I cared not one whit for her scolding after I heard the news with which she was laden.
Mr. Tayloe had come! My dream-castle had settled into stability upon rock bottom.
Ten minutes afterward the school-room door was pushed open timidly, and a childish figure appeared upon the threshold. I was rather tall for my years, and as lean and lithe as a greyhound. My touzled hair had been wet and sleeked by Mary Anne’s vigorous fingers. I wore a brown “Circassian” frock and a spandy clean white apron. The room was comfortably furnished with desks and chairs, now pushed to the wall, the carpeted area about the hearth being intended as a sitting-room for the tutor. There were a table, a desk, and four or five chairs. The room was bright with lamp and firelight. In front of the red hearth sat my father and a much smaller man.
His diminutive stature was the first of a series of shocks I was destined to receive. I had expected him to be tall and stately. Village wags—with none of whom he was popular—spread the story that he intermitted his studies for a year in the hope that in the interim he might grow tall enough to see over the front of a pulpit.
My father looked over his shoulder and held out his hand.
“Come in, my daughter,” in kindly, hearty accents. And, as I obeyed, “Mr. Tayloe, this is my second daughter—Miss Mary Virginia.”
The hero of my dreams did not rise. There was naught amiss or unusual in the manner of the introduction. I was “Miss Virginia” to men of my father’s age, as to youths and boys. I was used to see them get up from their seats to speak to me, as to a woman of treble my years. I looked, then, almost aghast at the man who let me walk up to him and offer my hand before he made any motion in recognition of the unimportant fact of my presence. His legs were crossed; his hands, the palms laid lightly together, were tucked between his legs. He pulled one out to meet mine, touched my fingers coldly, and tucked both hands back as before.
“How do you do, Mr. Tayloe?” quoth I, primly respectful, as I had been trained to comport myself with strangers.
He grunted something syllabic in response, and, chilled to the backbone of my being, I retreated to the shadow of my father’s broad shoulder. He passed his arm about me and stroked what he used to call my “Shetland pony mane.” He seldom praised any one of us openly, but he was a fond father, and he and the “tom-boy” were close comrades.
“I hope you will not find this young lady stupid, Mr. Tayloe,” he went on, the strong, tender hand still smoothing the rebellious locks. “She is a bit flighty sometimes, but she has packed away a good deal of miscellaneous information in this curly pate. I hope she may become a steady student under your care. What she needs is application.”