The Widow Armsby

The Widow Armsby

By Elizabeth Bigelow

   I was smoking my third Havana, and medicating upon a variety of things - among, others, the rise in Erie stock, the inscrutable fate that had left me a bachelor so many years, the depth of feminine depravity that made my sister Laura draw me to Newport every season, when I might go to W--and luxuriate in trout fishing and shirt-sleeves - when the postman brought my mail. There was a letter from Laura. I read all the others first. Not but that I think a great of Laura, but she is addicted to the customary feminine failings, exaggeration and prolixity, which make her Ietters rather exasperating to a man of my temperament, who invariably calls a spade a spade, and says what he has to say in the smallest possible space. 

   When I had finished reading the others I could scarcely summon courage to open Laura's - I knew so well she was laying some new snare for my unwary feet. Doubtless Newport and her dear friend, Miss Angelique De Flummerie were not enough for this season. Still, fate is sometimes kinder than our deserts; there was a bare possibility that she might let me off for this summer. Emboldened by that thought I opened it and read :-

    "Dear Jack : - It is just the most fortunate thing imaginable that you are coming down next Tuesday, for my dear, dear friend and schoolmate, Marion Earl, of whom you have often heard me speak, is coming, too, and alone, and will be delighted to have you for an escort. She is visiting Albany, but will be in the ladies' room at the ___ station, at ten o'clock Tuesday morning. Don't forget that she is Mrs. Armsby now; she married Joe Armsby three years ago, and he only lived a few months after, you know (Yes, I did know Joe Armsby - a reckless, dissipated fool. What could a girl do who married him?) I Know you will be delighted to make yourself agreeable to dear Marion, and can't help being charmed with her -she is so fascinating and brilliant."

    Fascinating and brilliant ! If there is anything in the world that I hate it is a woman who is called brilliant and fascinating. I groaned in agony of spirit. But there was nothing for it but to hunt up "dear" Marion," see to all her trunks, satchels, umbrellas and poodles - Laura's dear friends always traveled with poodles - see that she had a comfortable table seat, and was neither too cold nor too warm, had plenty of books and bananas, and, worst of all, beguile her soul with small talk incessantly --your brilliant and fascinating woman always wants to talk! 

   Now perhaps you may think, especially if you are a she, that I -was a cynical old bachelor. I was nothing of the sort. The trouble was that I had an ideal of womanhood, and my sister's dear friends didn't come up to it. They were all women of the period. Abominable expression, but more abominable things - at least, I used think so. My ideal was a dove-eyed, soft-voiced little woman, with soft light hair, not crimped or frizzed. or any of those abominations, but combed "Madonna-wise," and entirely superior to the dictates of fashion in her dress. She wore plain, graceful, flowing robes, and artistic combinations of color, but flounces, overskirts and furbelows- never !" 

   Laura was accustomed to ask me sarcastically, if I ever expected to to find this paragon of perfection, and if I did, "did I expect to appear in public with her?"

   I can hardly say I did expect ever to find her, and therefore I expected to live till the end of my days a lonely, forlorn, melancholy old bachelor. Still, I am only thirty-three, and had not quite given up the search.  But among Laura's friends I should never find her, that was certain.  And this one was a widow - worse and worse!  But there was no need of me to be "beware of vidders".  I had, naturally a perfect horror of them; not all the widows in the universe could beguile me.

   The Widow Armsby's photograph had dropped to the floor. It occurred to me then, to see how she looked--a rather necessary proceeding, you will allow, if I was to recognize her in a crowded waiting by that means. There was nothing particular about the race. It was well shaped and had a pleasant expression; the eyes and hair, I judged, were dark; the hair was gotten up in the latest style, of course, cramped and frizzed and puffed and branded and curled, until the head looked like the tower of Babel.

   I gazed at the picture till I thought I should know the Widow Armsby if I saw her, and then put it in my pocket, where I should have it to look at Tuesday morning it I should get puzzled.

    I did get very much puzzled on Tuesday morning. The waiting-room was pretty well filled, but thought I had thought the face such an ordinary one there was not a lady there who at all resembled the picture. I took the photograph out of my pocket and studied it furtively, until a pair of school-girls caught me at it, and began to giggle, after the manner of the species, thinking no doubt, it was riveted my eyes on the Widow Armsby's features - they never were more mistaken!  I walked around the room, and looked inquiringly at every woman who might possibly be supposed to be the Widow Armsby.  Not one of them looked at all responsive. My photograph had been forwarded to the Widow Armsby, and as it was a striking likeness - glasses and all - she must have recognized me if she was there. I made a frantic leap on board the last car just as it was shipping out of the depot. I must be on duty at Newport, widow or no widow. 

