Miss Ayr of Virginia, & other stories

by Julia Magruder

But for this coincidence she would probably have suspected some mistake at the editorial office and put the manuscript by; but after seeing this, she felt that she must read it.

And so, standing fascinated where she was, she turned leaf after leaf, and read breathlessly on. As she did so, the old mirror opposite reflected a picture whose glowing beauty deepened every minute. Here, the divine draught of love was so strongly analyzed, its component parts so comprehendingly described, and its powerful effects so brilliantly demonstrated, that the paper had almost the character of a scientific treatise. The subject, she felt, could scarcely have been handled in this deliberate way but for the very fact that the writer was in an attitude, not of anticipation, but of renunciation. It mattered little to Ethel that the plot of this story was ill-constructed and illogical, and the situations commonplace and trite. What she saw before her on these sheets, and felt permeating every corner of her soul, was the renunciation of all the ideal conditions of living and loving that her heart aspired to. What this man gave up was what she had always so resolutely claimed—what she had never wavered in demanding and expecting of life, until this very evening, when, for the first time, she had looked in the face of possible renunciation.

But with the reading of this paper she shifted back to her old ground, for here, at least, she felt herself comprehended at last. Not one of all the people with whom her lot had hitherto been cast had ever uttered thoughts and feelings such as these; but here, in this manuscript, were the very echoes of her own soul. Yes, all of them—the loud, sonorous, reverberating ones, no less than the delicate soundings of her finest needs. She looked at the signature at the end, and saw the words, “Hugh Robertson.” This gave an individual character to the consciousness that had just entered into her, and the mere knowledge of the existence of such a personality in the world was a stimulating and an exhilarating thought that made her smile.

As she did so, she looked up and caught the reflection of herself in the mirror before her. Happiness, the supreme beautifier, had swiftly done its wonder-work, and she could not fail to realise that she was very fair to see. The knowledge of it gave her pleasure. The power of enjoyment, lately so stultified and depressed, returned to her with a glowing ardor. All the world began suddenly to look more hopeful. Ah, life was sweet, its opportunities were great and precious, its possibilities were divine!

As these thoughts darted through her mind and illuminated her beautiful face there came a sudden recollection which checked the first and clouded the second—the thought of Bob with his sad burden of pain and helplessness. Oh, how dreadful that such things could be! Couldn’t it be helped? she wondered. Couldn’t something be done? Somehow, a new power seemed to have come into her—a power of initiative and action, such as she had never felt before. She suddenly determined that she would write to the great doctor, of whose skill she had heard so much, and ask him if he would examine Bob if she brought him on, and tell her what could be done. The incentive was so strong that she got her desk and wrote the letter at once, explaining that she had no money now, except enough for the bare expenses of the trip, but adding that, if treatment could be had for Bob at a moderate cost, she might hope to save the money for it, if she could pay a little at a time.

She finished the letter, and addressed it in her delicate, characteristic hand to Dr. Arthur H. Hubert, but there she had to stop. It would be necessary to wait until she could get his address.

Ethel waked next morning with a feeling of renewed youth, for which she could not account, until she recollected the manuscript, which, in her ardent way, she had slipped under her pillow, before going to sleep. Perhaps it was to that cause that she was indebted for some very sweet and joy-giving dreams, in which she had lived in such a rose-colored world that, even in returning to the sombreness of the actual one, she brought with her a portion of that lovely hue.

To-day’s mail brought her Mr. Black’s letter, and made it perfectly clear that this manuscript had been sent her by mistake, instead of her own. The kind words in the letter helped and strengthened her, and the reading of the manuscript had given her such joy that she felt the sting of the failure of her own half obliterated. She sat down and wrote to Mr. Black, telling him of the mistake, and asking him to give her the address of Hugh Robertson, so that she might send his manuscript to him and ask for her own back, if he should, as she supposed, have received hers. She knew that the more regular way would be to send the manuscript back to Mr. Black; but the fact was, she hated to part with it, and she resorted to this means of keeping it a little longer. She was too refined a girl to have any idea of getting up an acquaintance with the writer of the story in this way, and it would never have occurred to her to do more than let him know that she had read it. That, she thought, she might do, though she did not mention the fact to Mr. Black.

Immediately upon the receipt of her letter Mr. Black wrote and asked that the manuscript might be returned to him, apologizing for the mistake. He said the addresses of his contributors were a matter of professional confidence, and he felt bound, therefore, to return the manuscript himself. He made many apologies for having also, through a fault in his office, sent her manuscript to Hugh Robertson, and added that he had just received from that gentleman a request for her address, to which he had replied in the same terms as those of his letter to her. As soon as he received her manuscript he would forward it to her, he said.

What he did not say, however, was, that the clerk who had made the mistake had been let off with a lighter reprimand than was usual with Mr. Black, who somehow felt that if he said too much he might be tampering with the designs of Providence.