Rensselaer Republican, Volume 18, Number 48, Rensselaer, Jasper County, 5 August 1886 — A. FAIRY OF THE STORM. [ARTICLE]

A. FAIRY OF THE STORM.

BY ELLA A. GILES.

“Yon are Retting very wet. Come under xnv umbrella.” voice had a more peremptory ring than I intended, and my abruptness probably startled her; for she quickly turned;, rolled her large and lustrous black eyes upward until their questioning gaze met mine, and, looking charmingly defiant, answered: “No, 1 thank you, sir.” She hastily dodged but from under the protecting cover held over her head, She looked like a little nun, but showed a spirit hot quite in keeping with the role of earthly saintship. As if half repenting the suddenness of her decision, or her ungracious manner, she paused, and glancing into my face, explained, with deferential sweetness: “You see, I have my gossamer.” With a pretty nod and the remotest suggestion of a courtesy she swiftly passed me. How lonesome I felt under that deserted umbrella! In order to escape the raindrops that pelted me in the face, I had to hold it squarely in front, and thus lose sight of the form upon which my eyes had rested, momentarily, in pleksed interest. I wanted to encounter those bright, speaking orbs again. The flushed cheeks, oh, how pretty they were! And the frizSes or bangs of black hair that the rain did not spoil, as they peeped coquettishly out from the queer little rubber hood, puckered all around the plump, mobile face! And, too, those charming little feet, which even sandals a size too large could not make ungainly; and the red petticoat that I could not help catching a glimpse of, as she slipped slightly in trying to evade me—what an impression these trifling details had made upon me, or my enraptured retina! I peered one side of my weeping umbrella often enough to see that she did not entirely escape my watchful and eager search. For no other reason than that the impulse was quite irresistible, I continued my frantic efforts to keep her in sight I feared she might enter one of the numerous shops or stores, and I should after all lose track of her. The storm increased in violence. Bain fell in torrents, and the wind blew strongly. I wondered why she did not stop under some of the awnings. She really was too reckless of the consequences of a drenching. I felt strangely solicitous and almost painfully apprehensive. Gradually I began to find solace in the thought that she had her “gossamer.” 1 knew not what it was. But she could 1 - not hpoken with that assurance of entire safety,. had she not possessed a magic charm of some kind, calculated to counteract the effects of dampness. t Suddenly a gust of wind blew off my cap. It was a new seal-skin cap that my aunt had sent me from Vermont But it was not owing to that fact that my heart gave an anxious leap and throb as I saw it lodged in the gutter. Inside the precious article of head-gear had been deftly fastened a beautiful pink satin band, bearing my initials, exquisitely painted in eloquent little forget-me-nots, that spoke volumes of delicate sentiment every time I donnbd the cap. I could not forget the donor of the band, anyway; for I was deeply in love with her, or imagined myself to be, which amounted to the same thing. I thought of her almost constantly. A lover's alternating hopes and fears had often elated and depressed me; the latter influence was felt most frequently because I had been warned that pomatumed locks were ruinous to pale pink ribbon, and yet _had. persisted in oij<ing my hair occasionally from sheer force of habit And there was my seal-skin cap. the last present received from a sainted ■ relative, and the receptacle of that daintily wrought and fondly cherished device, lying upside down in the muddy, merciless gutter, with all its sweet suggestiveness in danger of being forever spoiled. I fished it out from the filthy harbor into which the falling rain had driven it, using the crooked handle of my umbrella for the purpose. While making an effort to secure the fated treasure, however, J was literally drenched I felt in dismay that I was taking cold, and as I stood there rubbing the mud off from Or into my saturated seal-skin, with a ■ piece of newspaper, I really began to experience preliminary pneumoniae pains. “Oh,” thought I, enviously. “If I only had some gossamer, or a gossamer, or the extract of gossamer, or whatever it might be, to take, perhaps *twould counteract the effect of this soaking." My mind, you perceive, immediately reverted to the girl who had recklessly refused the proffered shelter of my umbrella, not the girl that the umbrella had done such good service in capturing (by means of the very ribbon she had decorated, my valuable possession. As I placed the cap

