Little Miss Sophie
When Miss Sophie knew consciousness again, the long, faint,swelling notes of the organ were dying away in distant echoesthrough the great arches of the silent church, and she was alone,crouching in a little, forsaken black heap at the altar of theVirgin. The twinkling tapers shone pityingly upon her, thebeneficent smile of the white-robed Madonna seemed to whispercomfort. A long gust of chill air swept up the aisles, and MissSophie shivered not from cold, but from nervousness.
But darkness was falling, and soon the lights would be lowered,and the great massive doors would be closed; so, gathering herthin little cape about her frail shoulders, Miss Sophie hurriedout, and along the brilliant noisy streets home.It was a wretched, lonely little room, where the cracks let theboisterous wind whistle through, and the smoky, grimy wallslooked cheerless and unhomelike. A miserable little room in amiserable little cottage in one of the squalid streets of theThird District that nature and the city fathers seemed to haveforgotten.As bare and comfortless as the room was Miss Sophie's life. Sherented these four walls from an unkempt little Creole woman,whose progeny seemed like the promised offspring of Abraham. Shescarcely kept the flickering life in her pale little body by theunceasing toil of a pair of bony hands, stitching, stitching,ceaselessly, wearingly, on the bands and pockets of trousers. Itwas her bread, this monotonous, unending work; and though wholedays and nights constant labour brought but the most meagrerecompense, it was her only hope of life.She sat before the little charcoal brazier and warmed hertransparent, needle-pricked fingers, thinking meanwhile of thestrange events of the day. She had been up town to carry thegreat, black bundle of coarse pants and vests to the factory andto receive her small pittance, and on the way home stopped in atthe Jesuit Church to say her little prayer at the altar of thecalm white Virgin. There had been a wondrous burst of music fromthe great organ as she knelt there, an overpowering perfume ofmany flowers, the glittering dazzle of many lights, and thedainty frou-frou made by the silken skirts of wedding guests. SoMiss Sophie stayed to the wedding; for what feminine heart, be itever so old and seared, does not delight in one? And why shouldnot a poor little Creole old maid be interested too?Then the wedding party had filed in solemnly, to the rolling,swelling tones of the organ. Important-looking groomsmen;dainty, fluffy, white-robed maids; stately, satin-robed,illusion-veiled bride, and happy groom. She leaned forward tocatch a better glimpse of their faces. "Ah!"--Those near the Virgin's altar who heard a faint sigh and rustleon the steps glanced curiously as they saw a slight black-robedfigure clutch the railing and lean her head against it. MissSophie had fainted."I must have been hungry," she mused over the charcoal fire inher little room, "I must have been hungry;" and she smiled a wansmile, and busied herself getting her evening meal of coffee andbread and ham.If one were given to pity, the first thought that would rush toone's lips at sight of Miss Sophie would have been, "Poor littlewoman!" She had come among the bareness and sordidness of thisneighbourhood five years ago, robed in crape, and crying withgreat sobs that seemed to shake the vitality out of her.Perfectly silent, too, she was about her former life; but for allthat, Michel, the quartee grocer at the corner, and MadameLaurent, who kept the rabbe shop opposite, had fixed it all upbetween them, of her sad history and past glories. Not that theyknew; but then Michel must invent something when the neighbourscame to him as their fountain-head of wisdom.One morning little Miss Sophie opened wide her dingy windows tocatch the early freshness of the autumn wind as it whistledthrough the yellow-leafed trees. It was one of those calm,blue-misted, balmy, November days that New Orleans can have whenall the rest of the country is fur-wrapped. Miss Sophie pulledher machine to the window, where the sweet, damp wind could whiskamong her black locks.Whirr, whirr, went the machine, ticking fast and lightly over thebelts of the rough jeans pants. Whirr, whirr, yes, and MissSophie was actually humming a tune! She felt strangely lightto-day."Ma foi," muttered Michel, strolling across the street to whereMadame Laurent sat sewing behind the counter on blue andbrown-checked aprons, "but the little ma'amselle sings. Perhapsshe recollects.""Perhaps," muttered the rabbe woman.But little Miss Sophie felt restless. A strange impulse seemeddrawing her up town, and the machine seemed to run slow, slow,before it would stitch all of the endless number of jeans belts.Her fingers trembled with nervous haste as she pinned up theunwieldy black bundle of finished work, and her feet fairlytripped over each other in their eagerness to get to ClaiborneStreet, where she could board the up-town car. There was afeverish desire to go somewhere, a sense of elation, a foolishhappiness that brought a faint echo of colour into her pinchedcheeks. She wondered why.No one noticed her in the car. Passengers on the Claiborne lineare too much accustomed to frail little black-robed women withbig, black bundles; it is one of the city's most pitiful sights.She leaned her head out of the window to catch a glimpse of theoleanders on Bayou Road, when her attention was caught by aconversation in the car."Yes, it's too bad for Neale, and lately married too," said theelder man. "I can't see what he is to do."Neale! She pricked up her ears. That was the name of the groomin the Jesuit Church."How did it happen?" languidly inquired the younger. He was astranger, evidently; a stranger with a high regard for thefaultlessness of male attire."Well, the firm failed first; he didn't mind that much, he was sosure of his uncle's inheritance repairing his lost fortunes; butsuddenly this difficulty of identification springs up, and he isliterally on the verge of ruin.""Won't some of you fellows who've known him all your lives do toidentify him?""Gracious man, we've tried; but the absurd old will expresslystipulates that he shall be known only by a certain quaint Romanring, and unless he has it, no identification, no fortune. Hehas given the ring away, and that settles it.""Well, you 're all chumps. Why doesn't he get the ring from theowner?""Easily