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 ANN SMITH
(1819 – 1905)

Ann Smith (AKA J. Gregory Smith)

had a life straight out of one of her
adventure stories. When Confederate
raiders attacked her home, she scared
them off with an unloaded pistol and
chased them into Canada, for which she
was made a lieutenant colonel for her
bravery. Despite her fighting spirit, she
was never able to vanquish Victorian
gender biases, and was forced to use her
husband’s name on her novels. After
more than a century, the battle is over.
YE GAME AND PLAYE OF CHESSE
& OTHER STORIES

BY

ALICE DUNBAR NELSON

 ALICEANN
DUNBAR NELSON
SMITH

YE GAME AND PLAYE OF CHESSE

Being one of a Number of Strange Happenings

at Hamilton on-the-Bay.

It was quite patent to everyone at Hamilton-on-the-Bay that Miss

Ruthven was in love with the Major. Even if the lady had denied the fact,
which she did not, no one being bold enough to inquire concerning her
feelings, she could not have hidden her decided preference for that por-
tion of the sea-breeze which enveloped the Major’s handsome figure. As
to the latter’s feelings on the matter, they were enigmatical. He was used
to the adoration of lovely damsels. For more seasons than the memory
of the average summer girl doth count, he had strolled down day after
day from his quarters in the nearby fort and wreaked dire havoc with
the hearts of innumerable damsels. As Chad feelingly remarked, it was a
perpetual game of bowls with the Major making ten strikes all the while.
The girls stood up in tens and the Major bowled them over, not even
looking to see where they fell. Chad’s remarks may have been made in
bitterness of spirit. He was young, only a lieutenant, and was not always
successful in his affairs. The Major, on the other hand, was thirty-seven
and good-looking, and as he was wont to say to the various maidens, had
not been seriously in love since he had passed nineteen. Small wonder
was it then, that each fair maid considered it her particular duty to rem-
edy this deficiency in his experience.
Miss Ruthven arrived at Hamilton prepared to do serious havoc to
the hearts of the military men stationed at the Fort. Her stock in trade

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 YE GAME
ATLA: ANDOF
A STORY PLAYE OF CHESSE
A LOST ISLAND

were a number of trunks filled with confections calculated to attract the

military masculine eye; a dainty figure; a spiritual face and a pair of ap-
pealing brown eyes surmounted by a fluffy gold-brown pompadour. Her
record was of an unimpeachable character. Four seasons of belle-dom in
the city and three successful summer seasons established her reputation
as a breaker of hearts. Chad gloomily remarked on the second day after
she came that he saw the Major’s finish. It was an understood fact that
the prettiest girl at the hotel was reserved for the Major. No other officer
would dare rush in until he had made his choice. Chad’s heart had gone
out to Miss Ruthven at the first night’s dance, but the Major had selected
her to lead the cotillion with him and that settled the whole matter. The
Major, however, did not see his finish.
Things happen rapidly at Hamilton-on-the-Bay. Before the cotillion
was over, Miss Ruthven told herself that the Major was one of the most
delightful men she had ever known. By the end of the second dance
with him she wondered how she could have been so blind as not to have
invited him to her home when she had met him the previous winter in
town. It grows suddenly warm in dance halls, eleven at Hamilton-on-
the-Bay, and after a stroll to see the waves flashing under an iridescent
film of moon-tipped gauze, Miss Ruthven decided that the Major was
the person for whom she had sought so earnestly during the several sea-
sons of her belle-dom. He was many years older than she, so she looked
up to him as her mental superior. His position made him in a sense, a
Great Mogul at Hamilton, and Miss Ruthven felt herself flattered by his
attentions. She had never been in love, what maiden will admit this, even
to herself ? But she had been “interested” several times, and she was “in-
terested” in the Major before the first night was over. She was successful
in concealing that fact for nearly a week, however, so that Chad was led
into remarking upon the probability of the Major’s denouement. But the
Major was not fear-stricken; he knew the symptoms.
Ten days is a long period at Hamilton-on-the-Bay. The season lasts
but six weeks, and events are condensed, so to speak. By the expiration
of the tenth day after the advent of Miss Ruthven, she was the Major’s
willing slave. This was quite contrary to her usual method of procedure.
Until this time, men, for Miss Ruthven, had been divided into two class-
es, i.e. those that fetch and those that carry. The Major was a new genus;
he neither fetched nor carried. He did not spend his substance in riotous
raids upon the nearby Huyler’s agency. True, a messenger had brought

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 ALICEANN
DUNBAR NELSON
SMITH

