"In my lady's chamber."
When John Massereene was seven years old his mother died. When he was
seventeen his father had the imprudence to run away with the favorite
daughter of a rich man,--which crime was never forgiven. Had there been
the slightest excuse for her conduct it might have been otherwise, but
in the eyes of her world there was none. That an Amherst of Herst Royal
should be guilty of such a plebeian trick as "falling passionately in
love" was bad enough, but to have her bestow that love upon a man at
least eighteen years her senior, an Irishman, a mere engineer, with no
money to speak of, with nothing on earth to recommend him beyond a
handsome face, a charming manner, and a heart too warm ever to grow
old, was not to be tolerated for a moment. And Eleanor Amherst, from
the hour of her elopement, was virtually shrouded and laid within her
grave so far as her own family was concerned.
Not that they need have hurried over her requiem, as the poor soul was
practically laid there in the fourth year of her happy married life,
dying of the same fever that had carried off her husband two days
before, and leaving her three-year-old daughter in the care of her
step-son.
At twenty-one, therefore, John Massereene found himself alone in the
world, with about three hundred pounds a year and a small, tearful,
clinging, forlorn child. Having followed his father's profession, more
from a desire to gratify that father than from direct inclination, he
found, when too late, that he neither liked it nor did it like him. He
had, as he believed, a talent for farming; so that when, on the death
of a distant relation, he found himself, when all was told, the
possessor of seven hundred pounds a year, he bought Brooklyn, a modest
place in one of the English shires, married his first love, and carried
her and Molly home to it.
Once or twice in the early part of her life he had made an appeal to
old Mr. Amherst, Molly's grandfather, on her behalf,--more from a sense
of duty owing to her than from any desire to rid himself of the child,
who had, indeed, with her pretty, coaxing ways, made a very cozy nest
for herself in the deepest recesses of his large heart. But all such
appeals had been unavailing. So that Molly had grown from baby to
child, from child to girl, without having so much as seen her nearest
relations, although Herst Royal was situated in the very county next to
hers.
Even now, in spite of her having attained her eighteenth year, this
ostracism is a matter of the most perfect indifference to Molly. She
has been bred in a very sound contempt for the hard old man who so
cruelly neglected her mother,--the poor mother whose love she never
missed, so faithfully has John fulfilled her dying wishes. There is no
poverty about this love, in which she has grown and strengthened: it is
rich, all-sufficing. Even Letitia's coming only added another ray to
its brightness.
They are a harmonious family, the Massereenes; they blend; they seldom
disagree. Letitia, with her handsome English face, her tall,
_posee_ figure, and ready smile, makes a delicious centre-piece;
John a good background; Molly a bit of perfect sunlight; the children
flecks of vivid coloring here and there. They are an easy,
laughter-loving people, with a rare store of contentment. They are much
affected by those in their immediate neighborhood. Their servants have
a good time of it. They are never out of temper when dinner is a
quarter of an hour late. They all very much admire Molly, and Molly
very much agrees with them. They are fond of taking their tea in summer
in the open air; they are not fond of over-early rising; they never
bore you with a description of the first faint beams of dawn; they fail
to see any beauty in the dew at five o'clock in the morning; they are
very reasonable people.
Yet the morning after his arrival, Luttrell, jumping out of his bed at
eight o'clock, finds, on looking out of his window that overhangs the
garden, Flora already among her flowers. Drawing back hastily,--he is a
modest young man,--he grows suddenly energetic and makes good speed
with his toilet.
When he is half dressed--that is, when his hair is brushed; but as yet
his shirt is guiltless of a waistcoat--he cannot refrain from looking
forth again, to see if she may yet be there, and, looking, meets her
eyes.
He is slightly abashed; she is not. Mr. Massereene in his shirt and
trousers is a thing very frequently seen at his window during the
summer mornings. Mr. Luttrell presents much the same appearance. It
certainly does occur to Molly that of the two men the new-comer is
decidedly the better looking of the two, whereat, without any treachery
toward John, she greatly rejoices. It does not occur to her that a
blush at this moment would be a blush in the right place. On the
contrary, she nods gayly at him, and calls out:
"Hurry! You cannot think what a delicious morning it is." And then goes
on with her snipping and paring with the heartiest unconcern. After
which Luttrell's method of getting into the remainder of his clothes
can only be described as a scramble.
"How did you sleep?" asks Molly, a few minutes later, when he has
joined her, looking up from the rose-bush over which she is bending,
that holds no flower so sweet as her own self. "Well, I hope?"
"Very well, thank you," with a smile, his eyes fixed immovably upon the
fresh beauty of her face.
"You look suspicious," says she, with a little laugh. "Are you thinking
my question odd? I know when people are put over-night in a haunted
chamber they are always asked the next morning whether they 'slept
well,' in the fond hope that they didn't. But _you_ need not be
nervous. Nothing so inspiriting----"
"Is that a joke?" demands he, interrupting her, gravely.
"Eh? Oh, no! how could you think me guilty of such a thing? I mean that
nothing so hopeful as an undeniable ghost has ever yet appeared at
Brooklyn."
"Are you sure? Perhaps, then, I am to be the happy discoverer, as this
morning early, about dawn, there came an unearthly tapping at my window
that woke me, much to my disgust. I got up, but when I had opened the
shutters could see nothing. Was not that a visitation? I looked at my
watch, and found it was past four o'clock. Then I crept into my bed
again, crestfallen,--'sold' with regard to an adventure."
"That was my magpie," cries Molly, with a merry laugh: "he always comes
pecking at that hour, naughty fellow. Oh, what a tame ending to your
romance! Your beautiful ghost come to visit you from unknown regions,
clad in white and rustling garments, has resolved itself into a lame
bird, rather poverty-stricken in the matter of feathers."
"I take it rather hardly that your dependent should come to disturb
_me_," says Luttrell, reproachfully. "What have I done to him, or
how have I ingratiated myself, that he should forsake you for me? I did
not think even a meagre bird could have shown such _outre_ taste.
What fancy has he for _my_ window?"
"_Your_ window?" says Molly, quickly; then as quickly
recollecting, she stops short, blushing a warm and lovely crimson. "Oh,
of course,--yes, it was odd," she says, and, breaking down under the
weight of her unhappy blush, busies herself eagerly with her flowers.
"Have I taken your bedroom?" asks he, anxiously, watching with cruel
persistency the soft roses that bloom again at his words. "Yes, I see I
have. That is too bad; and any room would have been good enough for a
soldier. Are you sure you don't hate me for all the inconvenience I
have caused you?"
"I can't be sure," says Molly, "_yet_. Give me time. But this I do
know, that John will quarrel with us if we remain out here any longer,
as breakfast must be quite ready by this. Come."
"When you spoke of my chamber as being haunted, a little time ago,"
says Luttrell, walking beside her on the gravel path, his hands clasped
behind his back, "you came very near the truth. After what you have
just told me, how shall I keep from dreaming about you?"
"Don't keep from it," says she, sweetly; "go on dreaming about me as
much as ever you like. _I_ don't mind."
"But I might," says Luttrell, "when it was too late."
"True," murmurs Molly, innocently: "so you might. John says all dreams
arise from indigestion."