The Count and the Wedding Guest

by O. Henry

　　One evening when Andy Donovan went to dinner at his Second Avenueboarding-house, Mrs. Scott introduced him to a new boarder, a younglady, Miss Conway. Miss Conway was small and unobtrusive. She wore aplain, snuffy-brown dress, and bestowed her interest, which seemedlanguid, upon her plate. She lifted her diffident eyelids and shotone perspicuous, judicial glance at Mr. Donovan, politely murmuredhis name, and returned to her mutton. Mr. Donovan bowed with thegrace and beaming smile that were rapidly winning for him social,business and political advancement, and erased the snuffy-brown onefrom the tablets of his consideration.Two weeks later Andy was sitting on the front steps enjoying hiscigar. There was a soft rustle behind and above him, and Andy turnedhis head--and had his head turned.Just coming out the door was Miss Conway. She wore a night-blackdress of crepe de--crepe de--oh, this thin black goods. Her hatwas black, and from it drooped and fluttered an ebon veil, filmy asa spider's web. She stood on the top step and drew on black silkgloves. Not a speck of white or a spot of color about her dressanywhere. Her rich golden hair was drawn, with scarcely a ripple,into a shining, smooth knot low on her neck. Her face was plainrather than pretty, but it was now illuminated and made almostbeautiful by her large gray eyes that gazed above the houses acrossthe street into the sky with an expression of the most appealingsadness and melancholy.Gather the idea, girls--all black, you know, with the preference forcrepe de--oh, crepe de Chine--that's it. All black, and thatsad, faraway look, and the hair shining under the black veil (youhave to be a blonde, of course), and try to look as if, althoughyour young life had been blighted just as it was about to give ahop-skip-and-a-jump over the threshold of life, a walk in the parkmight do you good, and be sure to happen out the door at the rightmoment, and--oh, it'll fetch 'em every time. But it's fierce, now,how cynical I am, ain't it?--to talk about mourning costumes thisway.Mr. Donovan suddenly reinscribed Miss Conway upon the tablets of hisconsideration. He threw away the remaining inch-and-a-quarter of hiscigar, that would have been good for eight minutes yet, and quicklyshifted his center of gravity to his low cut patent leathers."It's a fine, clear evening, Miss Conway," he said; and if theWeather Bureau could have heard the confident emphasis of his tonesit would have hoisted the square white signal, and nailed it to themast."To them that has the heart to enjoy it, it is, Mr. Donovan," saidMiss Conway, with a sigh.Mr. Donovan, in his heart, cursed fair weather. Heartless weather!It should hail and blow and snow to be consonant with the mood ofMiss Conway."I hope none of your relatives--I hope you haven't sustained aloss?" ventured Mr. Donovan."Death has claimed," said Miss Conway, hesitating--"not a relative,but one who--but I will not intrude my grief upon you, Mr. Donovan.""Intrude?" protested Mr. Donovan. "Why, say, Miss Conway, I'd bedelighted, that is, I'd be sorry--I mean I'm sure nobody couldsympathize with you truer than I would."Miss Conway smiled a little smile. And oh, it was sadder than herexpression in repose."'Laugh, and the world laughs with you; weep, and they give you thelaugh,'" she quoted. "I have learned that, Mr. Donovan. I have nofriends or acquaintances in this city. But you have been kind to me.I appreciate it highly."He had passed her the pepper twice at the table."It's tough to be alone in New York--that's a cinch," said Mr.Donovan. "But, say--whenever this little old town does loosen up andget friendly it goes the limit. Say you took a little stroll in thepark, Miss Conway--don't you think it might chase away some of yourmullygrubs? And if you'd allow me--""Thanks, Mr. Donovan. I'd be pleased to accept of your escort if youthink the company of one whose heart is filled with gloom could beanyways agreeable to you."Through the open gates of the iron-railed, old, downtown park, wherethe elect once took the air, they strolled, and found a quiet bench.There is this difference between the grief of youth and that of oldage: youth's burden is lightened by as much of it as another shares;old age may give and give, but the sorrow remains the same."He was my fiance," confided Miss Conway, at the end of an hour. "Wewere going to be married next spring. I don't want you to think thatI am stringing you, Mr. Donovan, but he was a real Count. He had anestate and a castle in Italy. Count Fernando Mazzini was his name.I never saw the beat of him for elegance. Papa objected, of course,and once we eloped, but papa overtook us, and took us back. Ithought sure papa and Fernando would fight a duel. Papa has a liverybusiness--in P'kipsee, you know.""Finally, papa came 'round, all right, and said we might be marriednext spring. Fernando showed him proofs of his title and wealth, andthen went over to Italy to get the castle fixed up for us. Papa'svery proud, and when Fernando wanted to give me several thousanddollars for my trousseau he called him down something awful. Hewouldn't even let me take a ring or any presents from him. And whenFernando sailed I came to the city and got a position as cashier ina candy store.""Three days ago I got a letter from Italy, forwarded from P'kipsee,saying that Fernando had been killed in a gondola accident.""That is why I am in mourning. My heart, Mr. Donovan, will remainforever in his grave. I guess I am poor company, Mr. Donovan, but Icannot take any interest in no one. I should not care to keep youfrom gayety and your friends who can smile and entertain you.Perhaps you would prefer to walk back to the house?"Now, girls, if you want to observe a young man hustle out after apick and shovel, just tell him that your heart is in some otherfellow's grave. Young men are grave-robbers by nature. Ask anywidow. Something must be done to restore that missing organ toweeping angels in crepe de Chine. Dead men certainly get the worstof it from all sides."I'm awfully sorry," said Mr. Donovan, gently. "No, we won't walkback to the house just yet. And don't say you haven't no friends inthis city, Miss Conway. I'm awful sorry, and I want you to believeI'm