Miss Ruthven a box of chocolates one day, but the same messenger had
unwittingly allowed her to see that he had three other boxes with the
Major’s card. On the occasion of the Charity Hop, Miss Ruthven was in
a gurgle of appreciation over a bunch of jack roses, until she found that
the Major had impartially distributed jack roses to two married women
also. He admired a gown of hers; he did not gush, he never gushed. He
merely remarked, “Charming frock of yours,” but Miss Ruthven knew
that this was as far as he went in praise. Thereafter, although her ward-
robe was extensive enough to allow a different gown for every dance, she
wore that particular frock so often that it caused comment. The Major
was not always there to see the gown which he had admired; he had a
disconcerting fashion of absenting himself when he was most wanted.
On these occasions Miss Ruthven was seen to languish visibly so that
Chad swore into the blue spaces of sky peering through the dance pa-
vilion windows and wished she wouldn’t be a fool. She danced every set
with a spiritless attempt at vivacity, the while she suspected the Major of
being out rowing or sailing or driving or strolling with another girl. Chad
could have told her the truth, that he had been through so many seasons
of summer campaigns that it was a positive vacation for him to spend
long evenings with his brother officers in his room, filling it with blue
clouds and silently sipping from long, thin glasses. On those occasions,
Miss Ruthven’s name was not mentioned; the brother officers were not
interested, and the Major had forgotten her.
Neither did the Major write notes. Miss Ruthven treasured a scrap-
book wherein she kept scores of little notelets sent by youth’s ambitious
of taking her to various functions. When the Major wished to make an
engagement with her, he had a trick of finding her and fixing the date by
word of mouth. This was disconcerting, but it was infinitely better than
not going with him at all. Sometimes he did not even take the trouble of
setting a date for an affair; he merely happened along, and Miss Ruthven
found herself in the unenviable position of being “picked up” at the last
minute. Chad knew that oft-times she refused more specific invitations
in the hope that the Major would appear at the last moment, and he
swore under his breath on the occasions when the coveted military gen-
tleman came into view with another maiden radiant upon his arm.
In short, Miss Ruthven was in a pitiable condition. Her pride had
vanished as the mists lifted from the Bay each morning; she had forgot-
ten her haughty days of belle-dom. Her city friends were astounded; the

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 YE GAME
ATLA: ANDOF
A STORY PLAYE OF CHESSE
A LOST ISLAND

hotel habitués and denizes of the Fort were not even mildly interested.
It happened every summer and the symptoms scarce varied by a hair’s
breadth, the girl was merely changed. The Major and the brother officers
did not depart from the even tenor of their lives, and the hotel employees
were not even drawn into a gossipy discussion of the case. Only Chad felt
sorry for her.
Thus matters went on for nearly three weeks, and Miss Ruthven, by
some subtle gradations of the intellect found herself divested of pride,
position and pleasure, such was the result of the Major’s ill-fated notice
of her on that first night. But she was a girl of spirit, and though she
could bow in humility to his behests, and wait dog-like for his smile, she
could not but realize how low she had fallen, and long for some means
of retrieving her position and arousing his pique. The means came almost
as soon as her wish.
Enter Graham, a college professor, not too old, serious, given to star-
tling discussions on biological subjects, possessed of a high appreciation
of himself, an unbroken record of unsuccessful love-affairs, and a nasal
twang. Graham was fond of boasting of his Western independence, but
he managed to conceal it successfully under a thick layer of Eastern re-
finement. Graham was susceptible, wherefore, he fell a prey at once to
Miss Ruthven’s smile, which in the past three weeks had graduated from
brilliant into mournful. Chad knew that he was hard hit when he over-
heard the professor ask her if she played chess. He only played chess with
those whom he favored, for he loved the game and abhorred the thought
of seeing his beloved men in the hands of the sacrilegious unbeliever.
Miss Ruthven’s smile recovered some of its wonted radiance. Her
adorers were slowly dropping away from her, for she was either too oc-
cupied with the Major’s attentions or too preoccupied with a fear that
he would not grant her his favors to be good company for anyone. She
hailed Graham as a deliverer from the boredom that was becoming hers
and as an instrument with which to flay the miscreant Major. For twen-
ty-four hours she dazzled and bewildered the poor professor until his
stage was as pitiable as her own had been. There was but one fly in her
golden ointment – the Major was not visible. He had not even seen and
welcomed the unsuspecting Graham. Miss Ruthven’s sparkles and radi-
ance had been wasted; while Graham was primarily the beneficiary, her
eyes had glanced past him more than once to see if perchance the Major
was a witness to her perfect content with another.

4
 ALICEANN
DUNBAR NELSON
SMITH

When he did appear on the second night at the hop, the Brown girl
was with him. She was all in a flutter of pink frills and golden hair. Miss
Ruthven had her opinion of any woman past sixteen who wears whole
gowns of rose-pink. From the glances that passed between the two, she
knew that the Major and Miss Brown had been together for some time
before the hop and had established a remarkable degree of camaraderie.
She rehearsed in her mind how she would decline his invitation to dance,
but she had no opportunity to say her part. Therefore, she languished so
that Graham was seized with a clammy fear lest he had ceased to interest.
Chad said that the following developments constituted the most in-
teresting situation he had seen since the winter season. The Major had
apparently forgotten Miss Ruthven, but was assiduous in his attentions
to the Brown girl of the pink dresses and golden curls. Miss Ruthven
alternately languished and accepted desperately the decided attentions
of Graham whose efforts were well meant, if clumsy. The Major seemed
to have no scruples about writing notes to the pink damsel and his mes-
senger was continually making mistakes and bringing Miss Ruthven the
notes. Miss Brown persisted in making a confidante of Miss Ruthven’s
self-effacing aunt, who in turn poured out tales of the Major’s courtship
to half willing, half protesting ears.
And – cruellest of all, Graham and the Major turned out to be life-
long friends, classmates of High School days, intimates, whom all the
wiles of Miss Ruthven could not make rivals and enemies. Chad said the
thing possessed the intricacies of a Wagnerian opera.
Preparations for a big picnic were on; Chad was at the head. He al-
ways got up things and acted as a social committee for affairs to which
the Major lent the dignity of his presence and made glad the hearts of all
the girls. Miss Ruthven had decided to leave the hotel the day after the
picnic and hie herself to some less disquieting resort where her heart was
not so visibly and uncomfortably engaged. She had a vague and form-
less hope that the Major would follow her, although his attention to the
Brown girl seemed to satisfy him to the exclusion of all other interests.
The day of the picnic dawned distressingly clear. Miss Ruthven had
been guilty of a wicked wish that it would rain cats and dogs. The desire
was strong within her breast to be with the Major on this, her last day,
and she felt from the dimples that had flashed from the cheeks of the
Brown girl at breakfast time that her desire was a vain one. Graham’s of-
fers to be her own and particular company for the day were repeated and

