“Oh, Leave Me, Leave Me, and Ask Me Not Why.”
They were lovers. He, tall and stately, with eyes which could blaze with the fire of manly courage or soften till they beamed with liquid lustre when touched by the torch of love.
She, a timid, trusting girl, with the face of a Peri, with a lithe and graceful figure that seemed but too frail to battle with the cares of life.
They had been walking together down a shady lane whose sides seemed a bower fit for such a queen as she, and while the wild roses made the air heavy with their intoxicating fragrance they had talked of love, love which was now their only dream of happiness.
At the rustic stile he had crossed, and holding his arms outstretched he had lifted her down, she springing like a frightened fawn, and then as he started on, he simply said, “Come, Amphridite.”
No answer; no hand in his; no velvet step by his side, and in wonder he turned.
There she stood, close to the stile, and on her face, instead of the trusting look of love, was a look of wild terror.
“What! Darling, what is this? Will you not come to the one who loves you? cried Percy, a cold chill, as of some undefined horror, surging up in his heart.
“Oh, leave me! Leave me!” she cried, sinking down and clinging still more closely to the fence.
“Leave you, darling?” Oh, no, I cannot. I will not. What means this sudden change? But a moment ago you loved me, and now you bid me go, and without one word of explanation..”
“Oh, Percy. I cannot explain. Oh. Leave me, and ask me not why,” and sobs convulsed the fair young form.
“And am I thus to be driven from you; thus cast aside as the child casts aside a toy? Have you nothing to say in extenuation of this conduct?”
“Nothing. Oh, leave me. At some future…”
“No, false girl. Now or never!” And the dark eyes flashed with intense passion.
“Then go,” was all she said.
Percy stood but a moment with his arms folded across the broad chest that heaved with passion. “I could not have thought it of one so guiltless. Oh, woman, woman, you have much to answer for,” and then turning scornfully on his heel he strode away in the gathering twilight.
“Oh, if I could only have explained,” moaned Amphridite, as the bitter tears flowed fast through her clenched fingers, “but I could not!” And she fell with a dull thud, fainting to the earth.
You see, she struck the ground too hard when he jumped over the tile, and she split her Jersey from the armpit clear to the waist. And she didn’t want Percy to see that she had on her week-day corset.
MORAL Always examine the seams in a ready-made Jersey before you put it on.
Daily Illinois State Journal [Springfield IL] 9 October 1883: p. 6
Mrs Daffodil’s Aide-memoire: Words we all can live by in these darkening days of winter.
Mrs Daffodil invites you to join her on the curiously named “Face-book,” where you will find a feast of fashion hints, fads and fancies, and historical anecdotes
You may read about a sentimental succubus, a vengeful seamstress’s ghost, Victorian mourning gone horribly wrong, and, of course, Mrs Daffodil’s efficient tidying up after a distasteful decapitation in A Spot of Bother: Four Macabre Tales.