The girl’s eyes moistened. For a moment
she saw herself reflected from the glass in a blur.
Then through the blur the necklace took shape, point
by point of light, pearl by pearl, until the whole
chain grew definite in the parting of the bodice,
resting on the rise of her young bosom.
Yes, and the girl saw that it was good.
A string of words danced upon her brain, as though
the mirrored pearls reflected them.
She shall be brought unto the King . . . the virgins
that be her fellows shall bear her company.
SIR OLIVER’S HEALTH.
“De lady is here, yo’ Honah!”
Manasseh announced it from the doorway and stood aside.
Of the company four had already succumbed and slid
from their chairs. The others staggered to their
feet, Sir Oliver as promptly as any. With a face
unnaturally white he leaned forward, clutching the
edge of the long oval table, and stared between the
silver candelabra down the broken ranks of his guests—Mr.
Silk, purple of face as his patron was pale; Ned Manley,
maundering the tag of a chorus; Captain St. Maur, Captain
Goodacre, and Ensign Lumley, British officers captured
by the French at Fort Chanseau and released to live
at Boston on parole until the war should end; Mr.
Fynes, the Collector’s Secretary; Mr. Bythesea,
Deputy-Collector; young Shem Hacksteed and young Denzil
Baynes, sons of wealthy New Englanders, astray for
the while, and sowing their wild oats in a society
openly scornful of New England traditions.
Batty Langton’s was the chair nearest the door,
and Batty Langton was the one moderately sober man
of the company. He had not heard, in time to
interfere, the proposal to send for Ruth: it had
started somewhere at the Collector’s end of
the table. But trifler though he was, he thought
it cruel to the girl—a damnable shame—and
pulled himself together to prevent what mischief he
might. At the same time he felt curious to see
her, curious to learn if these many months of seclusion
had fulfilled the Collector’s wager that Ruth
Josselin would grow to be the loveliest woman in America.
At Manasseh’s announcement he faced about, and,
with a gasp, clutched at the back of his chair.
In the doorway stood little Miss Quiney. It
was so ludicrous a disappointment that for the moment
no one found speech. Langton heard Goodacre,
behind him, catch his breath upon a wondering “O—oh!”
and felt the shock run down the table along the unsteady
ranks. At the far end a voice—Mr.
Silk’s—cackled and burst into unseemly
laughter.
Langton swung round. “Mr. Fynes,”
he called sharply, “oblige me, please, by silencing
that clergyman—with a napkin in his mouth,
if necessary.”
He turned again to Miss Quiney. “Madam,”
he said, offering his arm, “let me lead you
to a seat by Sir Oliver.”
The little lady accepted with a curtsy. A faint
flush showed upon either cheek bone, and in her eyes
could be read the light of battle. It commanded
his admiration the more that her small arm trembled
against his sleeve. “The courage of it,”
he murmured; “and Miss Quiney of all women!”
