Democratic Sentinel, Volume 9, Number 16, Rensselaer, Jasper County, 15 May 1885 — A LUCKY MISTAKE. [ARTICLE]

A LUCKY MISTAKE.

BY EBEN E. REXFORD.

I was in love! Rather a startling confession to begin a story with, isn’t it ? But the confession cannot strike the reader whom I take thus frankly into my confidence at the outset, any more startlingly than the fact of my being in this predicament me. The way it came about was this: Mrs. Townsend gave the last party -of the season. “Everybody”—that is, the everybody who was considered anybody in fashionable society—was getting ready to go out of town in a week or two, and, of course, we of the “upper crust” must attend this last meeting of the elite. I had been absent from the city for some time, and my friend, Tom JLeslie, told me that I had missed a good deal by my absence. “Why, old fellow,” he” said, enthusiastically, “we’ve had a charming addition to our set since you went away. Two of them, in fact, but one so overshadows the other that we’re quite apt to forget the minor one, you see, when we speak of it. Just array yourself in purple and fine linen, so to speak, and I’ll intro- • duce you to the beauty of the season, at Mrs. Townsend’s.” I had no objection to this, and accordingly 1 got myself up in fine style, and went to the party, prepared to see and be seen; to conquer, perhaps, who knew? The reader will probably get the idea from this that I considered myself rather irresistible. I shall plead guilty to the charge. I was just as much of a fool in those days as most young men like myself are at some ■ %tage of their existence. I was by no means bad-looking. Hadn’t my glass told me that often enough ? I could talk society nonsense as well as the best of them—or the worst, for that matter. I had a serene confidence in the ability of my tailor, and I could dance, and—well, ”in short, I felt my importance a good deal more than I •suppose other people did. But since 1 had a firm conviction that others took me at my own estimate of myself I was ■very well satisfied with the world. “There she is.” whispered Tom to me, as we entered the room; “that .young. lady in blue. You’re a judge of such things, Sediey; now tell me if you don’t think she quite gets away with any other woman here ?” Tom was rather slangy in his talk, I am sorry to sav. I was struck at the first glance. Blonde women always had a peculiar fascination for me. Miss Stanfield was a blonde of the purest type. Tall, with a willowy grace in every motion and gesture. Her complexion was of a rare creamy tint agd smoothness, deepening into faint rose-color on the cheeks. Her eyes were blue—just the eyes to say to any man as susceptible as I was, “I want you for my slave; therefore, make up your mind that 1 am going to have you, will ye, nill ye.” There was no “nill ye” in my case. I was prepared to capitulate before I was introduced. “Introduce me at once,” I whispered to Tom. “She’s the most beautiful woman I ever saw.” “In love already ?” asked Tom, as we elbowed our way through the crowd. Be careful, my boy; they do say she’s a regular flirt. Rumor says that young Lensmith offered her

j his heart and his million of money last week, both of which she coolly declined, and Judge Howe is ready to offer her all the heart he has left and his million as soon as he can get a chance to do so. She’s a regular heartbreaker, my boy—and don’t you forget it and let her bring you to her feet, too. Forewarned, forearmed, you know.” “If she wouldn’t take Lensmith, it can’t be money she’s after,” I said. “I didn’t sav she was after anything,” answered Leslie, “She’s merely amusing herself. It’s fun for her, but death to you, you know.” “ ‘A burn’t child dreads the fire.’ ” I quoted to Tom. “You haven’t been singed, havo you?” But by that time we were near Miss Stanfield, and Tom proceeded to introduce us. She smiled on me bewitcliingly, and made room on the sofa beside her. Tom gave me a warning nudge, by way of a reminder of his fatherly advice, and took himself off - . I had heard of love at first sight, but I hadn’t had any faith in the doctrine. But five minutes of Miss Stanfield’s company made a convert of me. I can’t tell you what she said. I don’t know. I was bewildered by her eyes, and her smiles, and her musical voice. I was bewitched. By-and-by some one came and begged Miss Stanfield to sing. Miss Stanfield would be delighted to sing if I would turn the music for her. If! 1 said I would like nothing better, and I escorted her to the piano, wishing the world was a grand piano to be played upon by her charming fingers, and that I might be always privileged to stand at her side and turn her music. Pretty far gone, you