“Mr. Fat-Whacker,” began our merry tattler, addressing herself to the Don, “is the one—”
Lucy, remembering Richmond and Laura’s side-walk confidences to the Don, on the occasion of her first interview with him, gave Mr. Fat-Whacker, as she sprang from the boat, a quick, appalled glance. He was equal to the occasion. “Yes,” cried he, seizing the explanatory cherub and tossing her high in the air, “here’s Mr. Fat-Whacker; and here,” he added, with another toss, “is Mr. Uncle Whacker; and here,” he continued, raising her at arm’s length above his head and holding her there while he made at her some of those faces that were her delight, “here is everybody!”
Lucy gave Mr. F.-W. a glance, as she hurried past him to shake hands with the Don, that he thought was grateful; and he was stooping slightly to pat his little benefactress on the head, when he was sent whirling by a blow against the shoulder like that of a battering-ram.
It appears that Mrs. Poythress, during the merry confusion wrought by her little daughter, whether in her eagerness to shake hands with the man who, as she felt, had saved Lucy’s life, or else thinking that she needed no assistance, had attempted to alight from the boat unaided; but tripping, in some way, she was falling at full length upon the frozen ground. The Don saw her danger. He was almost six feet away from the boat, my shoulder was in the way, and Lucy’s fair hand was extended,—had touched his in fact,—when he sprang forward. ’Twas the spring of a leopard,—as swift and as unerring. Crouching, he alighted beneath her before she reached the ground, caught her as though she had been a ball, and springing to one side lightly as a cat, placed her feet, without a jar, upon the ground.
“Are you much hurt?” asked he, with a singular mixture of respectful deference and eager interest.
Women, whether old or young, generally form their opinion of a man during the first five minutes of their acquaintance. Mrs. Poythress, at least, was won by those few words, that one look of the stranger, and believed in him from that hour.
“Our introduction has been informal,” said she, extending her hand with a smile; “but you made my Lucy’s acquaintance in a manner equally unconventional. I have long desired to greet you and thank you.” And she raised her eyes to his. “I—” Mrs. Poythress paused. The Don stood holding her hand, bending over it, listening, but with eyes averted and cast upon the ground, reverence in every curve of his stalwart frame.
“You owe me no thanks,” said he, in a low murmur, and without raising his eyes. “Far from it.”
A mysterious feeling crept over Mrs. Poythress. Was it his eyes? Was it his voice? Or his manner? Was it something? Was it nothing? “I do feel rather weak. Perhaps I was a little jarred,” said she; “may I lean on your strong arm?” Bending low, he offered her his arm as a courtier would to a queen, but without the courtier’s smile; and they moved slowly towards the house.
“He is a gentleman of the old school,” thought Mr. Whacker.