And so the game went on, neither of them caring where the ball went so that it could be hit again when it came their way.

When it was about to stay its flight I ventured in with the remark that she must not forget to give my kindest and best to her good father. I think she had forgotten I was standing so near.

"And you know daddy!" she cried--the real girl was shining in her eyes now--all the coquetry had vanished from her face.

"Yes--we worked together on the piers of the big bridge over the Delaware; oh, long ago."

"Isn't he the very dearest? He promised to come here today, but I know he won't. Poor daddy, he gets home so tired sometimes. He has just started on the big tunnel and there is so much to do. I have been helping him with his papers every night. But when Aunt Felicia's note came--she isn't my real aunt, you know, but I have called her so ever since I was a little girl--daddy insisted on my coming, and so I have left him for just a few days. He will be so glad when I tell him I have met one of his old friends." There was no question of her beauty, or poise, or her naturalness.

"Been a lady all her life, my dear Major, and her mother before her,"

Miss Felicia said when I joined her afterward, and Miss Felicia knew.

"She is not like any of the young girls about, as you can see for yourself. Look at her now," she whispered, with an approving nod of her head.

Again my eyes sought the girl. The figure was willowy and graceful; the shoulders sloping, the arms tapering to the wrists. The hair was jet black--"Some Spanish blood somewhere," I suggested, but the dear lady answered sharply, "Not a drop; French Huguenot, my dear Major, and I am surprised you should have made such a mistake." This black hair parted in the middle, lay close to her head--such a wealth and torrent of it; even with tucking it behind her ears and gathering it in a coil in her neck it seemed just ready to fall. The face was oval, the nose perfect, the mouth never still for an instant, so full was it of curves and twinkles and little quivers; the eyes big, absorbing, restful, with lazy lids that lifted slowly and lay motionless as the wings of a resting b.u.t.terfly, the eyebrows full and exquisitely arched. Had you met her in mantilla and high-heeled shoes, her fan half shading her face, you would have declared, despite Miss Felicia's protest, that only the click of the castanets was needed to send her whirling to their rhythm. Had she tied that same mantilla close under her lovely chin, and pa.s.sed you with upturned eyes and trembling lips, you would have sworn that the Madonna from the neighboring church had strayed from its frame in search of the helpless and the unhappy; and had none of these disguises been hers, and she had flashed by you in the open some bright morning mounted on her own black mare, face aglow, eyes like stars, her wonderful hair waving in the wind, you would have stood stock-still in admiration, fear gripping your throat, a prayer in your heart for the safe home-coming of one so fearless and so beautiful.

There was, too, about her a certain gentleness, a certain disposition to be kind, even when her inherent coquetry--natural in the Southern girl--led her into deep waters; a certain tenderness that made friends of even unhappy suitors (and I heard that she could not count them on her fingers) who had asked for more than she could give--a tenderness which healed the wound and made lovers of them all for life.

And then her Southern speech, indescribable and impossible in cold type.

The softening of the consonants, the slipping away of the terminals, the slurring of vowels, and all in that low, musical voice born out side of the roar and crash of city streets and crowded drawing-rooms with each tongue fighting for mastery.

All this Jack had taken in, besides a thousand other charms visible only to the young enthusiast, before he had been two minutes in her presence.

As to her voice, he knew she was one of his own people when she had finished p.r.o.nouncing his name. Somebody worthwhile had crossed his path at last!

And with this there had followed, even as he talked to her, the usual comparisons made by all young fellows when the girl they don't like is placed side by side with the girl they do. Miss MacFarlane was tall and Corinne was short; Miss MacFarlane was dark, and he adored dark, handsome people--and Corinne was light; Miss MacFarlane's voice was low and soft, her movements slow and graceful, her speech gentle--as if she were afraid she might hurt someone inadvertently; her hair and dress were simple to severity. While Corinne--well, in every one of these details Corinne represented the exact opposite. It was the blood! Yes, that was it--it was her blood! Who was she, and where did she come from?