see. But I couldn’t help it. “Miss Stanfield’s got young Sedley in tow already,” I heard some one remark, as we went to the piano. “She’ll make short work of him.” I thought, at first, that I would like to punch the speaker’s head for him, but one glance from her divine eyes put that idea to flight. What did I care for such comments ? They arose from jealousy, very likely. I knew from the look that Miss Stanfield gave me that she had heard the remark, for she blushed slightly, as her eyes met mine, for an instant, then wavered, and fell in delightful confusion. At least it was delightful to me. I didn’t give her credit for being the consummate actress she was. How was Ito know that she had brought that mo3t effective glance and blush to, bear on scores of men precisely as she had brought it to bear on me, and always with the same result ? She knew how to use her weapons well. Later in the evenmg I was introduced to her sister. She was a charming girl, I decided at once, but lacking her sisters dash and brilliance. I remember thinking that such a woman ought to make some man a model wife. There was something in her quiet, easy, wellbred way, and truthful, earnest face, that gave me the impression. But her sister outshone her completely. One was a sun, the other a star. I went home from the party feeling that I had met my fate. I felt very well satisfied with the impression I had made on the woman whose face and manner had bewitched me. I met Miss Stanfield and her sister twice after that before they left the city, and each meeting made me more hopelessly in lo>e. But don’t understand, by the use I make of the term hopelessly, that I was without hope. Oh, no. I felt sure of winning, in good time, what had been refused poor Lensmith. I think I thought of him as poor Lensmith, for I felt sorry for him. I knew how deeply he must be disappointed by his defeat; but I had no forebodings of anything like that happening to me. Such fools a pretty woman can make of us, that we think every other man a fool; but we —we aren’t to be taken in as they were, oh, no. They fooled themselves, and afterward laid it to the woman who couldn’t be expected to tell them they mustn’t do it before they Ssked her the ail-important question. If they would be blind, egotistically blind, she couldn’t help it. When I found she was going to Cape May, I declared my intention of going to Cape May, too. “Oh! Miss Stanfield’s going there, isn’t she?” quizzed Tom. “Seems to me I heard a fellow by the name of Sedley declare that Cape May was a bore, about a year ago. Has the place changed, or the man?” “Both, perhaps,” I answered, with an assumption of indifference, for I didn’t just like Tom’s way of talking about my affairs. I slipped off to Cape May the day before the Stanfields did, to avoid the appearance of having followed them. I contrived to be in the veranda of the hotel when they arrived, and was rewarded by a luminous smile from one and a frank little bow from the other. I helped them to alight from the carriage, and managed to whisper to Lucia—l called her that to myself—how delighted I was to know she was to spend a portion of the season at the Cape, which I thought a charming place. At which she smiled upon me in a way that set my silly heart to beating at an alarmingly rapid rate, and said something about always “being happy to be among congenial friends.” There wasn’t much in what she said, but it was the way in which she said it that sent me into the seventh heaven of delight; and that impression hung about me for a long time after that. Until I “got my eyes open,” in fact. 1 shall not attempt to tell what was said and done for the next three weeks. With walks on the beach by day and by moonlight, and sails down the bay, when I seemed to be going straight to fairv-land if Lucia’s eyes happened to be on me, and reading Tennyson and Owen Meredith on the cliffs, in the

j long, delicious afternoons, and evenings full of music and dancing, when I could not get my inamorata »away for a stroll, the time passed swiftly. I could not hope, or at least expect, to monopolize Lucia wholly, and I did not do so. I often found myself tete-a-tete with her sister Mary, and I liked that young lady so well that I pronounced her, next to her sister, the most delightful woman of my acquaintance. I felt sure I should have fallen in love with her if it had not been for Lucia. But I was under the spell of that charmer, and her influence over me was all-powerful. No other woman might hope to attract me greatly while she was in the field, had there been any who felt inclined to do so, which, I told my reflection in the glass, was altogether likely, for I could hardly see