Miss Ayr of Virginia, & other stories

by Julia Magruder

No, certainly he was not in love with this opposite neighbor of his, but the remarkable effect which she had had upon him was to rouse in him the belief of the possibility of realizing this vanished ideal. There was something in her that seemed to tell him that what he had dreamed of might still be. It was her face only that had done this. He had not seen the outline of her figure, for that had been concealed by a long black cloak, that was loose from neck to hem. And even more than this, he had not heard her voice. Randall had always conceived that his ideal woman would sing, though that was not a necessity with him, but he was so susceptible to the influence of sound that a coarse, or nasal, or discordant voice, even in speaking, would have killed the most fiery love that charm or beauty could arouse. He suddenly felt a great desire to know if this exquisite girl could sing, or to hear her speak. It was not so much an emotional stirring of love which she had aroused in him, as a sort of spirit of intellectual investigation. He knew that she had a face that might belong to his ideal woman, and he wondered if her voice would carry out the idea.

These thoughts absorbed him, while he was playing, and he began to imagine plans by which he might hear her speak or sing. He could think of nothing, except to follow her to church some Sunday, and get a seat near her in the hope that she might join in the hymns, but the girl evidently went out alone and unprotected, and he could not quite get his consent to following and watching her.

Well, whoever she was, and whatever her nature and qualities, she had certainly managed to make a greater impression on the not very susceptible mind of Mr. Edward Randall, than that mind had received for many a long day. He went to sleep that night with a sense of newness and strangeness upon him, and he waked next morning with a distinct impression that some important change had come into his life. When he remembered what it was he smiled at himself; but all the same, the impression remained.

For several days Randall watched the house opposite, in the hope of seeing again this charming girl; but it was in vain. Other people came and went, for the house was evidently let out to lodgers, but they were of the most uninteresting of the lodging-house class; indeed, as a rule, they were such people as it irked him to think of as living under the same roof with the lovely girl.

One afternoon, however, as he was going out he saw coming down the steps opposite a tall, slight figure in a long, black cloak, which he recognized at once, though this time the face was carefully veiled before coming into the street. This fact seemed a little singular, as it was getting on toward twilight of a mild spring day. He kept the tall figure well in sight, as he happened to be going the same way, and even crossed the street that he might observe her more directly. This fact put a wide space between them which even his rapid walking did not soon decrease, as the woman’s figure moved very swiftly, and as if with some definite and important object. When she came at last to one of the small public parks that relieved the sense of dense habitation of that part of the great city, Randall observed ahead of her a little gathering of people, mostly children, who had collected around an object which he at once recognized.

A cart and horse were drawn up to the sidewalk, and in this light wagon was a small, upright piano. The instrument was open, and a man with a small black mask concealing that part of the face which was not hidden by a black beard, sat on the stool before it, waiting. Randall had seen this sort of thing in London, but it was new to him here. It had no interest for him, however, and he would not have given the thing another thought had not the woman’s figure, which he was watching, crossed directly over to this cart and the man before the piano recognized her with a gesture of satisfaction. He further saw her go straight to the side of the cart, where she paused a moment to take off her veil, revealing the fact that she was masked, also. A close covering of black satin hid the upper part of her face, and a frill of black lace concealed the mouth and chin. The disguise was absolute, and he could have formed no idea of the appearance of the woman, had it not been for the vivid image stamped upon his memory.

He felt a sense of shock at seeing her placed in such a position—a girl with a face like that, a common street singer! True, the face was hidden from view, but that air of concealment and mystery made it seem almost worse. He rebelled, evidently, too, against the thought of the man with his shabby clothes and unkempt beard. He had half a mind to turn and fly, but if she was going to sing he must hear her voice. If it should not match her face, he would be bitterly disappointed—but if, on the other hand, it should, how could he bear her being in such a situation as the present one?

As he saw the tall, slight figure mount into the cart, Randall felt so really agitated over the issue ahead of him, that he sank upon one of the benches in the square and waited with intense interest for the music to begin. Some chords were struck upon the piano, introducing a brief prelude, which the masked man executed in a way that proved him, to Randall’s cultivated ear, to be a well-trained pianist. But while the young man recognized this fact, he looked only at the woman. She wore above her mask a hat with a little brim, under which her hair was all concealed, and between this and the shape of the mask, which was so made as to stand a little out from the upper part of the face, he could not catch even a glimpse of her eyes. Randall had a swift mental vision of the loveliness, pureness, ideality of that hidden face, that stirred his heart with a vague sweetness, when suddenly upon this tender mood there fell a sound which made a discord in the harmony.

It was a woman’s voice, singing a popular air in a manner so finished and correct that the method of it startled him with surprise and appreciation, even while the voice itself repelled him. He listened intently to every note. What was the matter with this voice? It was that of a thoroughly trained and practiced singer, and yet it seemed as if, in some way, it had been hurt. The low notes were hard and husky, the high notes were thin and weak. All of this might be accounted for by some disastrous illness or throat trouble, but even while he made this allowance, there was something in the quality, or character, or individuality of the voice, itself, even when singing the middle notes, which caused no strain, that stung the man who listened with a sharp pang of disappointment—a certain quality of hardness, even commonness, which was the direct contradiction of that fair and sensitive young face.

The selection ended, and Randall, drawing a deep breath, roused himself and looked around upon the crowd which had gathered. They were a motley throng, composed of children, nurses, tramps, policemen, and aimless idlers of various classes. When Randall remembered the girl’s face, his heart resented them all violently; when he thought of her voice, the tones of which still lingered in his ear, he did not care!