, mocking voice was as different as possible from the deep, passionate tones that had so thrilled me. And of the four gentlemen present, eer-

tainly neurone of them at all resembled the portrait I had painted for my hero. I was puzzled and felt sadly guilty again, as I thought of the ring laying all silently there in my pocket, and carrying everywhere with it a story which I knew and had no right to know. Day followed day, and the days melted gradually into weeks. When the novelty of my position was over it proved not nearlv so terrible as it had seemed at first. Aunt Agnes said many harsh things, but she did not mean them all, and the goodness of her heart compensated in some measure for the asperities of her tongue. I saw a great deal of Dr. Richardson. He was more than kind. He thought my life lonesome and joyless, and brought the many books that I had longed for, and interested himself in the little things that happened, talking with me often, and always leaving me happier than he found me.

But there was one thing that troubled me much. I sometimes fancied—and with unaccountable distress—that in Dr. Richardson I had discovered the owner of the ring. Certain tones of his voice pierced me like a sudden pain, they carried me back so vividly to that unfortunate hour in the dim little alcove. Yet, when I looked into his face again, and into his eyes, so content, so frankly happy, this imagination melted into a sweeter dream. But it returned again and again, and always with deeper pain. The visitors I found on my arrival were long since gone. Miss Huntingdon lived in the neighborhood; and it would, perhaps, be proper to say that we were become quite intimate, had not all the talk and revelation been on her side. I, for my part, had had no adventures, and it seemed to me not interesting to offer theories to one who could narrate facts. One day she upbraided me for my want of confidence, but I really had nothing to tell, until at last I bethought myself of the story of the ring. “ How very curious,” cried Miss Huntingdon, when I had ended, her brown eyes opened wide. “Do let me see it. I shall certainly know it if I have ever seen it before.”

So I took it from the case where it lay glittering, and put it into her hands. And it was with a strange, foolish pang that I saw het 1 examine it, and heard her chatter concerning it. She looked at it with unfeigned interest. “It is really beautiful,” she said, “and most uncommon. No, there is not one among my acquaintances that I have ever seen wear such a ring. It is the oddest thing ! And it all happened the evening you arrived ?” She had turned quite away from me, and was looking out of the window. I could not see her face at all. “ Miss Huntingdon,” I said, gravely, with an emotion which I concealed as well as I was able, “ will you answer me a question trutlifully ?” “Any question that a friend should ask, I will answer truthfully.” She did not turn toward me as she spoke. “ Well, then, was it not yourself who threw this ring away ?” Now she did turn, and looked me frankly in the eyes. “Truthfully, it was not I.” “ Thank you—oh, thank you !” Why did I furtively kiss the ring ? Why, if she had said “Yes,” would I, in turn, have thrown it passionately away ? Ah ! the reader guesses. It was perhaps a fortnight after that that I sat alone at my window watching the sun set beyond the hills, white with snow, but seeing it as one sees in a dream. All my thoughts were wandering toward a happy hour last evening, when Dr. Richardson had asked me to be his wife.

From thence the days flew by like a dream. They were so happy, but so short—that was all I had to complain of ; and they too rapidly brought near a day that I longed for and yet dreaded. And—it is a sad confession—for the first time in my life I looked at myself often in the mirror. It seemed as if I had suddenly grown almost pretty. There was a pink color in my checks; my pale eyes had darkened and brightened. One day—think how foolish ! —I really leaned over and kissed my own lips ; it seemed so delightful to be a little handsome that I felt grateful to the mirror. “Do you wish I were beautiful?” I said one afternoon to Dr, Richardson, with a wistful longing that he should tell me he thought so. We were standing near the open door of the parlor, just as he was taking leave. “Indeed I do not,” he answered frankly. “ I love you just as you are.” That was pleasant, but not what I wished to hear. “ But do not you wish I wore as handsome as—as Miss Huntingdon, for instance?” I persisted. “Think how bright and laughing her brown eyes are. And what a gay color rises in her cheeks when she is excited I iShe looks aflame sometimes.”