how any ordinary woman could be insensible to my attractions. Talk about women as being the vainest things in existence—they are not more so than men are. I know it. Before I began to think of it, they were talking of going to Saratoga or the mountains. When Lucia asked ine if I was not intending to go to Saratoga for a week or two, accompanying the question with a most entrancing smile, I did not hesitate to answer that such had been my intention all along, and I think I added something, as I pressed her hand in the figure of the dance, about being like Ruth of the Bible story—“ Where thou goest,” etc.; and then she said, “How absurd!” but said it in such a way that I felt prepared to swear that I meant every word of it, and a great deal more. “From Saratoga we shall go to the White Mountains for a little rest before returning to the city,” said Lucia. “This butterfly life gets to be tiresome. I want to get away from it and be with nature. I adore nature, don’t you?” I answered, of course, that I did. I was prepared to adore anything she adored, but it struck me as a little strange to think of her getting much enjoyment out of life unless it was full of gavety. Her sister might enjoy nature. I had no doubt she did, but Lucia didn’t strike me as being of the right sort to do so. However, I had implicit confidence in all she said, and so I took it for granted that she was one of those who can look through nature up to nature's God, and find as much enjoyment in doing it as she could in society, and 1 was more than ever convinced of her superiority to ordinary women. To Saratoga we went. Matters had gone on swimmingly at Cape May, and they went on the same at the Springs. I had thought, at the Cape, that I would put my fate to the test, “to win or lose it all,” when we got to this place, but I changed my mind, as we walked under the pines in the park, while the mellow crash of music from the distant band came floating about us, and the moonlight checkered our path—that I would not propose until we were at the mountains. There, with the shadow of Mount Washington falling at our feet, with nature all about us, and mankind in the distance, would be the fitting place to perform that task. I am free to confess that I dreaded it. All men do, I am told, but I should muster up courage when the proper time came, and “go in and win.” I don’t think it ever occurred to me that she would decline the honor I offered her. How could I think that, remembering the smiles she had given me, the thousand nameless encouragements, and my implicit belief in her as being a woman too womanly to trifle with a man’s heart ? Her conduct had been a repetition of the famous “Barkis is-willing ” episode, with a mere change in sex as regarded Barkis. Of course there had been no Barkis-like out-speaking on her part, but the old saying that actions sometimes speak louder than words held good here, I calculated. One day Mary said to me: “Lucia is getting in a hurry to go to the mountains.” I started. Could it be that my darling Lucia had discovered whajk I was thinking of? Had the “mysterious telegraph” that some speculative persons have theorized about as operating between Two souls with but a single thought, Two hearts that beat as one, transmitted to her the thought that bad been entertained by me of late? I looked at Lucia’s sister, as she sat opposite me on the veranda, and met her glance. It was full of a puzzled and half-sad expression. She dropped her eyes beneath my glance, and all at once turned as rosy as an apple-blossom. Again the thought came to me, as often before, of how fortunate some man would be in winning Mary Stanfield for a wife. She looked so fresh in her white muslin, with the bunch of wild daisies at her throat and in her brown hair, that I admired her more than I ever had before, and I told her I had never seen her looking so well. Her brown eyes lit up softly at my words. I liked to see her eyes smile as they did now. Then I saw her look toward Lucia, and a little shadow fell upon her face. I wondered what caused it. The next week the Stanfields left the Springs, and went mountainward. I did not accompany them. I wanted to collect my wits before I laid myself at Lucia’s feet. I wrote out my declaration a dozen times, always failing to get it in satisfactory shape. As a man isn’t likely to propose marriage more than once in his life, I argued that that once ought to see the matter performed in good style. That was why I took so much pains in rehearsing my part of the performance. I recollect that I proposed twice to the bed pos{, once to the umbrella stand, and once to the chandelier, trying to imagine those articles my beloved Lucia.

