Charley hurried along the upper hall, and arriving at the head of the
stairs, blew his nose three times with a certain fierce defiance. This
strictly commonplace operation he repeated in a subdued form as he
neared the dining-room door, and stopping again, with one hand upon the
knob, he passed the other again and again across his forehead and eyes,
as though he had been an antiquated belle who would smooth out the
wrinkles before entering a ball-room. Then, with that severe look of
determined reticence of which I have spoken above, he entered the
dining-room; exciting in all breasts, male and female alike, a keen but
hopeless curiosity. This feeling, however, soon subsided; for the Don
had entered shortly after Charley, and, begging Mrs. Carter to excuse
his tardiness, had taken his seat and passed out of our minds. For
besides that the dinner was good and the wine generous, most of us had
our own little interests to look after. Jones, for example, and Jones’s
girl were too happy to care whether any one in the world were late or
early for dinner. My grandfather, Mrs. Carter, and myself were
sufficiently occupied as hosts,—and Charley, too, though he devoted his
time principally to one guest. As a matter of fact, therefore, during
the early part of the dinner the Don sat unobserved by the greater part
of the company; and but for one faithful pair of eyes, I should have had
nothing to record.
In the spirit of mischief, Alice had so manœuvred that the seat left
vacant for the Don was between Lucy and little Laura. “Won’t it be
sweet, mother, to see all three of them in a row,—Lucy—Mr. Don
Miff—Laura? Quite a little family party!”
“Very well,” replied Lucy, laughing, “arrange it as you will; I am sure
I should like very well to sit by ‘the Don.’ Do you still call him by
that name?”
“Of course. It has a grand sound, and grand sounds, you know, are
precious to the female heart.”
The Don’s looks when he entered were downcast, his manner hesitating,
and his voice, when he made his apologies to Mrs. Carter, scarcely
audible. Charley, the moment the Don entered, had begun stammering away
at Alice with a surprising volubility, and in a voice loud for him. He
never stammered worse; and such a pother did he make with his m’s and
his p’s that he drew upon himself the smiling attention of all the
company; so that even Jones and his girl ceased murmuring, for a moment,
their fatuous nothings. It was under cover of this rattling volley that
the Don had taken his seat and begun intently to examine the monogram on
his fork.
“Will you have some soup?” asked Charley, in a frank, off-hand way.
The commonplace nature of this question was an obvious relief to the
Don, and he raised his eyes and looked about him. “Thanks, no soup.
What!” said he, for the first time espying little Laura seated by his
side, “you here by me!” And taking her sunny head between his hands, he
bent over and kissed her on the forehead.
A mother’s smile trembled in Mrs. Poythress’s eyes. “She is a very
little diner-out,” said she.
At the sound of Mrs. Poythress’s voice a shade passed over the Don’s
face. “He’s the one, mumma, that built me the block-houses.” And the
smile came back.
Mary watched the play of the Don’s features during the triangular
conversation that followed between himself, Mrs. Poythress, and Laura,
and was much puzzled. Light and shadow, shadow and light, chased each
other over his changeful countenance like patches of cloud across a
sunny landscape. Presently, chancing to turn his head, his eyes fell
upon Lucy, seated on his right, and Mary’s interest grew deeper.
“You on my right and Laura on my left! I feel that I am indeed among
friends.”
“You may be sure of that,” said Lucy, in her low and sweet, but earnest
voice.
The Don’s pleasure at finding that Lucy was his neighbor at table was
very obvious, and we must not blame Mary if it gave her a pang to see
it. She could not but recall the stranger’s manifest interest in Lucy
when he first met her, at breakfast, in Richmond. Then she had not
cared. Now it was different. For the next half-hour, while contributing
her share to the conversation at her end of the table, she had managed
to see everything that took place between the Don and Lucy. She saw
everything, and yet she seemed to herself to see nothing. The meaning of
it all—that she could not unravel. All she knew was that she was
miserable; and her wretchedness made her unjust. She was vexed at
Lucy,—vexed for the strangest of reasons; but the human heart—if the
plagiarism may be pardoned—is full of inconsistencies. Had Lucy made
eyes at the Don, coquetted with him, Mary would doubtless have thought
it unkind on her part; though that would have been unjust, as Lucy had
no cause to suspect that her friend felt any special interest in the
mysterious stranger. It was the entire absence of everything of this
kind in Lucy’s manner that nettled Mary. In her eyes the Don was a hero
of the first water. Why didn’t Lucy try to weave fascinations around
such an one as he? What kind of a man was she looking for? Did she
expect the whole world to fall at her feet, whence to choose?—or did
she, perhaps,—and the thought shot through her heart with a keen
pang,—did Lucy feel that the quarry was hers without an effort on her
part to grasp it?
The Don’s deportment, too, if incomprehensible, was at least irritating.
“His lordship,” thought she, bitterly, “has hardly vouchsafed me a
glance since he took his seat. Yet, before the Poythresses came—there
he sits now, patting Laura’s head in an absent way, and studying Lucy’s
features, as she talks, as though he were a portrait-painter. One would
think he had quietly adopted the entire Poythress family. Upon my word,
Mr. Sphinx is a marvel of coolness! How little he talks, too!—and yet
he has contrived to bring Lucy out wonderfully. She is rattling away
like a child, telling him about herself and all the family. How
interested he seems! Heavens, what a look!”
“Yes,” she had heard Lucy say, “Laura is a regular Poythress, with her
high color and golden hair; mine is just like mother’s. I don’t mean
now,” said she, with a little laugh and glancing at Mrs. Poythress’s
snow-white hair; “but mother’s was coal-black once. It turned
white—years ago—suddenly;” and she sighed softly, with downcast,
pensive eyes, so that she did not observe the look of pain that her
words had wrought and that had startled Mary. Looking up and seeing his
face averted, Lucy thought he was admiring her little sister’s curls.
“What beautiful hair Laura has!”
“Lovely,” replied he, tossing a mass of ringlets on the tips of his
fingers.
“Won’t you make me a boat, after dinner, with rudder and sails and
everything?” And Laura looked up into his troubled face with a
confiding, sunny smile.