5
 YE GAME
ATLA: ANDOF
A STORY PLAYE OF CHESSE
A LOST ISLAND

persistent, but she held him in abeyance, hoping with a sick, vain hope
that the Major would want her to himself this time, and would drive her
to the grove.
Miss Ruthven strolled out on the lawn and sat alone, conspicuously
so. It was an hour before the time set for the party to assemble, and she
had discerned the white uniform of the Major in the shade of the wisteria
arbor. He would see her, and came and sit by her, talk to her, perhaps ask
to go with him. Her fingers grew cold with nervous apprehension. He
had seen her, was moving toward her. She took an obviously nonchalant
pose, and became absorbed in a magazine.
The Major had one peculiarity among his many. Except when on
military duty he never walked directly toward the objective point of his
wanderings. His popularity perhaps may have accounted for this, for
his appearance on the grounds surrounding the hotel was the signal for
groups of maidens lying in wait to cajole a bit of flattery from his lips,
or for men to wait for his pronunciamento on the latest topic of the
day. Miss Ruthven knew this, but she felt that the circuitous track of his
movements would include her seat ere long. So she became interested in
the frivolous magazine, with occasional surreptitious glances toward the
tall, white-uniformed figure as it paused at sundry groups, butterfly-like,
to sip a honeyed word from each.
Very suddenly, a voice spoke tenderly to her over the magazine leaves.
“Will you share your seat with me for awhile?”
Miss Ruthven shimmered a dazzling glow of a smile into the face
bent over her, then the light died down in a formal chill welcome. Before
her stood Graham with the chess-board.
“Thought we might as well kill time before the traps come with a
game,” he twanged, spreading the board and rattling the ivory pieces
thereon, “Black or white?”
The Major’s wanderings were taking him away from their bench. He
was the center of a group of five girls with garden hats and picture sun-
shades. His glance roved amiably over the lawn and rested for a sec-
ond in impersonal benignity upon Miss Ruthven and Graham and the
chess-board. With a petulant shrug she resigned herself to the game.
“The queen’s gambit,” she said with dry, blue lips.
The Major patronizingly complimented Chad that evening on the
success of the picnic. He had driven three of the girls of his last group in
his own turn-out, the odious Brown girl in high spirits on the seat beside

6
 ALICEANN
DUNBAR NELSON
SMITH

him. Everyone voted Graham’s cart the prettiest in the party and Miss
Ruthven the best driver, declaring envy of her for sharing it with him, and
envy of him for being driven by her. But the honey of her day was freely
mixed with gall.
The same pretty trap was drawn up the next day to take her to the
station. Graham was broken-hearted at the prospect of her leaving and
had almost ruined the florist by insisting on flowers impossible to be
had in the summer season. Miss Ruthven’s dressing table groaned un-
der Huyler’s and roses from various sources, but after a vigorous search
among the cards for one that was not there, she petulantly vowed the
offerings all rubbish and left them for her long suffering, self-effacing
aunt to gather and bear to the train. Chad declared it was too bad for her
to go before the second act was well begun; it destroyed the effectiveness
of the leit-motif.
Miss Ruthven was being deluged with good-byes. Every one kisses
every one else at Hamilton-by-the-Bay even though the acquaintance
may have lasted but a few days. Miss Ruthven was being kissed by half
the girls in the hotel, even the Brown girl, to whom she turned a cold
and perfunctory cheek. Through the flutter of feminine garments and
the chitter of feminine good-byes she saw the white uniformed figure of
her dreams pushing to her side and heard the deeper notes of his voice,
saying, curiously enough,
“Did you enjoy your chess-game yesterday, Miss Ruthven?”
Chad always said he wanted to choke the Major for the speech. It was
hard enough for him to have seen the situation, but to let her know that
he had seen it, and to taunt her at the last, Chad said was mean.
Miss Ruthven flushed scarlet to the roots of her hair, and made no
reply as Graham helped her into the trap. Then, as she tucked the robe
around her and seized the reins, she leaned out and said clearly “Do you
play chess, Major?”
“I am very fond of the game,” he smiled directly into her eyes.
“Then you will appreciate the situation.” Chad said it was beautiful
the way she recovered her poise, “The game was going just about even,
when through sheer foolishness, I lost my queen to Mr. Graham, and
was left to fight single-handed under a most serious disadvantage. But
I fought hard, though it was discouraging work, and once I thought it
was all over. Then do you know what happened?” She leaned over and
laughed merrily, “Mr. Graham was so sure of the game, so perfectly sure

7
 YE GAME
ATLA: ANDOF
A STORY PLAYE OF CHESSE
A LOST ISLAND

that all he had to do was to make a few moves and end it that he grew
careless. He had some foolish pet play with a knight and a castle in a
corner, and forgetting my little pawns on guard began experimenting on
a side issue. Before he knew it, I had stalked into the king row and called
for my queen. Fortified with my lost dignity, I marched into position, and
before he could realize what had happened I called, Check-Mate! and
the game was mine. It was worth winning in the face of such odds as a
lost queen wasn’t it?”
She touched the whip and the horse sprang away, Graham waving
his hat to the crowd. In the chorus of good-byes, Chad heard the Major
say musingly,
“Mighty clever little woman, mighty clever.”
He did not even see the Brown girl’s golden curls as he thoughtfully
strolled away toward the Fort.

