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.