Part 4 (1/2)

”I was sure that this is Joyce Ware and her sister,” she exclaimed, cordially, as Rob introduced them. ”My girls are so excited over your coming they can hardly wait to meet you. They are having a little house-party themselves, at present, some girls from Lexington and two young army officers, whom I want you to know. Come here, Elise, and meet the Little Colonel's Wild West friends. Oh, we've lived in Arizona too, you know,” she added, laughing, ”and I've a thousand questions to ask you about our old home. I'm looking forward to a long, cozy toe-to-toe on the subject, every time you come to The Beeches.”

After a moment's pleasant conversation she pa.s.sed on, leaving such an impression of friendly cordiality that Joyce said, impulsively, ”She's just _dear_! She makes you feel as if you'd known her always. Now toe-to-toe, for instance. That's lots more intimate and sociable than tete-a-tete.”

”That's what I thought, too,” exclaimed Mary. ”And isn't it nice, when you come visiting this way, to know everybody's history beforehand! Then just as soon as they appear on the scene you can fit in a background behind them.”

It was the first remark Mary had made in Rob's hearing, except an occasional monosyllable in regard to her choice of dishes on the bill of fare, and he turned to look at her with an amused smile, as if he had just waked up to the fact that she was present.

”She's a homely little thing,” he thought, ”but she looks as if she might grow up to be diverting company. She couldn't be a sister of Joyce's and not be bright.” Then, in order to hear what she might say, he began to ask her questions. She was eating ice-cream. Joyce, who had refused dessert on account of a headache, opened her chatelaine bag to take out an envelope already stamped and addressed.

”If you'll excuse me while you finish your coffee,” she said to Rob, ”I'll scribble a line to mamma to let her know we've arrived safely.

I've dropped notes all along the way, but this is the one she'll be waiting for most anxiously. It will take only a minute.”

”Certainly,” answered Rob, looking at his watch. ”We have over twenty minutes to catch the next trolley out to the Valley. They run every half-hour now, you know. So take your time. It will give me a chance to talk to Mary. She hasn't told me yet what her impressions are of this grand old Commonwealth.”

If he had thought his teasing tone would bring the color to her face, it was because he was not as familiar with her background as she was with his. A long apprentices.h.i.+p under Jack and Holland had made her proof against ordinary banter.

”Well,” she began, calmly, mas.h.i.+ng the edges of her ice-cream with her spoon to make it melt faster, ”so far it is just as I imagined it would be. I've always thought of Kentucky as a place full of colored people and pretty girls and polite men. Of course I've not been anywhere yet but just in this room, and it certainly seems to be swarming with colored waiters. I can't see all over the room without turning around, but the ladies at the tables in front of me and the ones reflected in the mirrors are good-looking and stylish. Those girls you bowed to over there are pretty enough to be Gibson girls, just stepped out of a magazine; and so far--_you_ are the only man I have met.”

”Well,” he said after a moment's waiting, ”you haven't given me your opinion of _me_.”

There was a quizzical twinkle in his eye, which Mary, intent upon her beloved ice-cream, did not see. Her honest little face was perfectly serious as she replied, ”Oh, _you_,--you're like Ma.r.s.e Phil and Ma.r.s.e Chan and those men in Thomas Nelson Page's stones of 'Ole Virginia,' I love those stories, don't you? Especially the one about 'Meh Lady.' Of course I know that everybody in the South can't be as nice as they are, but whenever I think of Kentucky and Virginia I think of people like that.”

Such a broad compliment was more than Rob was prepared for. An embarra.s.sed flush actually crept over his handsome face. Joyce, glancing up, saw it and laughed.

”Mary is as honest as the father of his country himself,” she said.

”I'll warn you now. She'll always tell exactly what she thinks.”

”Now, Joyce,” began Mary, indignantly, ”you know I don't tell everything I think. I'll admit that I did use to be a chatterbox, when I was little, but even Holland says I'm not, now.”

”I didn't mean to call you a chatterbox,” explained Joyce. ”I was just warning Rob that he must expect perfectly straightforward replies to his questions.”

Joyce bent over her letter, and in order to start Mary to talking again, Rob cast about for another topic of conversation.

”You wouldn't call those three girls at that last table, Gibson girls, would you?” he asked. ”Look at that dark slim one with the red cherries in her hat.”

Mary glanced at her critically. ”No,” she said, slowly. ”She is not exactly pretty now, but she's the ugly-duckling kind. She may turn out to be the most beautiful swan of them all. I like that the best of any of Andersen's fairy tales. Don't you? I used to look at myself in the gla.s.s and tell myself that it would be that way with me. That my straight hair and pug nose needn't make any difference; that some day I'd surprise people as the ugly duckling did. But Jack said, no, I am not the swan kind. That no amount of waiting will make straight hair curly and a curly nose straight. Jack says I'll have my innings when I am an old lady--that I'll not be pretty till I'm old. Then he says I'll make a beautiful grandmother, like Grandma Ware. He says her face was like a benediction. That's what he wrote to me just before I left home.

Of course I'd rather be a beauty than a benediction, any day. But Jack says he laughs best who laughs last, and it's something to look forward to, to know you're going to be nice-looking in your old age when all your friends are wrinkled and faded.”

Rob's laugh was so appreciative that Mary felt with a thrill that he was finding her really entertaining. She was sorry that Joyce's letter came to an end just then. Her mother's last warning had been for her to remember on all occasions that she was much younger than Joyce's friends, and they would not expect her to take a grown-up share of their conversation. She had promised earnestly to try to curb her active little tongue, no matter how much she wanted to be chief spokesman, and now, remembering her promise, she relapsed into sudden silence.

All the way out to the Valley she sat with her hands folded in her lap, on the seat opposite Joyce and Rob. The car made so much noise she could catch only an occasional word of their conversation, so she sat looking out of the window, busy with her thoughts.

”Sixty minutes till we get there. Now it's only fifty-nine. Now it's fifty-eight--just like the song 'Ten little, nine little, eight little Indians.' Pretty soon there'll just be one minute left.”

At this exciting thought the queer quivery feeling inside was so strong it almost choked her. Her heart gave a great thump when Joyce finally called, ”Here we are,” and Rob signalled the conductor to stop outside the great entrance gate.

”The Locusts” at last. Pewees in the cedars and robins on the lawn; everywhere the cool deep shadows of great trees, and wide stretches of waving blue-gra.s.s. Stately white pillars of an old Southern mansion gleamed through the vines at the end of the long avenue. Then a flutter of white dresses and gay ribbons, and Lloyd and Betty came running to meet them.

CHAPTER V.