on my head, I wn* conscious of a thrill of gratitude at its re* (oration, although its condition waa amusingly; pathetic, and pa- | theticaily amusing. 1 rejoiced for the sake sos my departed relative! Htrnnge that the tender ey*»rjf the tear-atnined for-get-me-nota should haye stirred in me the emotion, apd that, 1 should have thoughtlessly jammed the cap closer on my wet pate as I eagerly hurried on, hoping to overtake the young lady with the cabalistic potion, or eusigua, or, what was it? 1 puzzled my poor brain vainly, I could not guess what peculiar charm she carried, or possessed, that gave her such courage in braving the elements. As I leaned forward, trying to keep her in sight, I realized, with i a pang of regret, that my eap escapade had I caused me to miss her. Had she, bent on some errand'of righteous economy, entered the “99-cent store?” or had the adjoining “Ladies Bazaar” or the “Fair" just beyond entangled her in its mysterious mazes? Possibly she had turned a corner, and I had lost Her forever. My disappointment increased my interest, which deepened to intensity. I quickly opened the first door I reached, that of a drug store. A lady stood in the rear. She had on one of those same conventional flowing black garments. My eyes and my intuitions agreed. It was the person I sought. While waiting to settle some conflicting doubts that arose regaiding so lucky a fact, I was accosted by an attentive clerk. “Anything I can do for yon?" “Somewhat confused,” I answered without premeditation or prevarication, “Who is she? Do yon know?” “Whnt? Whom? Where?” he asked, blankly, and his stupidity saved me. I turned my back upon the indistinct form of the lady standing in a remote part of the room and asked in rather uncertain tones, “Do you keep—gossamers?” “No, I think not,” he slowly replied, “I’ll see though,” eyeing me somewhat distrustfully, as if my intentions might be suicidal. He deliberately approached the bookkeeper of the not very pretentious establishment, who sat at a high desk, with a pen behind his ear, chewing something unmistakably good, and supposed to be jujube paste or cassia buds. I wished I had inquired for something equally aromatic and harmless. “No,” answered the individual addressed, “we don’t keep gossamers here,” and he went on with his chewing. Then he added with gratuitous accommodation, “I think you’ll be apt to find them at the hardware store, or the—the—really I don’t quite know what you want. But we don’t keep them, anyway.” “Strikes me ’tain’t no drug,” said an old gentleman leaning over the counter, and looking at me quizzically. “Strikes me you’re after vail stuff. They keep that at the milliner’s, not at drug stores.” “I thought at first you might mean a book,” said the clerk, whom I had dared to question on entering. “I read a review of one with some such title the other day; saw ’dt'wdvertised for sale somewhere, but " have forgotten just where.” “Of one thing I am positive," I answered, “books are never used as weather protectors, or in the place of umbrellas,” and with the clefk gazing at me Suspiciously, I began to examine a lot of antiquated almanacs lying on the counter, just to pass away the time of, waiting, I was still in a state of suspense 1 .” Very soon the lady, having made her purchase, sailed up the store. No, I had not been mistaken. It was the same radiant little Creature. Her face suddenly lighted up with amusement as she met my glance. Then she became preternaturally serious and poised her head like a little queen as she gave me a quick eye-beam of serio-comic indignation. Whether she had smiled because I asked for gossamers, or simply because of our second encounter, I could not tell. Seized with a desire to hide my peculiar infatuation, though fully convinced that I had not overestimated the lady’s prettiness, I hurried regretfully out of the -store as if called away by important business. I had no sooner turned my steps in an opposite direction than I paused and began to wish that I had lingered in the drug store until the atomic “great unknown” had passed out. I actually suffered from the fear that I might never see her bewitching face again. Its piquancy haunted me, pleased me, enchanted me. I heard the door close and longingly looked back. I was rewarded only with the