CHAPTER XLVI.
But he was enough. At the period at which we are now arrived, his conduct became more perplexing than ever. The neighborhood was divided into two camps, one maintaining that Mary found favor in his eyes, the other that Lucy and music had carried the day. Most of the gentlemen were of the latter party. They pointed out his frequent visits across the River, the hours he spent playing for or with her, his obvious efforts to win the good-will of her mother. Some few of the girls were on our side; and I remember that they, at times, commented with some asperity on the alleged court that the Don paid Mrs. Poythress,—rather plainly signifying that in their case a swain would find it to his interest to make love to them rather than to their mothers. But a majority of the girls, headed by Alice, scouted the idea of the Don’s being enamoured of the gentle Lucy; the difference between their party and that of the men being that they could give no reason for the faith that was in them. They thought so—they knew it—well, we should see—persisted they, in their irritating feminine way.
As a natural result of this state of things, there arose among us a sort of anti-Don party. His popularity began to wane. What did he mean by playing fast and loose with two girls? Why did he not declare himself for one or the other? Who was he, in fact?
But against this rising tide of disapprobation Charley was an unfailing bulwark. It was obvious to all that a close intimacy had sprung up between Frobisher and the Don. They were continually taking long walks together. Secluded nooks of porches became their favorite resting-places. The murmur of their voices was often to be heard long after the rest of the family had retired for the night. Charley, therefore, gave this suspicious character the stamp of his approval, and that approval sustained him in our little circle. I say our little circle, though I, of course, had long since returned to Richmond, and my supposed practice at the bar. Fortunately for the reader, Alice remained on the scene; else where had been those delicious love-passages that are in store for us?
Of all this circle, Alice was most eager to ascertain the actual state of the Don’s sentiments. Nor was hers an idle curiosity. Her penetrating eyes had not failed to pierce the veil of bravado by which Mary had sought to hide her heart from her friend. But did he love her? She believed so,—believed half in dread, half in hope, Now was the time to learn something definite.
For the Poythresses had given a dinner, and she and Charley were promenading up and down the Oakhurst piazza. Presently, there sounded from the parlor the “A” on the piano, followed by those peculiar tones of a violin being tuned,—tones so charmingly suggestive, to lovers of music, so exasperating to others.
“Ah, they are going to play!” said my grandfather, quickly; and he turned to go into the parlor, followed by all of the promenaders save Charley and Alice, who still strode to and fro, arm in arm.
“They are going to play,” repeated he, as he got to the door, turning and nodding to Charley, and then passed briskly within.
At this some of the girls smiled, and Charley reddened, poor fellow, and bit his lip; while Alice gazed, unconscious, at two specks of boats in the distance.
Suddenly Mr. Whacker reappeared, thrusting his ruddy countenance and snowy hair between the fair heads of two girls who were just entering the door,—a pleasing picture.