your friend, and that I'm awful sorry.""I've got his picture here in my locket," said Miss Conway, afterwiping her eyes with her handkerchief. "I never showed it toanybody; but I will to you, Mr. Donovan, because I believe you to bea true friend."Mr. Donovan gazed long and with much interest at the photographin the locket that Miss Conway opened for him. The face of CountMazzini was one to command interest. It was a smooth, intelligent,bright, almost a handsome face--the face of a strong, cheerful manwho might well be a leader among his fellows."I have a larger one, framed, in my room," said Miss Conway. "Whenwe return I will show you that. They are all I have to remind me ofFernando. But he ever will be present in my heart, that's a surething."A subtle task confronted Mr. Donovan,--that of supplanting theunfortunate Count in the heart of Miss Conway. This his admirationfor her determined him to do. But the magnitude of the undertakingdid not seem to weigh upon his spirits. The sympathetic but cheerfulfriend was the role he essayed; and he played it so successfullythat the next half-hour found them conversing pensively across twoplates of ice-cream, though yet there was no diminution of thesadness in Miss Conway's large gray eyes.Before they parted in the hall that evening she ran upstairs andbrought down the framed photograph wrapped lovingly in a white silkscarf. Mr. Donovan surveyed it with inscrutable eyes."He gave me this the night he left for Italy," said Miss Conway. "Ihad the one for the locket made from this.""A fine-looking man," said Mr. Donovan, heartily. "How would it suityou, Miss Conway, to give me the pleasure of your company to Coneynext Sunday afternoon?"A month later they announced their engagement to Mrs. Scott and theother boarders. Miss Conway continued to wear black.A week after the announcement the two sat on the same bench in thedowntown park, while the fluttering leaves of the trees made a dimkinetoscopic picture of them in the moonlight. But Donovan had worna look of abstracted gloom all day. He was so silent to-night thatlove's lips could not keep back any longer the questions that love'sheart propounded."What's the matter, Andy, you are so solemn and grouchy to-night?""Nothing, Maggie.""I know better. Can't I tell? You never acted this way before. Whatis it?""It's nothing much, Maggie.""Yes it is; and I want to know. I'll bet it's some other girl youare thinking about. All right. Why don't you go get her if you wanther? Take your arm away, if you please.""I'll tell you then," said Andy, wisely, "but I guess you won'tunderstand it exactly. You've heard of Mike Sullivan, haven't you?'Big Mike' Sullivan, everybody calls him.""No, I haven't," said Maggie. "And I don't want to, if he makes youact like this. Who is he?""He's the biggest man in New York," said Andy, almost reverently."He can about do anything he wants to with Tammany or any other oldthing in the political line. He's a mile high and as broad as EastRiver. You say anything against Big Mike, and you'll have a millionmen on your collarbone in about two seconds. Why, he made a visitover to the old country awhile back, and the kings took to theirholes like rabbits."Well, Big Mike's a friend of mine. I ain't more than deuce-high inthe district as far as influence goes, but Mike's as good a friendto a little man, or a poor man as he is to a big one. I met himto-day on the Bowery, and what do you think he does? Comes up andshakes hands. 'Andy,' says he, 'I've been keeping cases on you.You've been putting in some good licks over on your side of thestreet, and I'm proud of you. What'll you take to drink?" He takes acigar, and I take a highball. I told him I was going to get marriedin two weeks. 'Andy,' says he, 'send me an invitation, so I'll keepin mind of it, and I'll come to the wedding.' That's what Big Mikesays to me; and he always does what he says."You don't understand it, Maggie, but I'd have one of my handscut off to have Big Mike Sullivan at our wedding. It would be theproudest day of my life. When he goes to a man's wedding, there's aguy being married that's made for life. Now, that's why I'm maybelooking sore to-night.""Why don't you invite him, then, if he's so much to the mustard?"said Maggie, lightly."There's a reason why I can't," said Andy, sadly. "There's a reasonwhy he mustn't be there. Don't ask me what it is, for I can't tellyou.""Oh, I don't care," said Maggie. "It's something about politics, ofcourse. But it's no reason why you can't smile at me.""Maggie," said Andy, presently, "do you think as much of me as youdid of your--as you did of the Count Mazzini?"He waited a long time, but Maggie did not reply. And then, suddenlyshe leaned against his shoulder and began to cry--to cry and shakewith sobs, holding his arm tightly, and wetting the crepe de Chinewith tears."There, there, there!" soothed Andy, putting aside his own trouble."And what is it, now?""Andy," sobbed Maggie. "I've lied to you, and you'll never marry me,or love me any more. But I feel that I've got to tell. Andy, therenever was so much as the little finger of a count. I never had abeau in my life. But all the other girls had; and they talked about'em; and that seemed to make the fellows like 'em more. And, Andy,I look swell in black--you know I do. So I went out to a photographstore and bought that picture, and had a little one made for mylocket, and made up all that story about the Count, and about hisbeing killed, so I could wear black. And nobody can love a liar, andyou'll shake me, Andy, and I'll die for shame. Oh, there never wasanybody I liked but you--and that's all."But instead of being pushed away, she found Andy's arm folding hercloser. She looked up and saw his face cleared and smiling."Could you--could you forgive me, Andy?""Sure," said Andy. "It's all right about that. Back to the cemeteryfor the Count. You've straightened everything out, Maggie. I was inhopes you would before the wedding-day. Bully girl!""Andy," said Maggie, with a somewhat shy smile, after she had beenthoroughly assured of forgiveness, "did you believe all that storyabout the Count?""Well, not to any large extent," said Andy, reaching for his cigarcase, "because it's Big Mike Sullivan's picture you've got in thatlocket of yours."