The idea occurred to me that it would be a good plan to write to her, and, in a measure, prepare her for what she must expect shortly after my arrival. Not but that I felt sure enough that she understood what was coming, but that she might have time and opportunity to think the matter over, if she had not already done so, and be ready to put an end to all suspense by giving me an answer at once. I was so confifident of what that answer would be that I did n„t worry much about jt. - Accordingly, I wrote to her. Here is the epistle, word for word. I have thanked my lucky stars a thousand times since that it was non-committal. How I came to make it sol have no idea. My good angel must have been at my elbow and suggested it tq me; “My Deaii Miss Stanfield: The Springs are dull since you and your sister left them. I shall soon seek the mountains. Do you suppose that I could find a wife there? Ask yotir sister if she knows of any young lady—say a Miss Stanfield, for instance —who would bo willing to change her name for that of Sedley? lam coming to find out about it. Yours forever, “Mask Sedley." “There!” I said, as I folded this very peculiar epistle. “I fancy that’s rather neat and unique. Sholl'know what I mean as well as if I asked her to havo me, though I don’t speak of marriage, in so many words, as connected witli herself. Slightly romantic, and indirect, but it’ll do.” Two days afterward I followed the letter. I learned that the Stanfields were stopping at a quiet place near the village. After tea, as the dusk began to settle about the mountains, I started out to call on them. I can hardly tell how I felt. lam safe in saying that I didn’t feel quite so much at ease as I would have liked to. I think every young man who has been on an ei'rand similar to mine can appreciate my feelings. I can not describe them, beyond the assertion that I felt a kind of alloverish and trembly sensation that took all the confidence I had ever had in myself out of me. There was a large garden near the house, filled with clumps of shrubbery. As I went up the path in the dusk, I heard a voice. I stopped and listened, while my heart gave a very respectable rendition of the “Anvil Chorus” against my ribs. It was—yes, it was Lucia’s voice! “I was so amused,” she was saying, “I couldn’t resist the temptation to have some fun at the poor fellow’s expense. It was wrong, of course, but—you don’t blame mo very much, do you, Tom ?” “Not a bit,” answered the voice of my friend Tom Leslie. “I told him to be careful, and hinted as plainly as I could that he'd make a fool of himself if he didn’t look out; but he wouldh’t lis!en to friendly counsel.” “But I haven’t told you the funniest part of the story yet,” said Lucia, with a laugh that sounded far from musical to me. “He has sent me a letter—l received it yesterday—and in it he says ho is coming to look for a wife, and wants me to ask Mary if she thought ‘a Miss Stanfield’ would change her name for that of Sedley. Won’t he open his eyes when I tell him that I have already promised to marry you—you horrid old Tom, .tou ?” And then followed sounds like a series of mild explosions—kisses, I suppose. They were doubtless pleasant to the parties most intimately concerned, but not to me. Oh, no, thank you, not to me. Pretty soon Lucia went on: “Mary gave me an awful scolding for encouraging the poor fellow. She blames me for it all; but I can’t see why she should. I didn’t tell him to fall in love with me. i’ll tell you something, Tom, that I wouldn’t tell any other living creature, and you musn’t breathe a word of it. You won’t, now, will you?” No, Tom wouldn’t.. “I don’t suppose I ought to tell you, but I’m going to. Ido believe that Mary likes him. I told her so, but she pretended she didn’t understand what I meant. They would make a splendid match. I’ll turn him over to her, if she’ll take him. I’ll have to hint it to him when he comes to propose to me. I say, Tom, I’ll try to arrange it so that you can be hid somewhere, and hear what he has to say.” Then I heard them laugh. I shan’t make any effort to tell you the state of my feelings when they passed on. What’s the use of trying when I couldn’t do the subject justice? If your imagination is very strong you might bring it to bear on the case and think how you would have felt if you had been in my boots, but the imagination will fall short of the reality. Nothing but a personal experience would enable you to understand precisely what my feelings were at that period of my existence. At first I was so astonished, so bewildered, that I couldn’t think clearly. Theh I began to see the truth, and I was disgusted and mad—disgusted with myself for being a fool, and mad at Lucia for fooling me, and at Tom for having won what I had hoped to. I felt sick of life. I wanted to die then and there, and let the little robins cover the poor foolish babe in the woods with leaves that should typify his “faded.hopes,” etc. Thfn I began to cast about in my mind as to how I could turn the tables on Lucia. Thank fortune, I hadn’t proposed yet! The probabilities were that I never should to her at least. She should be cheated of the crowning triumph of her pleasure. But—and this thought made me grate my teeth—folks would think I had proposed to her all the same, unless by some miraculous and brilliant maneuver I con-

