“I have not forgotten my promise to play for you,” he said lightly, watching to see if the flush of rose would steal into her cheek, and that deep light into her expressive eyes. “How about this afternoon? Shall you be at home and disengaged?”
But welcome did not flash into Marcia’s face as he had hoped. Instead a troubled look came into her eyes.
“I am afraid it will not be possible this afternoon,” said Marcia, the trouble in her eyes creeping into her voice. “That is—I expect to be at home, but—I am not sure of being disengaged.”
“Ah! I see!” he raised his eyebrows archly, looking her meanwhile straight in the eyes; “some one else more fortunate than I. Some one else coming?”
Although Marcia did not in the least understand his insinuation, the color flowed into her cheeks in a hurry now, for she instinctively felt that there was something unpleasant in his tone, something below her standard of morals or culture, she did not quite know what. But she felt she must protect herself at any cost. She drew up a little mantle of dignity.
“Oh, no,” she said quickly, “I’m not expecting any one at all, but Mr. Spafford had a severe headache this morning, and I am not sure but the sound of the piano would make it worse. I think it would be better for you to come another time, although he may be better by that time.”
“Oh, I see! Your husband’s at home!” said the young man with relief. His manner implied that he had a perfect understanding of something that Marcia did not mean nor comprehend.
“I understand perfectly,” he said, with another meaning smile as though he and she had a secret together; “I’ll come some other time,” and he took himself very quickly away, much to Marcia’s relief. But the trouble did not go out of her eyes as she saw him turn the corner. Instead she went in and stood at the dining room window a long time looking out on the Heaths’ hollyhocks beaming in the sun behind the picket fence, and wondered what he could have meant, and why he smiled in that hateful way. She decided she did not like him, and she hoped he would never come. She did not think she would care to hear him play. There was something about him that reminded her of Captain Leavenworth, and now that she saw it in him she would dislike to have him about.
With a sigh she turned to the getting of a dinner which she feared would not be eaten. Nevertheless, she put more dainty thought in it than usual, and when it was done and steaming upon the table she went gently up and tapped on David’s door. A voice hoarse with emotion and weariness answered. Marcia scarcely heard the first time.
“Dinner is ready. Isn’t your head any better,—David?” There was caressing in his name. It wrung David’s heart. Oh, if it were but Kate, his Kate, his little bride that were calling him, how his heart would leap with joy! How his headache would disappear and he would be with her in an instant.