Rensselaer Standard, Volume 1, Number 9, Rensselaer, Jasper County, 16 August 1879 — WINNING THE WIDOW. [ARTICLE]

WINNING THE WIDOW.

“Oh, what a handsome man!” cried Mm Hunter; “and such a charming foreign accent, too!” Mrs. Hunter was a widow—rich, childless, fair and 35—and she made the remark above recorded to Mr. Buuting, bachelor, who bad come to pay an afternoon call, apropos of the departure of Prof. La Foutaiue, who had, according to etiquette, taken his departure on the arrival of Mr. Bunting. , , “Don’t like to contradict a lady,” said Mr. Bunting; “but 1 can’t say I »gr*M» with you; and these foreigners are generally imposters, too.” Mrs. Hunter shook her head coquetIsbly. I * She was rather coquetish and rather gushing for her age. • “Oh, you gentlemen! you gent’emen!” she said; “I can’t see that you ever do justice to each other.” And then she rang the bell and ordered the servants to bring tea, and preweed Bachelor Bunting to stay to partake of it ; J There was a maiden uunt of 80 in the house, to play propriety, and allow her the privilege of having as many bachelors to tea as she chose, and Mr. Bunting forgot his jealousy and was once more happy. He was, truth to tell, very much in love with the widow, who was his junior by fifteen yean*. ■ He liked the idea of her living on the inerest of her money, too. She was a splendid housekeeper and a fine pianist. She was popular and good ToOkiug He intended to offer himself for twr acceptance as soon at* he felt sure thati she would not refuse him. But this dreadful Prof. La Fontaine, with black eyes as big as saucers, and long side whiskers —black also as any raven’s wing, bad the advantage of being the widow’s junior. This opportunity to make a fool of herself is so irresistible to every widow. It trouUed his dreams a good deal—not that he thought him handsome. Oh, no! . . But still at 50 a man does not desire a rival, however he may despise him. “She dkl not ask him to stay, and she did ask me,” said Mr. Bunting, and departed, after a most delightful evening, during which the maiden aunt (who was, at best, as deaf as a poet) snored sweetly in her chair. But, alas! on the very next evening his sky was overcast. Prof. La Fontaine took', the widow to the opera. He saw them enter the doors of the opera house, and, having followed and secured a seat in a retired portion of the house, also noticed that the Professor kept his eyes fixed upon the lady’s face in the most impressive manner during the whole of the i>erformance, and that she now and then even returned his glances. “ItiCan’t go on,” said Mr. Bunting to himself. “I can’t allow it. She’d regret it all her Life. I must remomstrate\rith her. No woman likes a coward. Faint heart never won fair lady. She’ll admire me for speaking out.” » _/*“ that very evening Mr. Bunting trotted up to the wido »’* house, full of a deadly purpose, aud with a set speech learned off by heart. The speech he forgot as he crossed the threshold. The purpose ablded with him. There was the usual remarks about the weather. The usual chit-chat followed, but the widow saw that Mr. Buntiug was not at his ease. At last, with the sort of plunge that a timid bather makes into chilly water, he dashed into the subject nearest his heart. “He’s a rascal, ma’am, I give you my word.” “Oh’ dear! Who is?” cried the widow. “That frdg-eater, ” replied the bachelor. -‘Upon my soul, I speak for your own good. lam interest in y< ur welfare. Don’t allow his visits. You don’t know a thing about him.” “Do you allude to Monsieur La Fontaine?*’ asked Mrs. Hunter, solemnly. “I allude to that fellow,” said Bachelor Bunting. “Why his very contenence proves him to be a rascal. I—l’d enjoy kicking him out so much, I—” “Sir;” said the widow, “if you haven’t been drinking, I really think you must be mad.” “Ma’am !” cried Mr. Bunting. “Perhaps, however, I should take no notide of such conduct.” said Mrs. Hunter. “Perhaps I should treat it * with silent contempt” v “Oh, good gracious!” cried oachelor Bunting; “don’t treat me with silent contempt. It’s my affection for you that urges me on. I adore you! Have me. Accept me. * Marry me and be mine to cherish and protect from all

audacious French men. The widow’s heart was melted. She buret into tears. “Oh, what shall I say?” she sobbed. “I thought you merely a friend. l—am—l—l—l am engaged to the professor: he proposed yesterday evening.” Bachelor Bunting bad dropped down ugon bis knees while making the Now he got up with a sort of groan —not entirely caused by disappointed love, for he had the rheumatism. “Farewell false one,” be said, feeling

for his hat without looking for it j„ leave you forever." ■ He strode away, banging the door after him. The widow cried and then laughed, and then cried again. In fact she had a genuine fit of what the maiden aunt called “stericks.” and the chambermaid “highstrikea," before she was brought to, and prevailed on to take a glass of wine and something hot and comforting in the edible line. After which the thought of her fiance consoled her. ; Days passed on. Bachelor Bunting did not drown himself or sup cold poison. The wedding day was fixed. The housemaid informed her friend that Mrs. Hunter “kept steady company." The maiden aunt, who had no income of her own f curried favor by being almost always in a state of apparent coma.

