Miss Ayr of Virginia, & other stories — John Shaqi
Miss Ayr of Virginia, & other storiesMagruder, Julia
General
Miss Ayr of Virginia, & other stories
Magruder, Julia
Short stories, American; United States -- Social life and customs -- 19th century -- Fiction
“Oh, Bertie, Bertie! How can I ever thank you? I was almost afraid to
ask it--but it would break my heart to have to give up your name.”
“There, then, precious child, you shan’t!” he said, soothingly. “I’ll
talk to the lawyers about it at once. There are one or two business
points on which I have to speak to you--things you will have to give
your consent to. That is what I came chiefly to see about--at least
that was my excuse, though I wanted to see you, too, and to be sure you
had forgiven me. You do believe I’m sorry for all the pain I’ve caused
you--don’t you, darling?”
“Oh, I know you are! I know you wouldn’t have done it willingly. It
was only a misunderstanding. If you had come to me at first and told
me what you wanted me to do, I would have done it. It’s the same thing
now. There is no need to consult me. All you have to do is to tell me
what it is you want me to consent to.”
“We can get through with it very quickly, then,” he said. “I might have
known how good and generous you would be; but you see I can’t help
making the mistake of thinking you are like the rest of the world,
which you are not!”
He explained to her briefly, then, the points on which he had wanted to
confer with her, but found, as she had said, that he had her consent to
everything he wished beforehand.
“Oh, don’t let’s spoil our last, last time, by talking about things
like that!” she said, presently. “Let’s take Fleecy up between us and
be happy this once, as we used to be all the time.”
So Fleecy was called and put in the old familiar place, where she
nestled snugly down, and purred and dozed in absolute contentment.
Both of them caressed the cat in silence for a moment, the tiny hand
following the big one up and down its back. Presently Mimi lifted her
hand, and said:
“Kiss my ring, please. I should always be regretting it, if I didn’t
make you do that.” He kissed it, and the hand too, holding it against
his lips a full moment, so that she felt his breath upon it.
Presently she spoke again: “Have I been good?” she said. “Are you
pleased with me, Bertie? Do tell me so, if you are. I want to remember
that you said so.”
“Pleased with you, my good little darling? Why, how could I fail to be?
The more I see of your goodness, the more convinced I am that I was
never worthy of you, and my hope is that, once freed of me, you will
meet some man who will deserve you better and make you happy.”
She put her little hand over his mouth, so that the last words were
stifled, as she said to him, in a voice of keen reproach:
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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