11 rived to show them how much they I were mistaken. What if I should propose to Mary ? If I were to do that and she were to accept me, Lucia’s anticipated triumph would be changed into defeat. Somej how, as I thought the matter over, I i found myself almost glad, that Lucia 1 had deceived me. I had been fortuni ate, very fortunate, in finding out the truth just as I did. All at once the spell she had exerted over me faded and was gone, and I found my heart turning to Mary. I half thought I had | cared most for Mary all the while, but Lucia had bewitched me so that I didn’t know my own mind. Just then I heard Mary’s voice, singing an old song softly, down the path. That decided me. I walked toward her. I met her, and put out my hand, saving, softly; “Good-evening. Mary." She said good-evening, with a voice that had a little tremble in it. “I—l want to tell you something,” she said, hurriedly. “I am too good a friend to you to not tell you the truth. You wi’ote to Lucia. You told her to ask me a question. If you were to ask me that question, for yourself, I should tell you to ask no questions of Lucia; that is, no—no—no important questions. You know what i mean, I am sure. You must pardon mo for this seeming intrusion upon your affairs, but—as I said—l am your friend, and I would spare you pain. Lucia is already engagaged, and has beeh amusing herself with you.” Here Mary’s voice was full of indignation. “Do not give her the satisfaction of refusing you.” “Mary,” I said, tenderly—l hope I shall be forgiven the deception 1 began then and carried through—“you are as much in the dark as Lucia, is. I came to ask you the same question that 1 told Lucia to, with some trifling variations in it. Do you think Mary Stanfield would change her name for mine? Don’t misunderstand mo—as Lucia haa —1 want you. Don’t you suppose I know of her engagement to Tom Leslie bo loro you told me?” (How long, Mark Sedley ? Answer that if you dare,!) “Lucia has been so used to fooling others that she has not seemed to think it possible that any ono elso can play at the same game. I suppose I ought to be ashamed to admit it, for I presume you haven’t a very good opinion of a male flirt, but—l mean to be frank with you, Mary. Do you say yes to my question ?” I wonder the words did not choke me! Such a glad light as came into her eyes! She lifted them to me questioningly, doubtingly, hopefully. “1 am in earnest, Mary. I want you! Tom’s welcome to Lucia. She could never make me happy. 1 want tou or no one.” “If you are sure that you really want me—” she began. 1 cut the sentiment short by kissing her. That moment wo heard steps coming near. “ft’s Lucia and Tom,” whispered Mary. “What do you suppose she'll say when she finds out? Are you sure, quite sure?” She could hardly believe I was in earnout, after all. “You’ll see how sure I am,” I answered, putting my arm about her. By that time Lucia and Tom were dose by. “Good-evening, Miss Stanfield,”“l said. “Gocd-evening, Tom. I have asked the question I told you to ask Mary, myself.”—this to Lucia—“and she has made me the happiest of men by answering yes. Allow me to present the future Mrs. Mark Sedley. Ci ngratulate us, and we’ll congratulate you. Oh,Tom,you sly dog, didyou th nk I couldn’t see what you wore up to ?” I said all this very coolly. I was conscious of holding the best trump-card of this little game in my own hands, and the consciousness put me at ease. Lucia heard me through wit)i a changeable expression of face. Surprise, chagrin, defeat —all were there. Tom was surprised, too. Had I really been fooling Lucia ail the while, instead of being fooled by her ? It certainly appeared so. However, they were sensible enough to not ask any questions or express any curiosity as to what my motives had, or had not, been. They saw that I had come out ahead, and they accepted matters with the best grace possible, and a double congratulation followed. It may have been lacking cordiality so far as Lucia was concerned, but I could afford to overlook that. She hadn’t got over the bewilderment occasioned by the discovery of—she couldn’t tell what. And I couldn’t have told, either, if she had applied to me for information. She went about with an exceedingly puzzled look on her face for ttvo days. I think she finally concluded—seeing how devoted I was to Mary, and how happy I seemed to be, and was—that I was a “deep one.” I thank my lucky stars, every day, that I got Mary instead of her 'sister. It was a very old Spanish writer who said that “a woman is quite perfect and absolute in beauty who has thirty good points. ” Here they are: Three things white—the skin, the teeth, the hands. Three lilac f—the eyes, the eyebrows, and eyelashes. Three red—the lips, the cheeks, the nails. T hree long—the body, the hair, the hands. Three short -the teeth, the ears, tho feet. Three broad—the chest, the brow, the space between the eyebrows. Three narrow—the mouth, tho waist, the instep. Three large—the arms, the hip, the calf. Three fine—th- fingers, the,ha r, the lips. Throe small—the breast, the nose, the head. When you speak .evil of others, you must be prepared to have others speak evil of you. There is an old Buddhist proverb which says: “He who indulges in enmity is like one who throws ashes to windward, which come back to the same place and cover him all over."