"As through the land at eve we went."
--Tennyson.
Seven long blissful summer days have surrendered themselves to the
greedy past. It is almost July. To-day is Wednesday,--to-morrow June
will be no more.
"Molly," says Mr. Massereene, with the laudable intention of rousing
Molly's ire, "this is the day for which we have accepted Lady Barton's
invitation to go to the Castle, to meet Lord and Lady Rossmere."
"'This is the cat that killed the rat, that did something or other in
the house that Jack built,'" interrupts Molly, naughtily.
"And on this occasion you have not been invited," goes on John,
serenely, "which shows she does not think you respectable,--not quite
fit for polite society; so you must stay at home, like the bold little
girl, and meditate on your misdemeanors."
"Lady Barton is a very intelligent person, who fully understands my
abhorrence of old fogies," says Miss Massereene, with dignity.
"Sour grapes," says John. "But, now that you have given such an unfair
turn to Lady Barton's motives, I feel it my duty to explain the exact
truth to Luttrell. When last, my dear Tedcastle, Molly was invited to
meet the Rossmeres, she behaved so badly and flirted so outrageously
with his withered lordship, that he became perfectly imbecile toward
the close of the entertainment, and his poor old wife was reduced
almost to the verge of tears. I blushed for her; I did indeed."
"Oh, John! how can you say such things before Mr. Luttrell? If he is
foolish enough to believe you, think what a dreadful opinion he will
have of me!" With a lovely smile at Luttrell across the bowl of flowers
that ornaments the breakfast-table. "And with such a man, too! A
terrible old person who has forgotten his native language and can only
mumble, and who has not got one tooth in his mouth or one hair on his
head, and no flesh at all to speak of."
"What a fetching description!" says Luttrell. "You excite my curiosity.
He is not 'on view,' is he?"
"Not yet," says Molly, with an airy laugh. "Probably when he dies they
will embalm him, and forward him to the British Museum, as a remarkable
species of his kind; and then we shall all get the full value of one
shilling. I myself would walk to London to see that."
"So would I," says Luttrell, "if you would promise to tell me the day
you are going."
"Letitia, I feel myself _de trop_, whatever you may," exclaims
John, rising. "And see how time flies; it is almost half-past ten.
Really, we grow lazier every day. I shudder to think at what hour I
shall get my breakfast by the time I am an old man."
(Poor John!)
"Why, you are as old as the hills this moment," says Molly, drawing
down his kind face, that bears such a strong resemblance to her own, to
bestow upon it a soft sweet kiss. "You are not to grow any older,--mind
that; you are to keep on looking just as you look now forever, or I
will not forgive you. Now go away and make yourself charming for your
Lady Barton."
"Oh, I don't spend three hours before my looking-glass," says John,
"whenever I go anywhere." He is smoothing her beautiful hair with
loving fingers as he speaks. "But I think I will utter one word of
warning, Ted, before I leave you to her tender mercies for the day.
Don't give in to her. If you do, she will lead you an awful life. At
first she bullied me until I hardly dared to call my soul my own; but
when I found Letitia I plucked up spirit (you know a worm will turn),
and ventured to defy her, and since that existence has been bearable."
"Letitia, come to my defense," says Molly, in a tragic tone, stretching
out her arms to her sister-in-law, who has been busy pacifying her
youngest hope. As he has at last, however, declared himself content
with five lumps of sugar and eight sweet biscuits, she finds time to
look up and smile brightly at Molly.
"Letitia, my dear, don't perjure yourself," says John. "You know I
speak the truth. A last word, Luttrell." He is standing behind his
sister as he speaks, and taking her arms he puts her in a chair, and
placing her elbows on the table, so that her pretty face sinks into her
hands, goes on: "The moment you see her take this attitude, run! don't
pause to think, or speculate; run! Because it always means mischief;
you may know then that she has quite made up her mind. I speak from
experience. Good-bye, children. I hope you will enjoy each other's
society. I shall be busy until I leave, so you probably won't see me
again."
As Letitia follows him from the room, Molly turns her eyes on Luttrell.
"Are you afraid of me?" asks she, with a glance half questioning, half
coquettish.
"I am," replies he, slowly.