8
 ALICEANN
DUNBAR NELSON
SMITH

AT MANDEVILLE

If you should go to Mandeville now, it is probable that you would

find quite a modern little town with a railroad and a newspaper and
other latter-day inconveniences. But there were days of which we shall
speak when it was yet unsullied and untouched by the world of steam and
electricity and printing presses. It lay, a tiny town in the curve of Lake
Pontchartrain, green and white from the sand and the trees, with one
wide beach street. Down at the southwest end the sluggish black bayou
emptied into the lake, and the alligators sunned themselves on the logs
that clogged the small black bay.
In those days too, perhaps it is so now, the Camelia crossed from
the city every day, her black arms waving up and down frantically in the
air as she chug-chugged toward the landing, making a great excitement
on the little pier every afternoon when she came in, and every morning
when she went out. It was the only form of dissipation possible in Man-
deville, and the inhabitants took care that they indulged in it every day
to the fullest.
Mathieu stood on the pier on a particular afternoon and gazed with
a bored expression as the boat came in with an unusually heavy cargo.
He was infinitely weary of everything, he told himself, and yawned as
he rolled a cigarette and flicked infinitesimal bits of tobacco off his lean
brown fingers. Mandeville was a dull enough place for him to be spending

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 AT MANDEVILLE
ATLA: A STORY OF A LOST ISLAND

his summer in, and he inwardly cursed the business which held him there.
He sighed again and wished for something to break the monotony.
The Camelia chug-chugged in, puffing, wheezing and panting like
a fussy fat woman getting settled in her chair. The men let down the
gang planks and the crowd on the deck of the boat swarmed toward
the crowd on the pier, each eager to see what the one held for the other.
Mathieu strolled carelessly forward; he was not really eager to see anyone,
for he expected nothing that could interest him; but force of association
is strong, and he moved forward mechanically.
Suddenly he started and threw the cigarettes in the water. In an in-
stant, he had pulled himself together, and instead of the careless, loung-
ing attitude, stood forward, his well-knit figure and bronzed face with
its shock of black hair towering above the pushing crowd. The girl into
whose eyes he looked as she stepped off the gang plank thought he was
one of the handsomest men she had ever seen. He did not stop at think-
ing of his admiration of her; he looked it full into her eyes, and stepped
forward as if to help her with her bag.
“Mais non,” she said with a pretty disdainful gesture as he bowed
before her with an offer of assistance. “I have a friend to meet me.” She
was scornfully old in her tones, and a flush of annoyance at his boldness
mantled her cheeks.
He bowed courteously, undaunted by her irritation, and stepped aside,
still keeping his eye upon her. She stood irresolute for an instant, looking
around for a familiar face. None came near her, and Mathieu, smilingly
observant of this fact, waited his chance. Slowly, the crowd faltered away
from the pier; slowly the boat puffed away from the landing to go on its
way farther up the lake, and still the dark eyes looked irresolutely over the
heads of the few remaining figures, watching for a form that did not ap-
pear. Again Mathieu approached her, this time deferentially and slowly,
tossing away another cigarette as he neared her.
“Mademoiselle –,” he began, but she tossed her head away disdainful-
ly. He shrugged his shoulder, and continued coldly.
“If mademoiselle will permit –,” he spoke in French, not the patois of
St. Tammany, but the French of the city. She elevated her pretty brows.
“Well?” she said coldly.
“But perhaps mademoiselle did not notify her friends?”
“Oh, yes, I did,” she said eagerly, “but – perhaps – I wrote too late,
and – and –” her eyes shadowed into tears of the lonely prospect before