   My spirits rose. I had done my duty, and  yet I was not burdened with the Widow Armsby! Suddenly an elegantly embroided little sachel, with the letter A on it, caught my eye. It was hanging directly over the seat In front of me. A stood for Armsby; that was what attracted my attention. I looked at its owner; she was a "girl of the period;" there was no question about that.She had on what is called a "stylish" traveling-dress, a mass of crinkled hair drawn over her forehead, a little bird's wing on it set jauntily on top of a heap of coal-black braids and puffs. Her profile  was turned towards me, and I could see that she had a straight little nose and long lashes. I thought she might be the Widow Armsby, and had liked the looks of my photograph sufficiently well to wait for me.

  She turned and looked at me, as was quite natural. But then having looked once, she turned and looked again. I would not have you suppose that was an unusual occurrence. I am considered to be a particularly good-looking man,  and young ladies look at me twice; but I fancied I saw in her eye a sort of recognition - bright, black eyes they were, with a saucy, make-fun-of-everything sort of expression to them - not my dove-eyed ideal by my any means! But it might be Mrs. Armsby; the features were certainly not unlike hers; she might perhaps make an ordinary-looking picture, though those eyes were by no means ordinary!

    But I couldn't quite make up my mind to speak to the strength of a of an A on her traveling-bag, and a resemblance that might be purely imaginary. Besides, if she were the Widow Armsby she had given me the slip, and I wasn't obliged to devote myself to her. But I did wish she would turn round once more. She didn't, however. She stuck her ticket in her hat-band - oh, those "girl of the period" ways! My ideal could never be capable of sticking her ticket in her hat-band - and devoted herself to a paper-covered novel.

    I read my newspaper; it was singularly dull and uninteresting, and I flavored it occasionally by a glance at a straight little nose and long lashes. I wondered if anybody beyond childhood ever had such very long lashes before. I had never thought of it before, but I added them new to the sweet and seraphic face of my ideal.

    Suddenly she laid down her book and took a letter from her pocket. I considered over and looked at the subscription. I considered it justifiable under the circumstances - not because I admired her eyelashes, you understand, but because she might be Mrs. Armsby. Sure enough, the letter was directed to ''Mrs. M. Armsby."  I rose impulsively.

    I have the picture of speaking to Mrs. Armsby, I believe? I - I have your photograph."  (Those saucy black eyes were looking mercilessly straight at me, and I blushed and stammered like a school-boy.) I expected to find you in the waiting-room. "l very sorry to have missed you."

    "You are Uncle John, then?" she said, frankly, extending a daintily gloved hand. 

   "Why - why, yes; Brother Ned's children call me so sometimes!" I stammered. 

   Uncle John sounds very old and bachelorish, some way. I didn't fancy it at all. 

   "I am so glad to have meet you! I dislike traveling alone so much! I quite dreaded the journey! When you didn't come to the hotel, I thought something must have prevented you from meeting me.  I didn't think of looking in the waiting-room." 

   At the hotel! On, that was so like Laura, thought I, with a smothered groan. She had not mentioned a hotel to me, and here was this charming little creature thinking I had neglected her!

    "lt was bad enough coming all the way from Chicago alone", she warbled, in such a bird-like voice!

    Once I might have  it rattling, for she did talk a great deal, but, and not now. Was it possible  a man of thirty-three, with an ideal, was subjugated by a pair of saucy black eyes, and some long lashes, belonging, too, to an unmistakable "girl of the period" Alas! I could not tell. " Some change had certainty "come over the spirit of my dream.

   "I'm so impatient to see the dear children again! I think they are the cutest, cunningest little things! Flossy is my especial favorite."

     Now, as my niece, Flossy, had arrived at the mature age of five or six weeks, I thought Mrs. Armsby had rather strange taste. As I had never had the pleasure of meeting youthful relative, and had, indeed, been apprised only the day before that her name was Flossy, I could not be expected to respond very cordially to this sentiment.

    I couldn't be expected to, I say, but I did! What sentiment wouldn't I have responded to, backed by those eyes and that bewitching smile? 

   "The loveliest of them all! And such a sweet name!" I murmured I, like an imbecile. 

   "And Nellie- isn't she a darling?" Who was Nellie? Not one of Ned's children . Possibly one of Laura's friends; I didn't remember all the names. It wouldn't be safe me to say she was "a darling" upon uncertainties, but I did think it safe to respond, with some enthusiasm, -"She's a very nice girl."

