The Count and the Wedding Guest by O. Henry
One evening when Andy Donovan went to dinner at his Second Avenue
boarding-house, Mrs. Scott introduced him to a new boarder, a young
lady, Miss Conway. Miss Conway was small and unobtrusive. She wore a
plain, snuffy-brown dress, and bestowed her interest, which seemed
languid, upon her plate. She lifted her diffident eyelids and shot
one perspicuous, judicial glance at Mr. Donovan, politely murmured
his name, and returned to her mutton. Mr. Donovan bowed with the
grace and beaming smile that were rapidly winning for him social,
business and political advancement, and erased the snuffy-brown one
from the tablets of his consideration.
Two weeks later Andy was sitting on the front steps enjoying his
cigar. There was a soft rustle behind and above him, and Andy turned
his head—and had his head turned.
Just coming out the door was Miss Conway. She wore a night-black
dress of crêpe de—crêpe de—oh, this thin
black goods. Her hat was black, and from it drooped and fluttered an
ebon veil, filmy as a spider's web. She stood on the top step and
drew on black silk gloves. Not a speck of white or a spot of color
about her dress anywhere. Her rich golden hair was drawn, with
scarcely a ripple, into a shining, smooth knot low on her neck. Her
face was plain rather than pretty, but it was now illuminated and
made almost beautiful by her large gray eyes that gazed above the
houses across the street into the sky with an expression of the most
appealing sadness and melancholy.
Gather the idea, girls—all black, you know, with the preference for
crêpe de—oh, crêpe de Chine—that's it. All
black, and that sad, faraway look, and the hair shining under the
black veil (you have to be a blonde, of course), and try to look as
if, although your young life had been blighted just as it was about
to give a hop-skip-and-a-jump over the threshold of life, a walk in
the park might do you good, and be sure to happen out the door at
the right moment, 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 this way.
Mr. Donovan suddenly reinscribed Miss Conway upon the tablets of his
consideration. He threw away the remaining inch-and-a-quarter of his
cigar, that would have been good for eight minutes yet, and quickly
shifted his center of gravity to his low cut patent leathers.
"It's a fine, clear evening, Miss Conway," he said; and if the
Weather Bureau could have heard the confident emphasis of his tones
it would have hoisted the square white signal, and nailed it to the
"To them that has the heart to enjoy it, it is, Mr. Donovan," said
Miss 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 of
"I hope none of your relatives—I hope you haven't sustained a loss?"
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 be
delighted, that is, I'd be sorry—I mean I'm sure nobody could
sympathize with you truer than I would."
Miss Conway smiled a little smile. And oh, it was sadder than her
expression in repose.
"'Laugh, and the world laughs with you; weep, and they give you the
laugh,'" she quoted. "I have learned that, Mr. Donovan. I have no
friends 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 and
get friendly it goes the limit. Say you took a little stroll in the
park, Miss Conway—don't you think it might chase away some of your
mullygrubs? And if you'd allow me—"
"Thanks, Mr. Donovan. I'd be pleased to accept of your escort if you
think the company of one whose heart is filled with gloom could be
anyways agreeable to you."
Through the open gates of the iron-railed, old, downtown park, where
the elect once took the air, they strolled, and found a quiet bench.
There is this difference between the grief of youth and that of old
age: 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. "We
were going to be married next spring. I don't want you to think that
I am stringing you, Mr. Donovan, but he was a real Count. He had an
estate 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. I
thought sure papa and Fernando would fight a duel. Papa has a livery
business—in P'kipsee, you know."
"Finally, papa came 'round, all right, and said we might be married
next spring. Fernando showed him proofs of his title and wealth, and
then went over to Italy to get the castle fixed up for us. Papa's
very proud, and when Fernando wanted to give me several thousand
dollars for my trousseau he called him down something awful. He
wouldn't even let me take a ring or any presents from him. And when
Fernando sailed I came to the city and got a position as cashier in
a 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 remain
forever in his grave. I guess I am poor company, Mr. Donovan, but I
cannot take any interest in no one. I should not care to keep you
from 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 a
pick and shovel, just tell him that your heart is in some other
fellow's grave. Young men are grave-robbers by nature. Ask any
widow. Something must be done to restore that missing organ to
weeping angels in crêpe de Chine. Dead men certainly
get the worst of it from all sides.
"I'm awfully sorry," said Mr. Donovan, gently. "No, we won't walk
back to the house just yet. And don't say you haven't no friends in
this city, Miss Conway. I'm awful sorry, and I want you to believe
I'm your friend, and that I'm awful sorry."
"I've got his picture here in my locket," said Miss Conway, after
wiping her eyes with her handkerchief. "I never showed it to
anybody; but I will to you, Mr. Donovan, because I believe you to be
a true friend."