10
 ALICEANN
DUNBAR NELSON
SMITH

her. The pier was almost deserted now, and the violet shadows of the
deepening sunset towards the Tchefuncta river foretold the approach of
the swift tropical night.
“If mademoiselle will permit me –” again the courtly bow.
Mademoiselle would permit; mademoiselle was going to the Co-
lomés to visit friends there. Perhaps monsieur would call a carriage?
“Mais non,” monsieur deprecated, taking the bag from her hand. Co-
lomés was but a matter of a hundred yards from the pier, mademoiselle
could walk the distance; besides there was no carriage to call.
Mademoiselle shrugged her pretty shoulders again, and gathering her
fluffy skirts into her hand, prepared to follow the monsieur. Reluctantly,
she had to admit as she tripped behind him up the rough pier that his
strong shoulders and long, lithe, easy striding limbs were very pleasant to
behold. But again mademoiselle shrugged her dainty shoulders. He was a
common countryman, a “Cajan”, and therefore, quite beneath her notice.
Her arrival on the Cherokee rose-covered gallery of the Colomés
house aroused instant cries of joy and laughter. In the confusion, Mathieu
put down the bag and retreated without so much as a backward farewell
glance from her.
She was seated on the gallery the next morning, her face shaded by a
huge, white sunbonnet, her small hands encased in silk mitts. Her white
gown fluffed and frilled about her pretty, slippered feet, and she rocked
vigorously to and fro and talked in a high musical patois to four of five
other white bonnetted, black mitted, fluffy gowned girls, who rocked in
unison and chattered volubly together. Mathieu strolled down the beach
road, slackening his pace as he neared the house. The six rockers moved
to and fro more vigorously as his broad shoulders pushed their way down
the street, and six voices rose to shriller tones as they affected not to no-
tice his approach.
He bowed low, hat in hand, before his acquaintance of the evening
before. She turned the white bonnet a trifle scornfully.
“I hope mademoiselle is quite well this morning,” he began.
“An’ oh, Celes’,” she shrilled high over the head of the nearest bonnet
to the one at the end of the gallery, “but, you should have seen! Eet was
so nize–” evidently she had not seen the tall figure before her.
Celeste giggled, looked nervous, but made no other reply; the other
bonnets giggled and looked expectant. Mathieu drew himself up with a
jerk, clapped his sombrero on his head, and moved away quietly but firmly.

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 AT MANDEVILLE
ATLA: A STORY OF A LOST ISLAND

“Oh, Mathieu,” called one of the girls, “Don’ you want to mee–” but
he had gone.
“Oh, see what you have done!” cried Celeste.
“I don’ care,” sniffed the stranger, “the idea of wantin’ to introduce me!
He’s nothin’ but a ‘Cajan’!”
“Indeed Lalla, but you mak’ a meestek’–” but Lalla at the first hint of
disapproval from her hostesses had flounced angrily indoors.
But the “Cajan” was everywhere. He strolled on the pier when Lalla,
with the other bonnets, went down to see the Camelia puff in with the
papers and the mail and the daily quota of news and passengers. He
lounged by the rose-vine-covered post-office, when she went up for the
mail. He stood by the font of holy water in the little wooden church when
she went to early mass, and one day even had the effrontery to pass her
the holy water on his finger tips. He sat on the end of the gallery in the
evenings, chatting with the M’sieur Colomés about the weather, sugar,
the prospects of timber from the back woods, everything, the while they
two puffed smoke into the swarming mosquitoes. He was her Sinbad,
her Nemesis, a spectre that haunted her at every turn that she made in
the little dreamy old town. But after that morning that she had snubbed
him so violently he had never spoken to her, nor save for the one instance,
in church, given her the faintest sign that he was aware of her existence.
Now, every true Creole demoiselle knows that this was the unforgiv-
able attitude to take. Lalla was piqued, although she would never have
confessed as much, not even to Celeste, her most cherished friend and
confidante since Ursuline convent days. She told herself she was annoyed
at his impertinence.
“Celes’”, she said one morning, when this silent vigilance had gone on
for several days. “Celes’, ah – who – who – is that young man that – er –
follows me – us, all the time?”
Celeste’s backbone stiffened. “You meestak’,” she said with digni-
ty, “Young men don’ follow demoiselles in Mandeville. Dey leave that
in N’Orleans.”
Under the circumstance, then, there was nothing else for the stranger
within the gates of Mandeville to do but to put a curb on her curiosity
and her tongue. It seemed as if a stone wall had been put up between
her and traditions of Mandeville. She found it impossible to penetrate
below the surface of the daily life of Colomés; and as for a discussion of
the people of the town, especially the omnipresent young man, that was

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 ALICEANN
DUNBAR NELSON
SMITH

out of the question. Celeste promptly grew uncommunicative, even cross,

when she was asked questions, and other girls merely exchanged glances
and giggled when they were approached. So two weeks passed a very
unsatisfactory two weeks, and one night Lalla announced her intention
of going home next morning.
“Oh,” said Celeste with unfeigned surprise, “so soon?”
“Yaas.” Said Lalla, “I t’ink maman mus’ need me.”
It was a dark, heavy evening, and the other end of the gallery had its
usual two occupants. There was instant silence at that end after Lalla’s
declaration delivered in a much louder tone then you would expect one
to use when the person to whom you are speaking is sitting quite close to
you. Old M’sieur Colomés blew the smoke from his long black cigar re-
flectively into the cloud of mosquitoes, but Mathieu’s cigarette went out
and he roused himself with difficulty to answer Colomés’ remark about
the likelihood of a storm on the morrow, and the disposition of the logs
in the bayou.
“But – but – I wanted to geev you one pa’ty,” objected Celeste. “I
would have had one two – t’ree days ago, but –” she finished with a dep-
recatory shrug and a wave of her hands.
“Oh, that ees no dife’nce,” said Lalla politely. She was a trifle disgust-
ed at Celeste’s lack of enterprise; for when your Creole girl goes on a visit,
she expects to be very much entertained.
“But,” continued Celeste taking up her sentence suddenly, and with
decisive emphasis, “I was ver’ much afraid you were not pleased with the
young men I would h’ask.”
There was another silence at the further end of the gallery, Lalla was
conscious of it, and she was conscious too, that a hot, crimson flush was
mantling on her cheek in the sort of darkness of the night. The silence
seemed to last an eternity before she found breath to laugh nervously.
“Not pleased? Mais non, ma chere sousine, but I have seen none to
be pleased with.”
And with a mock courtesy she gathered her palmetto fan from the
bamboo table and swept within doors.
However, she must have changed her mind about going in the morn-
ing. The Camelia chug-chugged her fussy way from Mandeville to New
Orleans at seven in the morning, and at eight, Mademoiselle Lalla had
not put in her appearance on the gallery. Mathieu noted this as he rode
by on his big, black horse. He knew too, that she had not been on the

