The Mysterious Stranger, and Other StoriesTwain, Mark
General
The Mysterious Stranger, and Other Stories
Twain, Mark
Humorous stories, American; Short stories; United States -- Social life and customs -- 19th century -- Fiction
That sponged the slate of Ursula's feelings clean of its anxieties, and
a deep, financial joy shone in her eyes. The cat's value was augmenting.
It was getting full time for Marget to take some sort of notice of
Satan's invitation, and she did it in the best way, the honest way that
was natural to her. She said she had little to offer, but that we were
welcome if we would share it with her.
We had supper in the kitchen, and Ursula waited at table. A small fish
was in the frying-pan, crisp and brown and tempting, and one could see
that Marget was not expecting such respectable food as this. Ursula
brought it, and Marget divided it between Satan and me, declining to
take any of it herself; and was beginning to say she did not care for
fish to-day, but she did not finish the remark. It was because she
noticed that another fish had appeared in the pan. She looked surprised,
but did not say anything. She probably meant to inquire of Ursula about
this later. There were other surprises: flesh and game and wines and
fruits--things which had been strangers in that house lately; but Marget
made no exclamations, and now even looked unsurprised, which was Satan's
influence, of course. Satan talked right along, and was entertaining,
and made the time pass pleasantly and cheerfully; and although he told a
good many lies, it was no harm in him, for he was only an angel and did
not know any better. They do not know right from wrong; I knew this,
because I remembered what he had said about it. He got on the good side
of Ursula. He praised her to Marget, confidentially, but speaking just
loud enough for Ursula to hear. He said she was a fine woman, and he
hoped some day to bring her and his uncle together. Very soon Ursula was
mincing and simpering around in a ridiculous girly way, and smoothing
out her gown and prinking at herself like a foolish old hen, and all
the time pretending she was not hearing what Satan was saying. I was
ashamed, for it showed us to be what Satan considered us, a silly race
and trivial. Satan said his uncle entertained a great deal, and to
have a clever woman presiding over the festivities would double the
attractions of the place.
“But your uncle is a gentleman, isn't he?” asked Marget.
“Yes,” said Satan indifferently; “some even call him a Prince, out of
compliment, but he is not bigoted; to him personal merit is everything,
rank nothing.”
My hand was hanging down by my chair; Agnes came along and licked it; by
this act a secret was revealed. I started to say, “It is all a mistake;
this is just a common, ordinary cat; the hair-needles on her tongue
point inward, not outward.” But the words did not come, because they
couldn't. Satan smiled upon me, and I understood.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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