It was with evident satisfaction that the false John Dinsmore looked
about the elegantly appointed suite of rooms when he found himself
alone in them. The open windows looked out upon the eastern terrace,
which was delightfully cool and shady this warm afternoon, with the
odor of the tall pines and of the great beds of flowers floating in on
the breeze.
He threw himself down in a cushioned chair by the window; and as he
sat there, quietly reflecting for an hour or more, he could not make
out why the elder Dinsmore had made it imperative in his will that his
nephew must marry that freak of a girl, Jess, if he would inherit his
millions.
He was aroused from his meditations by the sound of the dinner bell.
“There’s not a particle of use in making any change in my toilet
because of the freak, or the old housekeeper--these backwoods people
would not know the difference between a _négligée_ and a regulation
dinner costume, I’ll be bound.”
He had a good appetite, and responded to the summons with alacrity.
He was not surprised to find Mrs. Bryson only in the great paneled
dining-room.
She greeted him with stately courtesy, remarking, as she assigned him
a seat on her right at the table, that Miss Jess would be with them
directly.
And the good lady felt called upon to tell the young man then and
there that the girl had no other name, at least they knew of none;
observing that this incident concerning the past showed how easy it
was to cloud the future by carelessness in determining anything so
important at the right time.
Mr. Dinsmore made some light, conciliatory reply, inwardly
congratulating himself that the impish freak, as he styled the girl,
had not put in an appearance, for the sight of her would not improve
his digestion, rather it would nauseate him if she came to the table
garbed in body as he had last seen her and minus any foot covering.
Five minutes passed, in which Mrs. Bryson vainly attempted to keep up
the conversation, while the dinner waited for the truant Jess, much to
the housekeeper’s annoyance and that of the handsome guest, for the
odor of well-cooked viands sent his appetite up to almost a ravenous
pitch.
“I think we will be forced to dine without Jess,” she began,
apologetically, but the words were scarcely out of her mouth ere the
sound of ear-splitting whistling, sweet, even though its shrillness
fell upon their ears.
“Jess is coming,” murmured Mrs. Bryson, flushing hotly, for she was
ashamed beyond all words that their guest should hear her actually
whistling, and she added, apologetically, “the child is something of
a tomboy, Mr. Dinsmore, having no little girl companions must surely
account for that”--she looked anxiously at the door as she spoke, and
the guest’s eyes naturally followed in the same direction.
He was prepared to see a wild, gypsyish creature, more fitted for wild
camp life than life at stately Blackheath Hall, where the grand old
dining-room, with its service of solid silver, might have satisfied a
princess.
As the fluttering steps drew nearer, the young man smiled a sneering,
satirical smile beneath his dark mustache.
He was wondering if the girl would recognize him on sight as the
stranger with whom she had had the angry encounter in the lane a few
days before.
As she neared the great doorway the whistling suddenly ceased, and
almost simultaneously the girl appeared in sight, and it was no
wonder that the elegant stranger forgot himself so much as to actually
stare--for the vision that suddenly appeared before his sight haunted
him to the end of his life.
Instead of the hoydenish creature he expected to see, he beheld a tall
young girl, in a pink and white flowered dress, which became her dark
beauty as no Parisian robe could have done; the jetty curls were tied
back by a simple pink ribbon, and a knot of pink held the white lace
bertha on her white breast.
She advanced with the haughty step of a young empress and took her seat
opposite Mr. Dinsmore.
He never afterward clearly remembered in what words the presentation
was made.
He was clearly taken aback, and he showed it plainly.
Not one feature of the girl’s proud, beautiful face moved, but there
was a subtle gleam in the bright, dark eyes which made the handsome
stranger feel uncomfortable. He knew that she had recognized him at the
first glance, and was secretly laughing at that memory--a fact which he
resented.
She took but one glance at him, but in that one, instantaneous glance
she had read not only the face, but the heart and soul, of the man
sitting opposite her, and her first impression of dislike of him was
strengthened.
He was quick to see that this little Southern beauty did not go in
raptures over him, as almost every other girl whom he had ever met had
seemed to do; in fact, he felt that she disliked him, and he was sure
that it was on account of the episode with the horse.
“I will change all that,” he promised himself confidently. He would
not notice that the girl acknowledged the introduction curtly, if
not brusquely; a fact which quite horrified good Mrs. Bryson, who
remembered full well her words:
“If I like the paragon who is coming I will be as amiable as I can
to him; if I dislike him, no power on earth can compel me to pretend
that I do. I will be as civil as I can to him, do not expect any more
from me, Mrs. Bryson. I have heard all that you have to say about this
strange young man’s taking a fancy to me--which is the peg upon which
riches in the future or beggary are hung--but I do not care a fillip
of my finger for all that. I would never marry him unless I liked him,
though a score of fortunes hung in the balance. If I ever marry, I want
a lover like the heroes I have read of--a----”
Mrs. Bryson held up her hands in horror, exclaiming:
“Again, in after years, I behold the fruits of my folly. I allowed
you to read what you would in master’s library, forgetting there were
sentimental books there; and no young girl should read that kind. They
have filled your foolish little head with all sorts of wild notions.”
“I shall know when I meet my hero, thanks to them,” declared Jess, with
a toss of the curls and a defiant expression of her dark eyes, which
had a habit of speaking volumes from their wonderful dark depth.
And looking at her, Mrs. Bryson knew from her indifferent manner that
handsome Mr. Dinsmore had not made a favorable impression upon the
girl--he was not her ideal--not her hero, evidently.
Mr. Dinsmore noticed that she made no attempt to entertain him or to be
anything more than civilly indifferent.
He was annoyed, but he would not notice it. The elegantly appointed
table, the excellent dinner, and the fine old wines made an impression
upon him.
He set himself to work with a will which was new to him to overcome
the girl’s prejudice. He was all animation, vivacity and high spirits,
literally charming the old housekeeper with his flow of wit and
collection of anecdotes.
Glancing now and then to the lovely girl opposite him, he saw that she
was bored instead of being amused by them.
Her indifference piqued him, she aroused his interest, and that was
more than any other girl had done--and he had traveled the wide world
over, and had seen the beauties of every clime.
“I almost believe I have lost my heart to the girl,” he muttered, as he
arose from the table, and at Mrs. Bryson’s suggestion, followed her out
into the grounds.
“Jess, will you show Mr. Dinsmore the rose gardens?” she asked of the
girl, adding, “he was very fond of them when he was a child.” Suddenly
she asked: “Do you remember gathering roses from a bush when you were
stung by a bee?”
“I remember the incident well,” he remarked, with a laugh, looking
the good woman straight in the eye, as he uttered the glib falsehood
unflinchingly, adding: “I believe I could go straight to that very bush
now.”
“You have a wonderful memory,” declared the good woman, admiringly.
She managed to whisper to Jess, as the girl passed her, to be more
civil to their guest, and to pretend to take more interest in him for
hospitality’s sake, if for nothing else--a remark to which Jess deigned
no reply.
To tell the truth, she was rebelling in her innermost soul at her
restraint in being gowned in a dress in which she could not do as she
pleased without getting it ruined. Better a thousand times were she in
her brown linsey dress, in which she could climb into her old seat in
the apple tree if she liked, or roam over the dew-wet grass, with her
dogs for companions, to her heart’s content.
Try as she would, she could not forget this handsome young man’s
cruelty to his poor horse; how fearfully he had lashed him, every
stroke being accompanied by a curse.