“She does, indeed,” said Richardson, smiling; “but lam not a salamander. I have no wish that you should resemble her. Miss Huntingdon is too—” “ To excellent for this.world?” cried that lady’s laughing voice outside. She had just entered the hall, and stopped a moment at the parlor door. * ‘ Good afternoon, Dr. Richardson. Is the patient up stairs better to-day ? I am on my way to see her. I shall not take you with me, Agnes, in order to earn Dr. Richardson’s good opinion over again—for once he had a good opinion of me.” She looked in at him sideways and laughed. She was wonderfully pretty this afternoon—all sparkle and glow. There was an instant's, but only.an instant’s, odd restraint in Dr. Richardson’s manner ; then he said, quite gravely, “ You have not forfeited my good opinion, Miss Huntingdon.” “The truth is, Dr. Richardson,” said Miss Huntingodn, her face all lighted with saucy, inward laughter—“ the truth is, vou owe me a debt of gratitude deeper than you can ever repay. Tell me now frankly, if it were not far me, would you be at this moment the nappy man you are ?” “.Frankly, I would not.” Dr. Richardson was very serious. Even Miss Huntingdon seemed to veil some feeling under her gay manner. I was troubled.

“Why do you talk in riddles?” I asked. “Do not you know that I have no talent for guessing ?” “At least you shall not cultivate it just now, dear,” said Miss Huntingdon. “Dr. Richardson will tell you when I am gone. I must go to your aunt. Jt docs her good to scold me.” She turned away and moved a step or two, and then looked back with a changed face. “Agnes,” she said, wistfully, “would you mind kissing me ?” “Mind kissing you? What a question. But you are not going away immediately?” “ Oh, I don’t know. Perhaps I had better bid you good-by now.” She kissed me twice. “Good-by!” she said. Absolutely, the spark in her eye was quenched in dew. “Agnes,” she said, with a.n odd sort of half-laughing seriousness, “if you should ever come to think that Ananias was a moral character in comparison with myself, it would be impossible for you to love me any more, would it not ? But let me assure you, my dear, that some stories are told with the best possible intentions.”

Then she left us. “ What can she mean, dear ?” I asked, turning in wonder to Dr. Richardson. He led me to the chair I had quitted, and placing me there again stood before me. “Agnes, she means me to confers to you something that you need never have known. And yet, perhaps, it is better that you should. She means (hat I oilec loved her.” '' . (J

He went on talking for alew minutes, but Ido not know what he said. My hands were cold, and objects before my eyes were blurred. She had deceived me. It was to her and to him I had listened that evening so long ago. He had loved her. I, who had heard him declare it, knew the depth of sincerity in the voice that told her so. Had he sought my love only as a solace for the wound that she had inflicted ? Friend and lover—were both to fail me ? “Have you nothing to say, Agnes? Why do you not answer me ?” “ Wait for one moment,” I replied, hearing my voice, but hardly recognizing it. “I will answer you when I return.”

I left him abruptly, going slowly up stairs, my heart feeling broken. I got the ring and came down, not trembling at all, quite quiet, with that dreadful calm which accepts despair. In the blind jealousy of the moment it seemed impossible that he could really love me, having once loved her. “It is usual, I believe,” I said with some sort of a smile, “to break an engagement by returning a ring. Would you like that ours should be broken so ? Tliis is your ring; is it not?” “ What do you mean, Agnes? Where did you get this ring?” cried Dr. Richardson in great surprise. “ 1 was in the alcove there the night that Miss Huntingdon threw it away. I found it in the garden next morning. I heard all that you both said. But she has deceived me. She said, when I asked her, that tliis ring was never hers. And you have deceived me; you told me you loved me.” In another moment the sob in my voice would have given way to miserable childish tears. But Dr. Richardson folded nJfc in his arms and kissed me, laughing. > That comforted me more than any weirds could have done. Yes. When he had talked to me an hour or two, particularly when he had reassured me as to the grounds upon which I held his love, I freely forgave her. Sitting there in the delicious twilight, with that dear voice sounding so lovingly in my ears, whom and what could I not have forgiven ? And then, in the dusk, I hear her light footsteps on the stair, and the rustle of her dress. “ Poor, trusting little one !” he cried. “ The whole world is in conspiracy again st. you; is not it? I shall play my role to the end, however and say that I love you forever. And cannot you forgive Miss Huntingdon ? Is not she right when she says that I owe my happiness to her ? And she may have told the story that grieves you for the very purpose of making us happy. Cannot you forgive her ?” “ Come in, dear Miss Huntingdon,” I cried, “ and let me kiss you once more. I have your ring on my finger, and love you more than I ever did in my life.” And we have been friends all our days until now.— Harper's Weekly.