Others were sewing by hand, and one very old lady had knitted some lamb's wool socks, which were passed about and greatly admired; she was complacent, almost coquettish, so bland was her smile under these compliments.
And into this scene of placid and almost pious labor came Miss Mildred Fisher presently, leading her "dancing bear."
If there were any question of the acceptability of the enforced presence of a Yankee officer, either in the mind of the Sewing-Circle or Lieutenant Seymour, it was not allowed to smoulder in discomfort, but set ablaze to burn itself out.
"I know you are all just perfectly amazed at our assurance in bringing a Yankee officer here,—don't be mortified, Lieutenant Seymour,—but mamma wouldn't hear of coming without a valiant man-at-arms as an escort, so I begged and prayed him to come, and now I want you all to beg and pray him to stay!"
Then she introduced him to several ladies, while Mrs. Fisher, always the mainspring of the executive committee, a keen, thin, birdlike woman, swift of motion and of a graceful presence, but prone to settle moot points with a decisive and not altogether amiable peck, gave him no attention, but darting from group to group devoted herself wholly to the business in hand. She seemed altogether oblivious, too, of Mildred's whims, which were to her an old story. Seldom, indeed, had Mildred Fisher looked more audaciously sparkling. Her fairness was enhanced by the black velvet facing of her white Leghorn turban, encircled with one of those beautiful long white ostrich plumes then so much affected that, after passing around the crown, fell in graceful undulations over the equivocal locks and almost to the shoulder of her black-and-white checked walking suit of "summer silk," trimmed with a narrow black-and-white fringe.
"Grandma sent these socks and shirts—" she said officiously, taking a bundle from a neat colored maid who had followed her—"and I brought my thimble—here it is—golden gold—and a large brass thimble for Mr. Seymour. You wouldn't think he has so much affinity for brass—to look at him now! I intend to make him sew, too. Mrs. Clinton, I know you think I am just awful," turning apologetically upon the very old lady her sweet confiding eyes. "But—oh, Mrs. Warren—before I forget it, I want to let you know that your son was not wounded in that Bear-grass Creek skirmish at all. I have a letter from one of my brothers—brother number four—and he says it is a mistake; your son was not hurt, but distinguished himself greatly. Here's the letter. I can't tell you how it came through the lines, for Lieutenant Seymour might repeat it; he has the l-o-n-g-e-s-t tongue, though you wouldn't think it, to see him now, speechless as he is."
Lieutenant Seymour rallied sufficiently to protest he couldn't get in a word edgewise, and Mrs. Gwynn, with her official sense of hospitality and a real pity for anything that Millie Fisher had undertaken to torment on whatever score, adopted the tone of the conversation, and said with a smile that he might consider himself "begged and prayed" to remain.
Lieutenant Seymour was instantly placed at ease by this episode, but Mrs. Gwynn experienced a vague disquietude because of the genuine surprise that expressed itself in Mildred Fisher's face as that comprehensive feminine glance of instantaneous appraisement of attire took account of her whole costume. Leonora had not reckoned on this development when, in that sudden revulsion of feeling, she had discarded the fictitious semblance of mourning for the villain who had been the curse of her life. The momentary glance passed as if it had not been, but she could not at once rid herself of a sense of disadvantage. She knew that to others as well the change must seem strange—yet, why should it? All knew that her widow's weeds had been but an empty form—what significance could the fact possess that they were worn for a time as a concession to convention, then laid aside? She could not long lend herself, however, to the absorption of reflection. The present was strenuous.
Miss Fisher was bent on investing Lieutenant Seymour with the thimble and requiring him to thread a needle for himself, while she soberly and with despatch basted a towel which she destined him to hem. The comedy relief that these arrangements afforded to the serious business of the day was very indulgently regarded, and her bursts of silvery laughter and the young officer's frantic pleas for mercy—utterly futile, as all who knew Millie Fisher foresaw they must be—brought a smile to grave faces and relaxed the tension of the situation, placing the unwelcome presence of the unasked visitor in the category of one of Millie Fisher's many freaks.
Seymour had a very limited sense of humor and could not endure to be made ridiculous, even to gladden so merry a lady-love; but when she declared that she would transfer the whole paraphernalia—thimble, needle, towel, and all—to Captain Baynell, and let him do the hemming, Seymour, all unaware of the secret amusement his sudden consent afforded the company, showed that he preferred that she should make him ludicrous rather than compliment another man by her mirthful ridicule.