Would Corinne like her? What impression would this high bred Southern beauty make upon the pert Miss Wren, whose little nose had gone down a point or two when her mother had discovered, much to her joy, the week before, that it was the REAL Miss Grayson and not an imitation Miss Grayson who had been good enough to invite her daughter and any of her daughter's friends to tea; and it had fallen another point when she learned that Miss Felicia had left her card the next day, expressing to the potato-bug how sorry she was to hear that the ladies were out, but that she hoped it would only be a matter of a few days before "she would welcome them" to her own apartments, or words to that effect, Frederick's memory being slightly defective.

It was in answer to this request that Mrs. Breen, after consulting her husband, had written three acceptances before she was willing that Frederick should leave it with his own hands in Fifteenth Street--one beginning, "It certainly is a pleasure after all these years"--which was discarded as being too familiar; another, "So good of you, dear Miss Grayson," which had a similar fate; and the third, which ran, "My daughter will be most happy, dear Miss Grayson, to be with you," etc., which was finally sealed with the Breen crest--a four-legged beastie of some kind on its hind legs, with a motto explanatory of the promptness of his ancestors in times of danger. Even then Corinne had hesitated about accepting until Garry said: "Well, let's take it in, anyhow--we can skip out if they bore us stiff."

Knowing these things, therefore, and fearing that after all something would happen to mar the pleasant relations he had established with Peter, and with the honor of his uncle's family in his keeping, so to speak, Jack had awaited the arrival of Corinne and Garry with considerable trepidation. What if, after all, they should stay away, ignoring the great courtesy which this most charming of old ladies--never had he seen one so lovable or distinguished--had extended to them; and she a stranger, too, and all because her brother Peter had asked her to be kind to a boy like himself.

The entrance of Corinne and Garry, therefore, into the crowded room half an hour after his own had brought a relief to Jack's mind (he had been watching the door, so as to be ready to present them), which Miss Felicia's gracious salutation only intensified.

"I remember your dear mother perfectly," he heard the old lady say as she advanced to Corinne and took both her hands. "And she was quite lovely. And this I am very sure is Mr. Breen's friend, Mr. Minott, who has carried off all the honors. I am delighted to see you both. Peter, do you take these dear young people and present them to Ruth."

The two had thereupon squeezed through to Ruth's side; Peter in his formal introduction awarding to Garry all the honors to which he was ent.i.tled, and then Ruth, remembering her duties, said how glad she was to know them; and would they have lemon or sugar?--and Corinne, with a comprehensive glance of her rival, declined both, her excuse being that she was nearly dead now with the heat and that a cup of tea would finish her. Jack had winced when his ears caught the flippant answer, but it was nothing to the way in which he shrivelled up when Garry, after shaking Miss MacFarlane's hand as if it had been a pump-handle instead of a thing so dainty that no boy had a right to touch it except with reverence in his heart, had burst out with: "Glad to see you. From the South, I hear--" as if she was a kangaroo or a Fiji Islander. He had seen Miss MacFarlane give a little start at Garry's familiar way of speaking, and had noticed how Ruth shrank behind the urn as if she were afraid he would touch her again, although she had laughed quite good-naturedly as she answered:

"Not very far South; only from Maryland," and had then turned to Jack and continued her talk with the air of one not wishing to be further interrupted.

The Scribe does not dare to relate what would have become of one so sensitive as our hero could he have heard the discussion going on later between the two young people when they were backed into one of Peter's bookcases and stood surveying the room. "Miss MacFarlane isn't at all my kind of a girl," Corinne had declared to Garry. "Really, I can't see why the men rave over her. Pretty?--yes, sort of so-so; but no style, and SUCH clothes! Fancy wearing a pink lawn and a sash tied around her waist like a girl at a college commencement--and as to her hair--why no one has ever THOUGHT of dressing her hair that way for AGES and AGES."

Her mind thus relieved, my Lady Wren had made a survey of the rooms, wondering what they wanted with so many funny old portraits, and whether the old gentleman or his sister read the dusty books, Garry remarking that there were a lot of "swells" among the young fellows, many of whom he had heard of but had never met before. This done, the two wedged their way out, without ever troubling Peter or Miss Felicia with their good-bys, Garry telling Corinne that the old lady wouldn't know they were gone, and Corinne adding under her breath that it didn't make any difference to her if she did.

