American fiction -- 19th century; Short stories; Western stories
His gentle firmness composed and calmed her now, as it had often done
before. Stroking her thin hand, he said, after a pause, “Did Carry ever
write to you?”
“Twice, thanking me for some presents. They were only school-girl
letters,” she added, nervously answering the interrogation of his eyes.
“Did she ever know of your own troubles? of your poverty, of the
sacrifices you made to pay her bills, of your pawning your clothes and
jewels, of your”--
“No, no!” interrupted the woman quickly: “no! How could she? I have no
enemy cruel enough to tell her that.”
“But if she--or if Mrs. Tretherick--had heard of it? If Carry thought
you were poor, and unable to support her properly, it might influence
her decision. Young girls are fond of the position that wealth can give.
She may have rich friends, maybe a lover.”
Mrs. Starbottle winced at the last sentence. “But,” she said eagerly,
grasping Jack's hand, “when you found me sick and helpless at
Sacramento, when you--God bless you for it, Jack!--offered to help me to
the East, you said you knew of something, you had some plan, that would
make me and Carry independent.”
“Yes,” said Jack hastily; “but I want you to get strong and well first.
And, now that you are calmer, you shall listen to my visit to the
school.”
It was then that Mr. Jack Prince proceeded to describe the interview
already recorded, with a singular felicity and discretion that shames
my own account of that proceeding. Without suppressing a single fact,
without omitting a word or detail, he yet managed to throw a poetic veil
over that prosaic episode, to invest the heroine with a romantic roseate
atmosphere, which, though not perhaps entirely imaginary, still, I fear,
exhibited that genius which ten years ago had made the columns of “The
Fiddletown Avalanche” at once fascinating and instructive. It was not
until he saw the heightening color, and heard the quick breathing, of
his eager listener, that he felt a pang of self-reproach. “God help her
and forgive me!” he muttered between his clinched teeth, “but how can I
tell her ALL now!”
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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