said; but--it seems that Neale had some little Creolelove-affair some years ago, and gave this ring to his dusky-eyedfiancee. You know how Neale is with his love-affairs, went offand forgot the girl in a month. It seems, however, she took itto heart,--so much so that he's ashamed to try to find her or thering."Miss Sophie heard no more as she gazed out into the dusty grass.There were tears in her eyes, hot blinding ones that wouldn'tdrop for pride, but stayed and scalded. She knew the story, withall its embellishment of heartaches. She knew the ring, too.She remembered the day she had kissed and wept and fondled it,until it seemed her heart must burst under its load of griefbefore she took it to the pawn-broker's that another might beeased before the end came,--that other her father. The little"Creole love affair" of Neale's had not always been poor and oldand jaded-looking; but reverses must come, even Neale knew that,so the ring was at the Mont de Piete. Still he must have it, itwas his; it would save him from disgrace and suffering and frombringing the white-gowned bride into sorrow. He must have it;but how?There it was still at the pawn-broker's; no one would have suchan odd jewel, and the ticket was home in the bureau drawer.Well, he must have it; she might starve in the attempt. Such athing as going to him and telling him that he might redeem it wasan impossibility. That good, straight-backed, stiff-neckedCreole blood would have risen in all its strength and choked her.No; as a present had the quaint Roman circlet been placed uponher finger, as a present should it be returned.The bumping car rode slowly, and the hot thoughts beat heavily inher poor little head. He must have the ring; but how--thering--the Roman ring--the white-robed bride starving--she wasgoing mad--ah yes--the church.There it was, right in the busiest, most bustling part of thetown, its fresco and bronze and iron quaintly suggestive ofmediaeval times. Within, all was cool and dim and restful, withthe faintest whiff of lingering incense rising and pervading thegray arches. Yes, the Virgin would know and have pity; thesweet, white-robed Virgin at the pretty flower-decked altar, orthe one away up in the niche, far above the golden dome where theHost was. Titiche, the busybody of the house, noticed that MissSophie's bundle was larger than usual that afternoon. "Ah, poorwoman!" sighed Titiche's mother, "she would be rich forChristmas."The bundle grew larger each day, and Miss Sophie grew smaller.The damp, cold rain and mist closed the white-curtained window,but always there behind the sewing-machine drooped and bobbed thelittle black-robed figure. Whirr, whirr went the wheels, and thecoarse jeans pants piled in great heaps at her side. TheClaiborne Street car saw her oftener than before, and the sweetwhite Virgin in the flowered niche above the gold-domed altarsmiled at the little supplicant almost every day."Ma foi," said the slatternly landlady to Madame Laurent andMichel one day, "I no see how she live! Eat? Nothin', nothin',almos', and las' night when it was so cold and foggy, eh? I hav'to mek him build fire. She mos' freeze."Whereupon the rumour spread that Miss Sophie was starving herselfto death to get some luckless relative out of jail for Christmas;a rumour which enveloped her scraggy little figure with a kind ofhalo to the neighbours when she appeared on the streets.November had merged into December, and the little pile of coinswas yet far from the sum needed. Dear God! how the money didhave to go! The rent and the groceries and the coal, though, tobe sure, she used a precious bit of that. Would all the work andsaving and skimping do good? Maybe, yes, maybe by Christmas.Christmas Eve on Royal Street is no place for a weakling, for theshouts and carousels of the roisterers will strike fear into thebravest ones. Yet amid the cries and yells, the deafening blowof horns and tin whistles, and the really dangerous fusillade offireworks, a little figure hurried along, one hand clutchingtightly the battered hat that the rude merry-makers had torn off,the other grasping under the thin black cape a worn littlepocketbook.Into the Mont de Piete she ran breathless, eager. The ticket?Here, worn, crumpled. The ring? It was not gone? No, thankHeaven! It was a joy well worth her toil, she thought, to haveit again.Had Titiche not been shooting crackers on the banquette insteadof peering into the crack, as was his wont, his big, round blackeyes would have grown saucer-wide to see little Miss Sophie kissand fondle a ring, an ugly clumsy band of gold."Ah, dear ring," she murmured, "once you were his, and you shallbe his again. You shall be on his finger, and perhaps touch hisheart. Dear ring, ma chere petite de ma coeur, cherie de macoeur. Je t'aime, je t'aime, oui, oui. You are his; you weremine once too. To-night, just one night, I'll keepyou--then--to-morrow, you shall go where you can save him."The loud whistles and horns of the little ones rose on the balmyair next morning. No one would doubt it was Christmas Day, evenif doors and windows were open wide to let in cool air. Why,there was Christmas even in the very look of the mules on thepoky cars; there was Christmas noise in the streets, andChristmas toys and Christmas odours, savoury ones that made thenose wrinkle approvingly, issuing from the kitchen. Michel andMadame Laurent smiled greetings across the street at each other,and the salutation from a passer-by recalled the many-progeniedlandlady to herself."Miss Sophie, well, po' soul, not ver' much Chris'mas for her.Mais, I'll jus' call him in fo' to spen' the day with me. Eet'llcheer her a bit."It was so clean and orderly within the poor little room. Not aspeck of dust or a litter of any kind on the quaint littleold-time high bureau, unless you might except a sheet of paperlying loose with something written on it. Titiche had evidentlyinherited his prying propensities, for the landlady turned itover and read,--LOUIS,--Here is the ring. I return it to you. I heard youneeded it. I hope it comes not too late. SOPHIE."The ring, where?" muttered the landlady. There it was, claspedbetween her fingers on her bosom,--a bosom white and cold, undera cold happy face. Christmas had indeed dawned for Miss Sophie.
Little Miss Sophie was featured as
TheShort Story of the Day on
Tue, Nov 10, 2020
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