"Deborah, madame," repeated Claude, quietly.
At the same moment a dusty figure ascended the portico steps and came presently into the hall. At sight of him Lucy grew pink, Rockwell purple, and Virginia Trevor very white. Madam bridled as she saw her son grasp the "Puritan" cordially by the hand, and Claude glanced rapidly over the face and figure, which were not unlike his own.
John Whitney looked measuredly round the circle, greeted his rival with perfect imperturbability, sent a long glance into Lucy's eyes, and profoundly saluted Madam Trevor, who returned the bow with the barest inclination of her head. Then Vincent spoke:
"M. de Mailly, let me make you known to the Reverend Mr. Whitney, of Boston. Gentlemen, you are here on like errands. 'Tis a curious thing. Perhaps—it were as well to settle all, here, at once."
"I protest, sir!" cried Rockwell, jumping up. "The present matter lies between Mistress Lucy, Master Whitney, and myself. I vow no stranger shall be in it!"
"The Count de Mailly is no stranger, sir!" returned Vincent. "He has announced his intention, without hesitancy, before you. I see no objection to his learning that you and that gentleman are rivals for the hand of my sister Lucy, and that you are here to-day in order that the affair be decided once for all."
"I cannot see any necessity for discussion, Vincent. Lucy is promised to Mr. Rockwell. Mr.—Whitney has nothing to do with the affair," observed Madam Trevor, rather insolently.
The controversy being now open, Claude was, for the moment, forgotten.
"Madam, I crave pardon, but Mr. Whitney has just this to do with the matter. It appears, from all I have heard, that Lucy herself does not care for Mr. Rockwell as she should care for the man she marries. Also—I believe—she does so care for Mr. Whitney."
"Let me ask, Mr. Whitney, what means you have at your disposal for this young lady's support? How many slaves have you? How—