  "A nice girl?" and the saucy eyes danced. "Why, I mean the little Spitz dog!" 

   "Oh, yes; certainly! A very nice dog," stammered I, inwardly cursing my stupidity in not remembering the name the wretched little beast that was always under my feet at Ned's. 

   She talked about a good many other people whose names I didn't remember. How I wished I had taken more interest in Laura's friends!If they had been more like her I should have had no occasion for that regret.

   I took excellent care of her, she said, with a bright little smile; and what t delightful thing it was to take care of her!  After we got over talking about our mutual friends and on to general subjects, I grew gradually more at ease; I felt as if the hours were slipping by in a delightful dream. 

   "We are almost there," she said, suddenly. 

   "Oh, Newport is a good many miles away yet," I said, almost wishing we might never get there, to have an interruption to this blissful dream. 

   "Newport? But I am not going to Newport; are you? I thought you were going directly to Alice's. She wrote me that you were."

    This was very bewildering. I began to perceive that there was a mistake somewhere. 

   "I don't know Alice," I said. I am going to Newport to meet my Sister Laura, who wrote me that you were going there too." 

 "'I am going to K--- , to visit my sister, who is married and lives there. And she wrote me that her husband's uncle would come to the hotel for me. Aren't you Uncle John?"

    "I am Uncle John to my brother's children, but not to your sister's husband, I am afraid," I said, dolefully.

    The black eyes danced like will-o'-the-wisps.

    'lt's too funny for anything!" she declared. "I thought you were very unlike EIla's description of Uncle John - so much younger than I supposed he was!" 

   At this Interesting moment the cars stopped, and the conductor stopped and the conductor shouted "K____ ."

    "Oh, dear me! I mustn't get left!" said my fair companion, in a flutter. "It, is such a funny thing altogether - and I am so much obliged to you__."

   "Allow me to give you my card," stammered I, as I assisted her out, hardly awake yet to the situation, "and to hope - "

    And then I saw her gathered to the embraces of half a dozen women and a very black-whiskered young man, with a fierce pang of jealousy. 

   She was gone - and I didn't even know the name of her brother-in-law ; know nothing about her except that she was the Widow Armsby!  Did I even know that? Yes, I had seen the name on her letter, and she couldn't be Laura's Widow Armsby, therefore she couldn't be Jo Armsby's widow. Of course not!  She never could have married an unprincipled scamp like him.

    I fell to wondering what her husband was like; what her second husband would be like. I would be the fortunate man or perish in the attempt! 

   I reached Newport in a dream. I was introduced to the Widow Armsby, who had changed her plans and got there before me, still in a dream. 

   "Your very ideal!" whispered Laura, and I looked at her again.

    She was a little, pale woman, with drab hair, combed plainly behind her ears and done up in a "pug" behind. She had on a very long, flowing; robe of white muslin, and not an ornament of any kind. I have my suspicions that the Widow Armsby had gotten herself up for especial benefit, as I afterward saw her in very different guise. 

   "Jack, isn't she lovely?" said Laura, as soon as we were alone, she looks so like an angel!"

    "She looks like the Witch of Endor!" said I ungallantly.

    Laura said I was a brute, and she would like to know what my "ideal" was. 

   I went to K___ on the early morning tram. How I was going to find my inamorata was more than I knew, but find her I would. I asked the proprietor of the hotel if he knew where Mrs. Arnnby of Chicago was visiting. He didn't know. I went, to the post office, the two dry goods stores, the circulating library, with the same result. At last I went boldly up to the door of a private house. It looked as if she were there, I don't know why. Perhaps there is an additional sense bestowed upon people as much in love as I was - in compensation for the sense that is taken away. Anyway, I felt sure sure was there. A round, curly head stuck itself out of the door.

    "My Aunt Mabel is here - she isn't Mrs. - she's only a young lady," it responded to my question. 

   Could it be possible that she wasn't the Widow Armsby, after all? Perhaps it might have been Miss that I saw on the letter! 

   I had not time to reflect before the dancing eyes, the bewitching smile were before me. There was a bewitching blush, too, now, and a little shyness, that set me quite at my ease. What is the use of telling any more? If I hadn't come off victor, if I  hadn't been the luckiest fellow alive, do you suppose I ever should have told this story at all?

    The Widow Armsby found her second fate at Newport that summer (but not while masquerading as my "ideal") and I made her an elegant wedding as a slight expression of the gratitude I owed her. For if it had not been for her I might have been a forlorn and miserable old bachelor to this day, instead of being married to the brightest eyes that ever danced and the truest little heart that ever beat.