Snow-Bound at Eagle's. Bret Harte
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was a timid, hesitating step in the passage. It paused before the door, moved away, returned, and finally asserted its intentions in the gentlest of taps.
“It’s him; I’m sure of it,” said Mrs. Hale, with a suppressed smile.
Kate threw open the door smartly, to the extreme discomfiture of a tall, dark figure that already had slunk away from it. For all that, he was a good-looking enough fellow, with a moustache as long and almost as flexible as a ringlet. Kate could not help noticing also that his hand, which was nervously pulling the moustache, was white and thin.
“Excuse me,” he stammered, without raising his eyes, “I was looking for—for—the old lady. I—I beg your pardon. I didn’t know that you—the young ladies—company—were here. I intended—I only wanted to say that my friend—” He stopped at the slight smile that passed quickly over Mrs. Hale’s mouth, and his pale face reddened with an angry flush.
“I hope he is not worse,” said Mrs. Hale, with more than her usual languid gentleness. “My mother is not here at present. Can I—can WE—this is my sister—do as well?”
Without looking up he made a constrained recognition of Kate’s presence, that embarrassed and curt as it was, had none of the awkwardness of rusticity.
“Thank you; you’re very kind. But my friend is a little stronger, and if you can lend me an extra horse I’ll try to get him on the Summit to-night.”
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