"Yes, ma'am, I did," cried the big fellow, drawing the sleeve of his fur coat across his eyes. "I've done as you said; but I couldn't go farther without thanking you, not if 'twas ever so! Miss Bethesda, I—I'd do anything in the world for you, I believe. You don't know what a time we've had,—Nan and me. We—I—well, I'm not one to talk, never was! but I would do anything for you, now, I would!"
"Dance the Virginia Reel with me, then," said Miss Bethesda, smiling grimly at her joke. "Or else, if you don't want to do that, take yourself out of this as quick as you can, Will Newell, and get ready! Hark! There's the bell this minute. You've fixed it all right with Nan?"
"All right!" panted Will. "I've got the team hid away where you said, in the old cow-shed. Now I'll go and fix me; and maybe we will have the reel, Miss Pool, if you'll have it early enough on the programme. I won't promise to wait for you, though, more'n the first half of the evening."
He ran out, his eyes shining with joy; and Miss Bethesda folded her white mitts again, and waited calmly for the first guests.
The clock struck seven, and Miss Bethesda glanced up again. It was a wonderful clock, this of the old Inn. More than a hundred years it had hung there, having been brought over from England by Gran'ther Pool, before he lost his money and took to keeping the Inn. Its dial and frame were gayly painted with dancing figures, with garlands of flowers, from which peeped laughing faces of loves and fairies. The great weights that hung against the wall were curious, too,—dolphin-shaped, like the door-latches, and shining with remnants of gilding. And now, following closely on the seventh stroke, came notes of music, faint, rustling notes, the very spirit of sound; a waltz, sweet and delicate as the tiny faces that peeped from the painted garlands on its dial, faltered forth from the old clock: "Tra-la-la, lira-la, la-la!—" and between the notes of the swinging measure the wheels creaked and groaned, and the wires wheezed, and the weights lamented as they slid up and down. "Just like any other old fool," thought Miss Bethesda, "doing things she has no business to!" and for a moment she felt as old as the clock, and repented her of her purpose.
But the guests were here! They had been gathering for some time in the cloak-room, and now one couple had been bold enough to make the first break, and the narrow staircase was crowded with maids and matrons, sons and fathers, all in their best. Every eye glistened with eager curiosity, every mouth was open to whisper in the next ear at anything singular that should meet the eye when they came into their hostess's presence; but lo and behold! there stood Bethesda Pool, looking as if she had a party every week of her life, and had nothing in the world to do but stand there and look fine.
Very stately was the courtesy with which Miss Bethesda greeted her guests. She was pleased to see them; hoped they would enjoy themselves, and make themselves as much to home as if they was to home! This was generally the extent of her conversation with any one group of eager neighbours, before turning to welcome the next. But presently the colour deepened a little in her still fresh cheek, and her eyes grew brighter; for, coming up the ballroom, she saw the stalwart form of Buckstone Bradford, with pretty Nan beside him, looking like roses and milk in her white dress. "Knew he'd come!" Miss Bethesda said to herself; and immediately discovered, by the flutter at her heart, that she had not known, but only hoped it.
Truth to tell, Mr. Bradford had had a dozen minds about coming to Bethesda Pool's party. He had never forgiven her for her treatment of him twenty years before; his heart was of firm and tenacious fibre, and retained the impression of affections and of injuries more than many a softer organ. He considered Bethesda still the finest-looking woman in the neighbourhood, and would have snorted with contempt if anyone had told him that his daughter Nan, with her pink-and-white prettiness, was fairer than ever his old sweetheart had been. But admiring was not forgiving, and nothing would have brought Buckstone out to-night save the dread of "goings-on" on the part of his girl and that good-for-nothing Newell fellow.
There was something in the air,—Buckstone did not know what it was,—something that made him uneasy. Nan had been so meek the last time he scolded her, never once standing up for her favourite, as she was wont to do; she had been so affectionate, and,—well, she was always a good girl when she wasn't making a fool of herself about a noodle; but there was more than usual, her father thought. He didn't dare to let her go alone to the party; there was the plain truth of it; he was afraid, he knew not of what. So he had had his hair cut, and had taken out and brushed his wedding coat, not without angry and defiant thoughts of her who should have stood up with him when he wore it; and, briefly, here he was, standing before Bethesda Pool, grim and forbidding, but still a fine-looking man, his hostess thought, and towering head and shoulders above everyone else in the room.
"Good evening, Mr. Bradford! pleased to see you!"