An Old Man's Darling
Alex. McVeigh Miller
Mrs. Alex. McVeigh Miller
An Old Man's Darling
CHAPTER I
"The sea, the sea, the open sea;
The blue, the fresh, the ever free,"
chanted the fresh and delicious voice of a young girl walking along the sands of the seashore in the summer sunshine at Cape May.
"Cross my palm with silver, and I'll tell your fortune, bonnie maid," said a cracked, discordant voice.
The singer paused abruptly, and looked at the owner of the voice—a lean, decrepit old hag, who extended her withered hand imploringly.
"Nay, now, good soul," answered she, with a merry laugh, "fortune will come to me anyway, even if I keep my silver piece."
"Aye—aye, it will," said the old crone, wagging her head like a bird of evil omen; "it aye comes to faces as bonny as your own. But it's I that can tell you whether it be good or ill fortune."
"Here, then," said the girl, still laughing, and putting a silver piece into the trembling old hand; "be cheerful, now, and tell me a brave fortune for my money."
The old sibyl did not appear to relish the light and jesting tone of the other, and stood for a moment gazing at her in grave and portentous silence.
What a contrast the two presented as they stood looking at each other!
The girl was beautiful, with all the delicate freshness and slimness of eighteen. She was a dazzling blonde, with sea-blue eyes, and hair like spun gold falling beneath her jaunty sailor hat in long, loose curls to her graceful waist. She was fair as a lily, with a flush like the heart of a sea-shell on her round, dimpled cheeks. Her brow was fair and broad, and fringed with soft, childish rings of sunny hair. Her nose was small and straight; her mouth was curved like Cupid's bow, its short, exquisite upper lip lending a touch of archness to the patrician mold of her features. The small, delicately shaped hands and feet were in keeping with the rare beauty of her face and form. She was simply clad in a jaunty sailor costume of dark blue serge trimmed with white braid and pearl buttons, and carried a volume of poems in her gloved hand.
As contrasted with this peerless beauty and youthful grace the old sibyl appeared hideous as a fiend beside an angel.
She was diminutive in stature, and bent nearly double with the weight of years. Her scanty, streaming white hair was in odd contrast with the dark, parchment-like skin and jet-black eyes that sparkled with a keen and unnatural brightness. A wicked, malevolent expression was the prevailing cast of her wrinkled features, and her cheeks and lips having fallen in upon her toothless gums, converted her grim smile into a most Satanic grin. The dreadful old beldam was attired in a melange of ancient and faded finery, consisting of a frayed and dirty quilted satin petticoat and an overdress of rich brocade, whose original brilliant oriental hues were almost obliterated by time and ill-usage. She gathered these faded relics about her with a certain air of pride as she said to the young girl:
"Sit ye down upon the stone there, and let me look at your palm."
She was obeyed with a demure smile by the listener, who drew off her glove and presented the loveliest hand in the world for inspection—a lily-white hand, small, and dimpled, and tapering, with rosy palm and tips—a perfect hand that might have been enclosed in a glass case and looked at only as a "thing of beauty."
The sibyl took that dainty bit of flesh and blood into her brown, wrinkled claws, and scanned it intently.
"You are well-born," she said, slowly.
"You can tell that much by the shape of my nose, I suppose," laughed the girl, mischievously.
The old hag glanced at the elegant, aristocratic little member in question and frowned.
"I can tell by your hand," said she, shortly: "Not but that it is written on your features also—for you are very beautiful."
"Others have told me so before," said the girl, with her musical, light-hearted laugh.
"Peace, will-'o-the-wisp!" said the old woman, sternly. "Do not pride yourself upon that fatal gift! You are lovely as an angel, but your