vision of a burly negro standing in front of the dingy show-windows. Walking down the street in front of ine I saw the girl who had given me the painted ribbon. She had no umbrella. With a slightly disturbed conscience, however, I turned around and went back past the side-glances in the necessary abjections to ascertain if the object of my feverish excitement had departed. I saw nothing of her, and was of course ashamed to retrace my steps, so I kept on until I reached the postoffice. In trying to close my umbrella and open the swinging storm-door at one and the same time, I nearly knocked someone down on the other side. “Oh, never mind,” responded the jostled partpquick “I W>your pasdan.’l What cheery, ringing tones! Alas, the door swung on its hinges and slammed in my face, and the’speaker, Whom I had joyfully recognized, disappeared without having seen me at all. I saw her, however, about two minutes later. She was standing near the delivery window. “This was not mine,” she was saying to the clerk, who peered at her with what even I could but feel was unbecoming admiration. “Not yours?” he questioned urbanely. “No sir; my name is not Betsey Brown!” and she handed him a bright yellow envelope, supposed to bear that euphonious superscription. She tossed her hehd, as decidedly as her very peculiarly shaped outer-garment, with its combination hood would allow, and left the young man to console himself as best he might with the rejected missive. I listened delightedly to a suppressed giggle which issued from her rosy lips as she walked away. She had her hand full of mail matter, and tore open ft paper before -reaching the door. I hoped she would carelessly drop the wrapper. But she was either too orderly to litter the floor, or, being in a public place, too discreet to scatter seeds of information that might spring up in grists of advertisements sent by some fortunate possessor of her address. I regretted her cautiousness. •The “day of small things” assumed a new dignity in my estimation. Eow highly and rapidly I was learning to prize trivialities. What wonderful illumination in their spelt, on that dark, dismal, rainy morning. . ■ The 'young lady whose name was not Betsey Brown next entered the public library. I had a semi-contempt for myself for pursuing the unconscious maiden. I was aware of the mild lunacy in my conduct. But the eager chase was exhilarating, and her ignorance of it saved.her from any annoyance. Perhaps the excitement would ward off an attack of neuralgia. I justified my position by many a silent argument. I was soon standing, directly behind the little book-borrower, so quaintly dad. I hoped to obtain some clue to her literary taste, at least. Had she art aspirations? Would she seek something of Buskin, or Hamerton? Possibly she had a scientific turn of mind. It would be rather surprising to hear her ask for the works of Huxley, Darwin, or Spencer, Swedenborg,

j Emerson, or the more ancient philosopher* ; might be sought fqr, thia pure, and, as . I she stood in the quiet, spirit-laden place, so thoughtful maiden; ■ Her face in repose ■; showed refinement, intelligence, and, with ' all its piquancy and prettiness, much strength of I listened intently ns she spoke to the lady at the “Books Issued” counter. “Have you a pin?" she asked. What I wonderful intellectual capacity tehe might ' possess for ought I knew to the contrary!. j No question, it seemed to me, could more effectually protect one’ll .individuality than I that which she had innocently uttered. On receiving the pin sha softly muri mured “Thanks,” and after stopping a moment as if to fasten A torn dress-braid or a ruffle, she glided out on tip-toe. I was tempted to stay in the readingroom awhile, and look over the late magazines, but as soon as the door closed upon her that old “feeling of sadness and longing" which my “soul could not resist,” overcame me. I yielded to it, and again resolved to follow the little fairy of the storm. And such in fact she proved to be. She was nowhere to be seen. The rain had ceased falling. The sun suddenly burst forth from its biding place behind the dispersing clouds, and shone resplendently. Small streams of rushing water and gurgling. foaming little brooklets sparkled in scintillating brightness the length and breadth of the street.. There was a beautiful light, gold and green, resting upon everything, and the scene was weird and picturesque. Many ladies, who had been standing in the shops waiting for the storm to abate, now crowded the