“Stay, Mary—that is, Miss Lee,” said Leslie, following her a step and speaking with amusing hesitation. The linen-draper maiden had, however, reached the door and placed her hand upon the lock. She was evidently alarmed and surprised, and seemed uncertain whether to take the gentleman’s manner as rudeness or as an uncommon degree of civility. She appeared to be a sensible, good natured girl, however, with all her charms, and probably with woman’s ready tact divined the true cause of his singular conduct. Yet with all a woman’s tact she pretended to be blind to the impression her beauty had made upon him. She could not help thinking that he was a very handsome man, if he was an old bachelor, and she felt pleased rather than offended at this evidence of the triumph of beauty. For Mary Lee well knew she had beauty, and what pretty miss of seventeen is ignorant of this possession?
“Stay, if you please, one moment, Miss Lee,” said Leslie.
“Indeed, sir, it is late.”
“But one moment. Are you an apprentice with Miss Phelps, the linen-draper?”
“Yes, sir;” and Mary turned the lock of the door.
The Major laid his hand lightly upon her wrist.
“Excuse me, Miss Lee! One more question!” But the maiden, with a pleasant laugh, threw off his hand and bounded through the open door into the hall. Cato was in waiting.
“Ah, Cato,” said the Major, with as much coolness as he could summon at this crisis, “you save me the trouble of ringing. Show this young woman out.”
“Yes, sar,” said Cato.
Major Pierpoint lingered an instant in his door to follow with his eye the receding form of the maiden, as with a light, graceful trip she followed the dignified Cato to the street door. He then re-entered his library, and after pacing his room two or three times as if his thoughts were in a tumult, he suddenly stopped before his mirror and looked at himself. After a brief and satisfied survey of his fine face and person he walked to the fire, folded his hands behind his back, and stood and looked into the grate with a very thoughtful brow.