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 AT MANDEVILLE
ATLA: A STORY OF A LOST ISLAND

Camelia puffing across the sombre waters of the lake. He smiled to him-
self as he rode by, hailed M’sieur Colomés cheerily, and went on whis-
tling loudly.
At breakfast Lalla evinced a settled gloom of manner that dis-
turbed Celeste.
“Lalla, ma chere,” she inquired tenderly, “are you not well?”
No, Lalla was not well; she had not slept undisturbed but perhaps
a walk would do her good, if Celeste did not mind. Oh, no, she would
not take Celeste from her home duties, she would stroll down to the
bayou and read.
Her white bonnet bobbed down the road, her black mitted hands
clasped the book tightly. Down to the bayou’s edge, near where it spread a
glisteningly bay into the lake, was a log nestling under a great moss-hung
oak. Lalla tossed aside the bonnet, pulled her mitts off and addressed
herself, not to the book, but to the waters of the lake booming heavily
against the shore, and rolling into the calm depths of the bayou over
against Nott’s point, the clouds piled gray and heavy, and the lake itself,
showed a stormy blue light on its heavy swells. The wind came up in gusts
that whipped the white caps on the surface of the water, and the brown
depths of the bayou stirred uneasily. She turned the pages of her book
unseeingly, for she was watching with unfeigned interest the swift rising
of the brown water; how here it quietly lapped and submerged a log, but
a few moments ago high and dry.
“Mademoiselle is interested in her book; perhaps she is especially
fond of poetry?”
Lalla turned with a crimsoning face. Mathieu stood unpleasantly near
and she sprang to her feet indignantly.
“You followed me –” she began with petulance.
“Mademoiselle flatters herself,” he smiled back at her serenely. “I may
be permitted to ride over my own plantation, may I not?”
He waved his hand to the black horse tied to a tree not a few yards
distant; between it and them eddied a little pool of brown water. The
animal stood quivering in every limb; its head thrown up nervously as it
sniffed the approaching storm.
“Oh, what –” she began, wringing her bare white hands.
Mathieu shrugged his shoulders. Evidently mademoiselle is not fa-
miliar with the storm signals on Nott’s Point, else she would not have

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 ALICEANN
DUNBAR NELSON
SMITH

come here to read poetry. The bayou rises rapidly when the wind is south-
east; in a short while it will be flowing over this spot.
The girl lifted her white skirts and looked timidly at her thin slippers,
“Oh, I – I – shall have to wade,” she gasped.
He gazed reflectively at the swirling brown whirlpool between them
and the horse.
“It is about up to my knee now,” he said dispassionately, “and it will
take all my strength to wade across.”
She put up her hands to ward off a flash of lightning and burst into
tears. The next instant, Mathieu had put the offending book of verses into
his pocket, and lifting the girl into his arms as if she were a child, waded
across the seething pool to the safe haven where the horse was tied. Out
of the sombre waters of the lake a little white sunbonnet tossed to and fro.
Then the storm broke upon them in all its fury; ten thousand demons
shrieked through the century old moss draped trees, and over the raging
waters. Mathieu said nothing, there was no use, he might have shouted
in the tempest and been unheard, but busied himself untying the horse.
Lalla he lifted to the pommel of the saddle and held her while he took
off his coat and sombrero, and put them on her as she cowered shivering
and drenched in her thin gown.
They rode slowly perforce, because the trees were crashing across the
road, and the lightening blinded them, and frightened the horse, who
ever and anon reared and plunged with fear. It was not until they were
nearing the Colomés that Lalla stirred. There was a lull in the storm, and
she turned her face, wet and glistening and pitiful under the dripping
sombrero up to his.
“M’sieur,” she began plaintively, “will you forgive –”
The sentence was never finished. Two heads instead of one, were un-
der the sombrero for an instant; then the storm after its brief breath
holding, recommenced its roar with redoubled fury. There is small need
for preliminaries when you have loved each other for a whole two weeks,
especially in Mandeville.
“An’ to t’ink,” said Celeste at the party a few nights later, “She come
all the way from N’Orleans to catch a beau who leeve in her own ceety.
Don’ mak’ no dif ’ence eef he do come to look after hees plantation. He
reech, yaas, he own big house in town, yaas, but she have to come heah
fo’ to catch heem.”

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 AT MANDEVILLE
ATLA: A STORY OF A LOST ISLAND

“I thought you didn’t like Cajans, Lalla?” he asked from a corner of

the rose-covered gallery.
“I don’t,” she laughed, “but there are ‘Cajans’ and Cajans.”
And the Cherokee roses on the vines laughed appreciatively at what
happened next.