Mr. Donovan gazed long and with much interest at the photograph in
the locket that Miss Conway opened for him. The face of Count
Mazzini was one to command interest. It was a smooth, intelligent,
bright, almost a handsome face—the face of a strong, cheerful man
who might well be a leader among his fellows.
"I have a larger one, framed, in my room," said Miss Conway. "When
we return I will show you that. They are all I have to remind me of
Fernando. But he ever will be present in my heart, that's a sure
A subtle task confronted Mr. Donovan,—that of supplanting the
unfortunate Count in the heart of Miss Conway. This his admiration
for her determined him to do. But the magnitude of the undertaking
did not seem to weigh upon his spirits. The sympathetic but cheerful
friend was the rôle he essayed; and he played it so
successfully that the next half-hour found them conversing pensively
across two plates of ice-cream, though yet there was no diminution
of the sadness in Miss Conway's large gray eyes.
Before they parted in the hall that evening she ran upstairs and
brought down the framed photograph wrapped lovingly in a white silk
scarf. Mr. Donovan surveyed it with inscrutable eyes.
"He gave me this the night he left for Italy," said Miss Conway. "I
had the one for the locket made from this."
"A fine-looking man," said Mr. Donovan, heartily. "How would it suit
you, Miss Conway, to give me the pleasure of your company to Coney
next Sunday afternoon?"
A month later they announced their engagement to Mrs. Scott and the
other boarders. Miss Conway continued to wear black.
A week after the announcement the two sat on the same bench in the
downtown park, while the fluttering leaves of the trees made a dim
kinetoscopic picture of them in the moonlight. But Donovan had worn
a look of abstracted gloom all day. He was so silent to-night that
love's lips could not keep back any longer the questions that love's
"What's the matter, Andy, you are so solemn and grouchy to-night?"
"I know better. Can't I tell? You never acted this way before. What
"It's nothing much, Maggie."
"Yes it is; and I want to know. I'll bet it's some other girl you
are thinking about. All right. Why don't you go get her if you want
her? Take your arm away, if you please."
"I'll tell you then," said Andy, wisely, "but I guess you won't
understand 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 you
act 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 old
thing in the political line. He's a mile high and as broad as East
River. You say anything against Big Mike, and you'll have a million
men on your collarbone in about two seconds. Why, he made a visit
over to the old country awhile back, and the kings took to their
holes like rabbits.
"Well, Big Mike's a friend of mine. I ain't more than deuce-high in
the district as far as influence goes, but Mike's as good a friend
to a little man, or a poor man as he is to a big one. I met him
to-day on the Bowery, and what do you think he does? Comes up and
shakes hands. 'Andy,' says he, 'I've been keeping cases on you.
You've been putting in some good licks over on your side of the
street, and I'm proud of you. What'll you take to drink?" He takes a
cigar, and I take a highball. I told him I was going to get married
in two weeks. 'Andy,' says he, 'send me an invitation, so I'll keep
in mind of it, and I'll come to the wedding.' That's what Big Mike
says to me; and he always does what he says.
"You don't understand it, Maggie, but I'd have one of my hands cut
off to have Big Mike Sullivan at our wedding. It would be the
proudest day of my life. When he goes to a man's wedding, there's a
guy being married that's made for life. Now, that's why I'm maybe
looking 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 reason
why he mustn't be there. Don't ask me what it is, for I can't tell
"Oh, I don't care," said Maggie. "It's something about politics, of
course. But it's no reason why you can't smile at me."
"Maggie," said Andy, presently, "do you think as much of me as you
did of your—as you did of the Count Mazzini?"
He waited a long time, but Maggie did not reply. And then, suddenly
she leaned against his shoulder and began to cry—to cry and shake
with sobs, holding his arm tightly, and wetting the crêpe
de Chine with 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, there
never was so much as the little finger of a count. I never had a
beau 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 photograph
store and bought that picture, and had a little one made for my
locket, and made up all that story about the Count, and about his
being killed, so I could wear black. And nobody can love a liar, and
you'll shake me, Andy, and I'll die for shame. Oh, there never was
anybody I liked but you—and that's all."
But instead of being pushed away, she found Andy's arm folding her
closer. 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 cemetery
for the Count. You've straightened everything out, Maggie. I was in
hopes you would before the wedding-day. Bully girl!"
"Andy," said Maggie, with a somewhat shy smile, after she had been
thoroughly assured of forgiveness, "did you believe all that story
about the Count?"
"Well, not to any large extent," said Andy, reaching for his cigar
case, "because it's Big Mike Sullivan's picture you've got in that
locket of yours."