A Few Short Sketches | Page 4

rose to greet me with provoking but delecious languor. She gave me the tips of her rosy fingers. Her lips moved as if in speech, but no words reached me; she barely smiled. In a priceless vase near the open window they held their heads in high disdain--those four red poppies who had gleefully chuckled and chatted together on the yesterday; but the fifth and silent poppy drooped upon her breast. I turned to go; she did not stay me; I stole to the door. "Take us away with you," cried those four garrulous poppies; "we are willing to die, and at once if need be, but not here in her hateful presence. Take us away." But the poppy on her breast only drooped and drooped the more and said not a word.
I opened the door. The shadows had fled--the hall was a blaze of light. The music had ceased--only the noise of street below broke the silence. "If thus you let me go, I will not return again," I said.
The woman did not speak, neither did she stir. But the poppy on her breast with drooping head uplifted softly cried, "Go, quickly go, and--forget!"
* * * * *
I went down the broad stairway between a row of bright lights--a dazzling mockery--I went out into the night. I passed by a certain garden where red poppies grew. I leaned over the low wall. I buried my hot face among them. I crushed them in my hands and stained my temples with their quivering blooms. But all to no purpose; they did not, could not bring forgetfulness. I am thinking always of that woman, of those four red poppies, and of that one red poppy which drooped on her breast that night and said to me, "Go, quickly go, and--forget."

THE NEW CURE FOR HEART-BREAK
TO LITTLE MISS PREVIOUS

III
THE NEW CURE FOR HEART-BREAK
A CHRISTMAS GIFT STORY
Hat Mark. Shaving Papers. Embroidered Slippers. Onyx Cuff Buttons. Inkstand from Italy. Her Picture--in Silver Frame. Scarf-pin with Pearl and Diamonds.
It was Christmas eve, several years ago. We had dined together at the Cafe de la Paix, near the Grand Opera-house, Paris. The dinner was good, the wine excellent; but George Addison was best of all.
I have never known why he should have told me that night of his "Cure for Heart-break."
Was it the grouse?
Was it the Burgundy?
Was it some strange influence?
George Addison is the man who first came to the front in the literary world as the careful and successful editor of that now valuable book, "The Poets and Poetry of the South." A fresh edition--about the eleventh--is promised for the New Year.
But he fairly leaped into fame, and its unusual companion, large wealth, when he gave ungrudgingly to his anxious and generous public that curious little hand-book, "The Perfected Letter Writer."
Young ladies who live in the country buy it clandestinely, and eagerly read it privately, secretly, in their own quiet bed-chambers during the silent watches of the night. When occasion demands they boldly make extracts therefrom, which they awkwardly project into their labored notes and epistles of much length and less grace.
Even women of fashion have been known to buy it--and use it, not wisely, but freely.
There are men, too, who consult its pages reverently, frequently, and oftentimes, I must add, with most disastrous results. It is, as is well known, a valuable but dangerous manual.
Therefore the name of George Addison is a household word, although he is mentioned as the editor of "Poets and Poetry of the South," and never as the author of "The Perfected Letter Writer"--a book which is seldom discussed. But nothing, until now, has been known of his "New Cure for Heart-break." If he had lived a few years longer, and could have found time from the more heavy duties of his busy life, he doubtless would have turned to some use the practical workings of his wonderful cure. But Death, with that old fondness for a shining mark, has seen fit to remove him from this, the scene of his earthly labors (See rural sheet obituary notice).
In the early career of George Addison, when he was obscure and desperately poor, he met her--that inevitable she--Florence Barlowe.
She had three irresistible charms. She was very young; she was very pretty--and, most charming of all, she was very silly. Time could steal away--and doubtless did--the youth. Time could ravage--and surely must have--her beauty. But nothing could--and nothing did--mar the uninterrupted splendor of her foolishness. She was born a fool, lived a fool, and undoubtedly must have died--if dead--the death of a glorious and triumphant fool.
George Addison was from the first attentive. But he was shy in those days, and knew not how, in words, to frame the love that filled his heart and rose like a lump in his throat whenever he saw