* * * * *
"Now you are all my own property," says Molly, gayly, three hours later,
after they have bidden good-bye to Mr. and Mrs. Massereene, and eaten
their own luncheon _tete-a-tete_. "You cannot escape me. And what shall
we do with ourselves this glorious afternoon? Walk?--talk?--or----"
"Talk," says Luttrell, lazily.
"No, walk," says Molly, emphatically.
"If you have made up your mind to it, of course there is little use in
my suggesting anything."
"Very little. Not that you ever do suggest anything," maliciously. "Now
stay there, and resign yourself to your fate, while I go and put on my
hat."
Along the grass, over the lawn, down to the water's edge, over the
water, and into the green fields beyond, the young man follows his
guide. Above, the blazing sun is shining with all its might upon the
goodly earth; beneath, the grass is browning, withering beneath its
rays; and in the man's heart has bloomed that tenderest, cruelest,
sweetest of all delights, first love.
He has almost ceased to deny this fact to himself. Already he knows, by
the miserable doubts that pursue him, how foolishly he lies to himself
when he thinks otherwise. The sweet carelessness, the all-satisfying
joy in the present that once was his, has now in his hour of need
proved false, and, flying, leaves but a dull unrest in its place. He
has fallen madly, gladly, idiotically in love with beautiful Molly
Massereene.
Every curve of her pliant body is to him an untold poem; every touch of
her hands is a new delight; every tone of her voice is as a song rising
from out of the gloom of the lonely night.
"Here you are to stand and admire our potatoes," says Molly, standing
still, and indicating with a little sweep of her hand the field in
question. "Did you ever see so fine a crop? And did you notice how dry
and floury they were at dinner yesterday?"
"I did," says Luttrell, lying very commendably.
"Good boy. We take very great pride out of our potatoes (an Irish dish,
you will remember), more especially as every year we find ours are
superior to Lord Barton's. There is a certain solace in that,
considering how far short we fall in other matters when compared with
him. Here is the oat-field. Am I to understand you feel admiration?"
"Of the most intense," gravely.
"Good again. We rather feared"--speaking in the affected, stilted style
of a farming report she has adopted throughout--"last month was so
deplorably wet, that the oats would be a failure; but we lived in hope,
and you may mark the result here again: we are second to none. The
wheat-field----" With another slight comprehensive gesture. "By the
bye," pausing to examine his face, "am I fulfilling my duties as a
hostess? Am I entertaining you?"
"Very much indeed. The more particularly that I was never so
entertained before."
"I am fortunate. Well, that is the wheat. I don't know that I can
expect you to go into ecstasies over it, as I confess to me it appears
more or less weak about the head. _Could_ one say that wheat was
imbecile?"
"In these days," politely, "one may say anything one likes."
"Yes? You see that rain did some damage; but after all it might have
been worse."
"You will excuse my asking the question," says Luttrell, gravely, "but
did you ever write for the _Farmer's Gazette_?"
"Never, as yet. But," with an irrepressible smile, "your words suggest
to me brilliant possibilities. Perhaps were I to sit down and tell
every one in trisyllables what they already know only too well about
the crops, and the weather, and the Colorado beetle, and so forth, I
might perchance wake up some morning to find myself famous."
"I haven't the faintest doubt of it," says Tedcastle, with such
flattering warmth that they both break into a merry laugh. Not that
there is anything at all in the joke worthy of such a joyous outburst,
but because they are both so young and both so happy.
"Do you think I have done enough duty for one day?" asks Molly. "Have I
been prosy enough to allow of my leaving off now? Because I don't think
I have got anything more to say about the coming harvest, and I
wouldn't care to say it if I had."
"Do you expect me to say that I found you 'prosy'?"
"If you will be so very kind. And you are quite sure no one could
accuse me of taking advantage of John's and Letty's absence to be
frivolous in my conversation?"
"Utterly positive."
"And you will tell John what a sedate and gentle companion I was?"
"I will indeed, and more,--much more."
"On the contrary, not a word more: if you do you will spoil all. And
now," says Molly, with a little soft, lingering smile, "as a reward for
your promises, come with me to the top of yonder hill, and I will show
you a lovely view."
"Is it not delicious here?" suggests Mr. Luttrell, who can scarcely be
called energetic, and who finds it a difficult matter to grow
enthusiastic over landscapes when oppressed by a broiling sun.