16
 ALICEANN
DUNBAR NELSON
SMITH

THE BICYCLE RACE

Jacqueline fluffed the ruffles of her white dress about her as she set-
tled herself on the front step. It was July in New Orleans with all the
possibilities of heat and mosquitoes that that means. With a wave of
her small hand, she disturbed the cloud of mosquitoes settling about her
head, and with another gesture, infinitely graceful, she put back a rebel-
lious tress that strayed over her forehead.
Stephan Grandpré watched her approvingly, yet fearfully. He was
very much in love, and as such, approved of her from the crown of her
crisp curly head to the point of her small light shoes, but he feared, alas,
as many lovers had feared before him, that all this daintiness was not for
him. Therefore, his glances, far from being bold and openly expressing
admiration, as was his wont, when dealing with the gentler ones, were
furtive and appealing.
Jacqueline laughed at the cloud of mosquitoes over her head, and
laughed again, as the children sung gravely, going round and round in
slow time on the banquette:
“King William was King Jameses son—”
“Jacqueline,” began Stephan softly.
Jacqueline did not answer. She pretended not to hear, and tossed
her head in time to the children’s song. Plainly, Stephan was not in her
good favour.

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 THE BICYCLE
ATLA: A STORY OF A RACE
LOST ISLAND

“Jacqueline,” he whispered again, but this time she looked up and

down the street impatiently.
“He say he come,” she murmured softly. Stephan glared at the ban-
quette and pulled an incipient moustache fiercely.
“He? Who?” he demanded.
For answer, Jacqueline laughed again, showing her pretty white teeth
like a kitten who plays with a ball.
“Jacqueline,” he began again, but this time there was firmness in his
tone that made the little lady sit up and stare at him apprehensively.
“Yaas?” she said.
“Jacqueline, I been waitin’ for’ you’ answer too long, now. You been
playin’ wid me, yaas. Now, I got to know what you inten’, moi!”
He played at his moustache nervously, and his voice lost its opening
bravado in an appealing note.Jacqueline looked at him, a new expression
of seriousness crossing her face, but the next moment, she was all smiles
and dimples again.
“Stephan,” she said tenderly, and at the unwonted tenderness in her
voice, he turned to her eagerly, and hung with breathless interest on her
next words.
“Stephan, do you know the big rase at the new byseekle trac’ to-
morrow night?”
He uttered an ejaculation of disgust, and Jacqueline opened wide eyes
of surprise at him.
“Victor, he say he take me,” she announced with a spreading of her
ruffles, and a bridling of her head, “Eef I wan’ to go.”
Stephan growled again.
“Of co’se, Victor, he one gallant.”
There was no mistaking the tone of her voice; it was calm, dispassion-
ate in its comparison, implied, not spoken, but how Stephan longed for
Victor then!
“Dey say,” she fanned herself meditatively as she spoke, and made
quick dives into the cloud of mosquitoes now and then with her dis-
engaged hand, “Dey say, the new trac’, h’eet the fines’ in tout le monde.
Mos’ ever’ body goin’ for’ to see the premier rase. Moi, I nevare seen one
byseekle rase.”
Stephan’s equanimity had returned, “May I have the pleasure of you’
com’pny?” he said, rising with a profound bow.
“Eh?” her eyebrows lifted in polite surprise, “You wan’ me fo’ to go?”

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 ALICEANN
DUNBAR NELSON
SMITH

“Mais certainement,” he bowed again, “Mees Jacqueline, I would be

mos’ happy.”
The next evening, Jacqueline in her usual toilet of befrilled muslins,
sat on the steps, awaiting Stephan. Victor Boyer strolled up, puffing a
cigarette languidly.
“Goin’ to the rase?” he inquired.
“Yaas,” Jacqueline was indifferent.
“Well, I t’ink h’eet’s ‘bout time to start.”
“Yaas.”
“Come on.”
“Moi?” Jacqueline sniffed audibly, “I go wid Stephan.”
Victor looked incredulous; Stephan had not been considered worthy
of a place among his rivals, “Ehh?” he said shortly, “Well fo’ dat, I hope
eef you bet, you’ man weel lose.”
The Coliseum was a blazing glare of white light, of seething human-
ity, of blaring brass bands, and of important figures hurrying to and fro.
Jacqueline and Stephan seated in the front row, gave themselves up to
delicious thrills of excitement. Before them, in a deep, cup-shaped circle,
swept the white concreted track, a blazing path on which the fortunes of
the riders would rise and fall, even as the track rose and fell in its undu-
lating sweep.
One, two, three, four, races and all the preliminary heats were done,
and the final one, the test of all, was to begin. The crowd had cheered; the
band played as on-by-one the races were won and lost amid the deafen-
ing noise and excitement and enthusiasm of the packed and perspiring
throng. The electric thrill of excitement swept through Jacqueline, and
unconsciously, she nestled closer to Stephan, cooing little words of de-
light at the unwonted sight. The touch of her soft arms against his side
lifted him out of himself, and unheeding the pitiless white glare of the arc
lights, he crushed her fingers in his, murmuring passionately:
“Jacqueline, oh, Jacqueline, say yaas, won’ you now? Jacqueline!”
But even then, she was almost mistress of herself, and drew her fin-
gers from his the while she answered.
“Stephan, stop! They lookin’! I tell you, you bet on one rider an’ I bet
on one, an’ eef mine wins, I tell you no, an’ eef you win, I tell you yaas!”
She whispered it hurriedly, her cheeks flaming, her eyes falling before his
reproachful gaze.