walks, but the familiar figure I wished to see was not among them. Many passed who were dressed very much like her, but they looked grotesque. They were either too tall or 100 stout. None had her well-poised head, her dainty feet, nor her lithe, graceful carriage. “Oh, are you waiting for me?” and the girl whom I had been courting for several months, actually took possession of me before 1 knew it by the very truthfulness of her nature and the confiding tenderness of her voice. “Why, how shabby and forlorn you look,” she exclaimed, sympathetically. “And what has happened to your cap?” Of course I explained, with certain resqrva- ' tions of causes, and she credulously thought my depression of spirits was due to the irreparable injuries that my aunt's gift, and more seriously, her own had sustained. ; - . “Nevermind about it. I’ll make you another.” “Another seal-skin cap?” despondently. I had to keep some excuse on hand for my still rueful and ruffled mood. “No, another band of course. You can buy another cap any time. It’s getting too late in the season for yours now, anyway,” consolingly. “Yes,” very slowly and absently. “I suppose it’s getting late. I must hurry over to the office. I’ve lots of work to do to-day. I’ve just been to the postoffice and —” “Oh, did you get that letter you expected? I mean the important one you mentioned last night.” “No; I—didn’t look in my drawer!” “Why, you forgetful fellow. I suppose you met somebody or something.” “Yes. I —I—yes, I met someone,” and not being ready to tell more, we parted hastily. “You’ll come over to the art club at my house to-night, won’t you?” she called back. And I promised to go. In the meantime I worked hard the remainder of the day balancing accounts at my office. My head was full of figures phen night came, but only one stayed in my memory—the figure of the sweet unknown. I went to the club, but in my thoughts I could hold no tangible presence so near or so dear as the little myth of the morning upon whose form I had a strong but tender mental grasp. For weeks I prayed for rain, not because of a drouth, as others perhaps did, but because of certain lingering associations that seemed to make a severe storm eminently desirable. When it did finally rain I thought the town had turned out a full army corps of girls in gossamers. I had learned what a gossamer was—only the classical name for waterproof. She was not a plebeian, or she would have told me that she had her rubber circular. One bright, pleasant day I was walking down the street, blocked with wagons, teams, drays, hacks, and people. They were waiting for a long funeral procession to pass. I overheard a gentleman say: “Yes, she is dead. Sad, isn’t it? She died of quick consumption. Poor Betsey Brown —so young, too.” “And is that her funeral procession?” I asked. “Yes, sir. Did you know the young lady? She was as bright as a sunbeam.” I did not pause to reply. She had said that her name was not Betsey Brown. But for some unaccountable reason I could not rid myself of the conviction that the stately hearse held all that remained of my beautiful girl with the gossamer but her memory. That I,felt would be eternally mine. In vain I strove to forget. £■ preferred to think </? L< ras behzg Jead rather than still living on the earth, and always eluding my impetuous chase, as on that strange, eventful, yet eventless morning. I tried to think by a peculiar process of reasoning that circumstantial evidence favored my theory; she had undoubtedly taken cold on that fatal day when she refused to walk under my providential umbrella, and, being, perhaps, of a consumptive family, with inherited germs of that dreaded disease, the malady had taken her off in her youth and buoyancy. I gave a tender, reveret thought to the maiden of my dreams, and wished that my romantic fancy could have had a better finale. She may be living yet. I do not, know nor do I ever really expect to know where she is. But by virtue of that mysterious attraction I venture to hope that sometime, somewhere, I shall be led into the presence of that demure, audacious, perplexing person. whose name was not Betsey Brown, and whom I have enshrined in my heart as Iris, swift messenger of the gods. Although I was married a year ago to the young lady who gave me the forget-me-not hat band, and I love her loyally and devotedly, I never see a lot of gossamer-clad maidens bn the street on a rainy day without watching them eagerly and making special studies of their forever-disappoint-ing faces. ■ "