The Sword of Damocles: A Story of New York LifeGreen, Anna Katharine
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The Sword of Damocles: A Story of New York Life
Green, Anna Katharine
Detective and mystery stories; New York (N.Y.) -- Fiction
This was the first surprise I received.
“Follow me,” said the old woman, hurrying me down the hall and into a
small room at the end. “The young lady will be here in a moment,” and
without lifting her veil or affording me the least glimpse of her
features, she retired, leaving me to face the situation before me as
best I might.
It was anything but a pleasant one as it appeared to me at that moment,
and for an instant I seriously thought of retracing my steps and leaving
a domicile into which I had been introduced in such a mysterious manner.
Then the quiet aspect of the room, which though sparsely furnished with
a piano and chairs was still of an order rarely seen out of gentlemen’s
houses, struck my imagination and reawakened my curiosity, and nerving
myself to meet whatever interview might be accorded me, I waited. It was
only five minutes by the small clock ticking on the mantel-piece, but it
seemed an hour before I heard a timid step at the door, and saw it swing
slowly open, disclosing—well, I did not stop to inquire whether it was
a child or a woman. I merely saw the shrinking modest form, the eager
blushing face, and bowed almost to the ground in a sudden reverence for
the sublime innocence revealed to me. Yes, it did not take a second look
to read that tender countenance to its last guileless page. Had she been
a woman of twenty-five I could not have mistaken her expression of pure
delight and timid interest, but she was only sixteen, as I afterwards
learned, and younger in experience than in age.
Closing the door behind her, she stood for a moment without speaking,
then with a deepening of the blush which was only a child’s
embarrassment in the presence of a stranger, looked up and murmured my
name with a word or so of grateful acknowledgment that would have called
forth a smile on my lips if I had not been startled by the sudden change
that passed over her features when she met my eyes. Was it that I showed
my surprise too plainly, or did my admiration manifest itself in my
gaze? an admiration great as it was humble, and which was already of a
nature such as I had never before given to girl or woman. Whatever it
was, she no sooner met my look than she paused, trembled, and started
back with a confused murmur, through which I plainly heard her whisper
in a low distressed tone, “Oh, what have I done!”
“Called a good friend to your side,” said I in the frank, brotherly way
I thought most likely to reassure her. “Do not be alarmed, I am only too
happy to meet one who evidently enjoys music so well.”
But the hidden chord of womanhood had been struck in the child’s soul,
and she could not recover herself. For an instant I thought she would
turn and flee, and struck as I was with remorse at my reckless invasion
of this uncontaminated temple, I could not but admire the spirited
picture she presented as, with form half turned and face bent back, she
stood hesitating on the point of flight.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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