The widow was in the seventh heaven of bliss, and all went merry as a marriage bell until one evening, as the betrothed pair sat before the fire in the polished grate, there came a ring at the bell, and the girl who answered it soon looked into the parlor to announce the fact that a little girt in the hall would come In. “Oh, let her in,” said Mrs. Hunter. “I am so fond of the dear children in the neighborhood. It’s one of them, I presume?” But, while she was speaking, a small, but very old-looking little girl in a short frock, with a tambourine in her hand, bounced into the room, and, throwing herself into the Professor’s arms, with a strong French accent, screamed: “Darling papa, have I then found you? How glad mamma will be! We thought you dead.” “I am not your papa,” said the Frenchman, turning pale. “Are you j crazy, my dear little girl?”

“No, no, no; you are my papa!” cried the child. “Do not deny your Estelle. Does she not know you? Ah, my heart, it tells me true!. Dear mamma and I have almost starved, but she has never pledged her wedding ring—never. She plays the organ, I the tambourine. - We have suffered, but now pappa will return to us. Ah, heaven!” “My gracious! the morals of fUrriners. He’d have married missus!” cried the girl at the door. “She tells one black lie. \ Never before have I seen her; belieLnie, madame!” screamed the poor Freqchman. , i “Ab, mon Dieu, am I “Ob, Alphonse!” cried the widow. “But there, I will be flrm. My best friends warned me of you. Take your I hat—go. Never enter my presence again. Go with yous unfortunate child—your poor, half-starved little ’-girl. JdkOiome to your deserted wife! “Ah, madatue, zese is falsehood,” cried tbe unfortunate Frenchman, loe- : ing his temper in his excitement. “Be- ' lief—” “Out of my house!” cried the widow. “Peggy, open the door. Go. What an escape I nave had!” The professor departed. Mrs. Hunter threw herself into her chair and bursted into tears. After a while she grew more calm, and, taking a letter from the drawer, she perused it. “Ah me! what deceivers those men are!” she said, ns she pensively lav back on the cushions. “(Inly to think he could write a letter so full bf love, and prove such a villain ;■ but I am Warned in time.” And she tore the letter into fragments. The maiden aunt, who had not heard a word, demanded an explanation. Biddy howled it through her ear trumpet in these words: “The scoundrel has ever so many wives and families already, playin’ j tainbouriiH-s for their bread—the ras- ; cal!” _ ; • And in the midst the door liell rang and Mr. Bunting Walked in, with a polite bow. Biddy and the aunt slipped out of the room. Mr. Bunting approached the widow. “I called to apologize,” he’said. “I was hasty the other day. Had I known the gentleman was dear to you, I should have restrained my speech. I wish you happiness; I—” “Don’t, please,” cried the widow. , “He’s worse than you painted him. , I’ve found him out, I hate him. As , Tor me, I can never be happy again. “Not with your own Bunting?’’ cried the bachelor, sitting down beside her. “I’m afraid not,” said the widow. ‘Are yor sure?” asked Mr. Bunting. “No, not quite,” said Mrs. punter. “Then marry me, my dear, and try it Do, oh, do!” Mrs. Hunter sobbed and consented. After having a white-collored silk made up and trimmed with lace, it was too bad not to figure as a bride after all.

She married Bachelor Bunting and was very happy. It was well, perhaps, that she had not the fairy gift of the invisible cap, and did not put it on and follow Mr. Bunting to a mysterious recess in the rear of*a theater, whither he took his way after parting from the widow on the night of his engagement. There he met a little girl, small but old looking, theaame indeed whb had claimed the professor as her lost papa, and this is what be said to “Here is the money I promised you, my child, and you acted the thing excellently well. I know that by the effect you produced. She believes that he’s a married man, and he can’t prove to the contrary. I knew you’d be able to act it out when I saw you play the desei ted child in the tragedy.” Then SIOO were counted out into the ■ little brown hand, and Bachelor Bunt- ' ing walked off triumphantly. To th is day his wife does not know the truth, but alludes to poor, innocent Prof. La Fontaine as that wicked ' Frenchman.