CHAPTER IX

But Jack stayed on.

This was the atmosphere he had longed for. This, too, was where Peter lived. Here were the chairs he sat in, the books he read, the pictures he enjoyed. And the well-dressed, well-bred people, the hum of low voices, the cl.u.s.ters of roses, the shaded candles, their soft rosy light falling on the egg-sh.e.l.l cups and saucers and silver service, and the lovely girl dispensing all this hospitality and cheer! Yes, here he could live, breathe, enjoy life. Everything was worth while and just as he had expected to find it.

When the throng grew thick about her table he left Ruth's side, taking the opportunity to speak to Peter or Miss Felicia (he knew few others), but he was back again whenever the chance offered.

"Don't send me away again," he pleaded when he came back for the twentieth time, and with so much meaning in his voice that she looked at him with wide-open eyes. It was not what he said--she had been brought up on that kind of talk--it was the way he said it, and the inflection in his voice.

"I have been literally starving for somebody like you to talk to," he continued, drawing up a stool and settling himself determinedly beside her.

"For me! Why, Mr. Breen, I'm not a piece of bread--" she laughed. "I'm just girl." He had begun to interest her--this brown-eyed young fellow who wore his heart on his sleeve, spoke her dialect and treated her as if she were a d.u.c.h.ess.

"You are life-giving bread to me, Miss MacFarlane," answered Jack with a smile. "I have only been here six months; I am from the South, too." And then the boy poured out his heart, telling her, as he had told Peter, how lonely he got sometimes for some of his own kind; and how the young girl in the lace hat and feathers, who had come in with Garry, was his aunt's daughter; and how he himself was in the Street, signing checks all day--at which she laughed, saying in reply that nothing would give her greater pleasure than a big book with plenty of blank checks--she had never had enough, and her dear father had never had enough, either.

But he omitted all mention of the faro bank and of the gamblers--such things not being proper for her ears, especially such little pink sh.e.l.ls of ears, nestling and half hidden in her beautiful hair.

There was no knowing how long this absorbing conversation might have continued (it had already attracted the attention of Miss Felicia) had not a great stir taken place at the door of the outside hall. Somebody was coming upstairs; or had come upstairs; somebody that Peter was laughing with--great, hearty laughs, which showed his delight; somebody that made Miss Felicia raise her head and listen, a light breaking over her face. Then Peter's head was thrust in the door:

"Here he is, Felicia. Come along, Holker--I have been wondering--"

"Been wondering what, Peter? That I'd stay away a minute longer than I could help after this dear lady had arrived?... Ah, Miss Felicia! Just as magnificent and as young as ever. Still got that Marie Antoinette look about you--you ought really--"

"Stop that nonsense, Holker, right away," she cried, advancing a step to greet him.

"But it's all true, and--"

"Stop, I tell you; none of your sugar-coated lies. I am seventy if I am a day, and look it, and if it were not for these furbelows I would look eighty. Now tell me about yourself and Kitty and the boys, and whether the Queen has sent you the Gold Medal yet, and if the big Library is finished and--"

"Whew! what a cross examination. Wait--I'll draw up a set of specifications and hand them in with a new plan of my life."

"You will do nothing of the kind! You will draw up a chair--here, right alongside of me, and tell me about Kitty and--No, Peter, he is not going to be taken over and introduced to Ruth for at least five minutes. Peter has fallen in love with her, Holker, and I do not blame him. One of these young fellows--there he is still talking to her--hasn't left her side since he put his eyes on her. Now begin--The Medal?--

"Expected by next steamer."

"The Corn Exchange?"

"All finished but the inside work."

"Kitty?"

"All finished but the outside work."

Miss Felicia looked up. "Your wife, I mean, you stupid fellow."

"Yes, I know. She would have come with me but her dress didn't arrive in time."

Miss Felicia laughed: "And the boys?"

"Still in Paris--buying bric-a-brac and making believe they're studying architecture and--But I'm not going to answer another question.

Attention! Miss Felicia Grayson at the bar!"