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 THE BICYCLE
ATLA: A STORY OF A RACE
LOST ISLAND

“Oh, Jacqueline,” he cried despairingly, but she waved him silent. The
riders were taking their places for the last race, and Stephan must per-
force pay attention to the track, for Jacqueline’s eyes danced hither and
thither for a possible defender of her hand and heart.
“There he is! There he is!” she cried excitedly, “See Stephan dat one,
yaas, him in the red shirt. ‘E’s mine, ‘e’s mine, now you pick you’s!”
Stephan groaned. He felt himself defeated at the outset, for the rider
in the red sweater whom Jacqueline had claimed as her knight was the
best rider among the contestants. He was the champion whose breast
glittered with medals. He had won easily all the preliminary races and the
semi-finals. It seemed useless for him to ride in the finals, so easily had he
outdistanced all his rivals.
“Oh, Jacqueline,” groaned Stephan, “don’ put it dat way, you
don’ mean ‘eet?”
“P’eeck you’ man, p’eeck you’ man!” cried she excitedly, dancing up
and down in her seat; for the trainers were holding the men in position
in their saddles, and the started had his pistol poised in the air. Stephan
looked them over forlornly. Then, because he felt so dejected, selected a
lanky rider in a green suit; selected him because, he, too was folorn and
dejected looking, ugly and bony and sallow in his lurid tights and shirt,
and seemed by his very miserable looks to comfort Stephan’s aching heart.
Crack! The pistol startled the tense air, and the wheels were off, slow-
ly, slowly, at first, while the band crashed a foolish tune, all brass horns
and senseless drum. Jacqueline leaned excitedly over her seat, and hung
with breathless interest on the movements of the riders. Slowly, they
crawled around the dazzling whiteness of the track, like queer black bee-
tles climbing up a wall; now up, now down, now in, now under; avoiding
each other, dodging one another’s wheels; now ahead, now behind; now
hugging the top of the track; now scraping the lower edge. Then they
were half-way around.
“Lookout,” said a voice behind Stephan, “That lanky fellow in green
is going to give Tracy a mean race.”
Jacqueline turned to flash an indignant glance at the speaker, for Tra-
cy it was who wore the red suit and the breastful of medals; but Stephan,
a faint hope tugging at his breast, leaned forward with renewed interest.
Green Suit had left the other riders far behind, and climbing to the
top of the track, was following dangerously near to Tracy; poised above
him, like some scrawny green bird of prey about to pounce down. The

20
 ALICEANN
DUNBAR NELSON
SMITH

Red Suit with the medals spun bravely along, apparently unaware of
the danger that menaced it. Now they had whirred past Jacqueline and
Stephan, Green Suit so close to her that she drew back with a little cry of
dismay—and they were around the first time!
Now the real contest had begun! The race had narrowed itself into
two riders—the Green and the Red. The others had either dropped out or
were merely following languidly. Tracy kept on the level, crawling nearer
and nearer, and they were a quarter around. Tracy looked up and behind;
his head went further down over his handle-bars, a bull-dog thickness
seemed to grow on his neck. Green Suit changed his course, and with a
swift rush swept down until his wheel was on the level with the Red One’s.
Now they were half-way round, and the breathless spectators could
see how close together they were. Only a length behind followed Green
Suit; his long, scrawny legs whirling like automata, pulling the wheel
nearer and more dangerously near the Red One. Faster and faster whirled
the two pairs of legs until they were indistinguishable, even as the spokes
of the wheels. They were three quarters around, and the Green Suit was
only a wheel behind Tracy.
Jacqueline sat upright with tense face and wide-stretched eyes, while
her hand sought and gripped Stephan’s. Her lips moved softly as if she
was praying. Stephan noticed this as his eyes left the track for the fraction
of a second to search her eager face with his own strained glance. He, too,
seemed to be praying.
On, on, swept the two wheels; nearer hugged the Green Suit, crawl-
ing up slowly, oh, so slowly to Tracy’s handle-bars. Now three quarters of
a wheel length; now a half, now a quarter, now a mere eye-space-faster
and still faster whirred the flying legs. Now side by side, they whirled past
Jacqueline and Stephan, their heads bent low, their backs arched, their
eyes wild and concentrated. They were nearing the stand; it seemed that
they must cross the line simultaneously. Then with one forward move-
ment of his long neck, Green Suit, seemed literally to throw himself and
his machine a half wheel length ahead of Tracy.
Now, there was pandemonium, and the band crashed more foolish
noise than before. The people were standing up, waving things and shout-
ing until the very arc lights sputtered and quivered from the waves of
noise. Jacqueline and Stephan, on their feet, like the rest, were cheering
and waving and shouting, as if, they too, were mad. After the first sec-
ond of enthusiasm, Stephan looked at Jacqueline in surprise; she was

21
 THE BICYCLE
ATLA: A STORY OF A RACE
LOST ISLAND

laughing and crying in one breath, and her eyes danced and sparkled
under tears of joy.
“Why—why—Jacqueline?” he shouted in her ear. It was necessary to
shout in order to be heard.
“Oh, Stephan,”she cried clinging to him.“I prayed fo’you’man to ween!”
And, in the excitement and confusion of the crowd’s moving out to
rush for cars, who noticed that he took her in his arms, and kissed her full
on her protesting, yet yielding, red mouth?
However, Victor Boyer’s spiteful wish for her had come true.

22