A Fair Barbarian | Page 4

Slowbridge, from Lady Theobald down. There were
legends that she received her patterns from London, and modified them
to suit the Slowbridge taste. Possibly this was true; but in that case her
labors as modifier must have been severe indeed, since they were so far

modified as to be altogether unrecognizable when they left Miss
Chickie's establishment, and were borne home in triumph to the houses
of her patrons. The taste of Slowbridge was quiet,--upon this
Slowbridge prided itself especially,--and, at the same time, tended
toward economy. When gores came into fashion, Slowbridge clung
firmly, and with some pride, to substantial breadths, which did not cut
good silk into useless strips which could not be utilized in after-time;
and it was only when, after a visit to London, Lady Theobald walked
into St. James's one Sunday with two gores on each side, that Miss
Chickie regretfully put scissors into her first breadth. Each matronly
member of good society possessed a substantial silk gown of some
sober color, which gown, having done duty at two years' tea-parties,
descended to the grade of "second-best," and so descended, year by
year, until it disappeared into the dim distance of the past. The young
ladies had their white muslins and natural flowers; which latter
decorations invariably collapsed in the course of the evening, and were
worn during the latter half of any festive occasion in a flabby and
hopeless condition. Miss Chickie made the muslins, festooning and
adorning them after designs emanating from her fertile imagination. If
they were a little short in the body, and not very generously
proportioned in the matter of train, there was no rival establishment to
sneer, and Miss Chickie had it all her own way; and, at least, it could
never be said that Slowbridge was vulgar or overdressed.
Judge, then, of Miss Belinda Bassett's condition of mind when her fair
relative took her seat before her.
What the material of her niece's dress was, Miss Belinda could not have
told. It was a silken and soft fabric of a pale blue color; it clung to the
slender, lissome young figure like a glove; a fan-like train of great
length almost covered the hearth-rug; there were plaitings and frillings
all over it, and yards of delicate satin ribbon cut into loops in the most
recklessly extravagant manner.
Miss Belinda saw all this at the first glance, as Mary Anne had seen it,
and, like Mary Anne, lost her breath; but, on her second glance, she
saw something more. On the pretty, slight hands were three wonderful,

sparkling rings, composed of diamonds set in clusters: there were great
solitaires in the neat little ears, and the thickly-plaited lace at the throat
was fastened by a diamond clasp.
"My dear," said Miss Belinda, clutching helplessly at the teapot, "are
you--surely it is a--a little dangerous to wear such--such priceless
ornaments on ordinary occasions."
Octavia stared at her for a moment uncomprehendingly.
"Your jewels, I mean, my love," fluttered Miss Belinda. "Surely you
don't wear them often. I declare, it quite frightens me to think of having
such things in the house."
"Does it?" said Octavia. "That's queer."
And she looked puzzled for a moment again.
Then she glanced down at her rings.
"I nearly always wear these," she remarked. "Father gave them to me.
He gave me one each birthday for three years. He says diamonds are an
investment, anyway, and I might as well have them. These," touching
the ear-rings and clasp, "were given to my mother when she was on the
stage. A lot of people clubbed together, and bought them for her. She
was a great favorite."
Miss Belinda made another clutch at the handle of the teapot.
"Your mother!" she exclaimed faintly. "On the--did you say, on the"--
"Stage," answered Octavia. "San Francisco. Father married her there.
She was awfully pretty. I don't remember her. She died when I was
born. She was only nineteen."
The utter calmness, and freedom from embarrassment, with which
these announcements were made, almost shook Miss Belinda's faith in
her own identity. Strange to say, until this moment she had scarcely
given a thought to her brother's wife; and to find herself sitting in her

own genteel little parlor, behind her own tea-service, with her hand
upon her own teapot, hearing that this wife had been a young person
who had been "a great favorite" upon the stage, in a region peopled, as
she had been led to suppose, by gold-diggers and escaped convicts, was
almost too much for her to support herself under. But she did support
herself bravely, when she had time to rally.
"Help yourself to some fowl, my dear," she said hospitably, even
though very faintly indeed, "and take a muffin."
Octavia did so, her over-splendid hands flashing in the