"What! tired already?" says Molly, with fine disregard of subterfuge.
"No, oh, no," weakly.
"But you _are_," reproachfully. "You are quite _done up_.
Why, what would you do if you were ordered on a long day's march?"
"I dare say I should survive it," says Tedcastle, shortly, who is
rather offended at her putting it in this light.
"Well, perhaps you might; but you certainly would have nothing to boast
of. Now, look at me: I am as fresh as when we started." And in truth,
as she stands before him, in her sky-blue gown, he sees she is as cool
and bright and unruffled as when they left the house three-quarters of
an hour ago. "Well," with a resigned sigh that speaks of
disappointment, "stay here until I run up,--I love the place,--and I
will join you afterward."
"Not I!" indignantly. "I'm good yet for so much exertion, and I don't
believe I could exist without you for so long. 'Call, and I follow--I
follow,' even _though_ 'I die,'" he adds to himself, in a tone of
melancholy.
Up the short but steep hill they toil in silence. Halfway Miss
Massereene pauses, either to recover breath or to give encouragement.
"On the top there is always a breeze," she says, in the voice one
adopts when determined to impress upon the listener what one's own
heart knows to be doubtful.
"Is there?" says Luttrell, gloomily, and with much disbelief.
At length they gain the wished-for top. They stand together, Molly with
her usually pale cheeks a little flushed by the exercise, but otherwise
calm and collected; Luttrell decidedly the worse for wear. And, yes,
there actually _is_ a breeze,--a sighing, rustling, unmistakable
breeze, that rushes through their hair and through their fingers, and
is as a draught from Olympus.
"There, didn't I tell you?" cries Molly, with all the suspicious haste
and joy that betrays how weak has been her former hope. "Now, _do_
say you are glad I brought you up."
"What need? My only happiness is being with you," says the young man,
softly.
"See how beautiful the land is,--as far as one can discern all green
and gold," says she, unheeding his subdued tenderness. "Honestly, I do
feel a deep interest in farming; and of all the grain that grows I
dearly love the barley. First comes the nice plowed brown earth; then
the ragged bare suspicion of green; then the strengthening and
perfecting of that green until the whole earth is hidden away; then the
soft, juicy look of the young blades nodding and waving at each other
in the wind, that seems almost tender of them, and at last the fleecy,
downy ears all whispering together."
"When you speak in that tone you make me wish myself a barleycorn,"
says Tedcastle, smiling. "Sit down here beside me, will you, and tell
me why your brother calls you 'Molly Bawn'?"
"I hardly know," sinking down near him on the short, cool grass: "it
was a name he gave me when I was a little one. John has ever been my
father, my mother, my all," says the girl, a soft and lovely dew of
earnest affection coming into her eyes. "Were I to love him all my life
with twice the love I now bear him, I would scarcely be grateful
enough."
"Happy John! Molly! What a pretty name it is."
"But not mine really. No. I was christened Eleanor, after my poor
mother, whose history you know. 'Bawn' means fair. 'Fair Molly,'" says
she, with a smile, turning to him her face, that resembles nothing so
much as a newly-opened flower. "I had hair quite golden when a child.
See," tilting her hat so that it falls backward from her head and lies
on the greensward behind. "It is hardly dark yet."
"It is the most beautiful hair in the world," says he, touching with
gentle, reverential fingers the silken coils that glint and shimmer in
the sunlight. "And it is a name that suits you,--and you only."
"Did I never sing you the old Irish song I claim as my own?"
"You never sang for me at all."
"What! you have been here a whole week, and I have never sung for you?"
With widely-opened eyes of pure surprise. "What could I have been
thinking about? Do you know, I sing very nicely." This without the
faintest atom of conceit. "Listen, then, and I will sing to you now."
With her hands clasped around her knees, her head bare, her tresses a
little loosened by the wind, and her large eyes fixed upon the distant
hills, she thus sweetly sings:
"Oh, Molly Bawn! why leave me pining,
All lonely waiting here for you,
While the stars above are brightly shining,
Because they've nothing else to do?
Oh, Molly Bawn! Molly Bawn!
"The flowers late were open keeping,
To try a rival blush with you,
But their mother, Nature, set them sleeping
With their rosy faces washed in dew.
Oh, Molly Bawn! Molly Bawn!
"The village watch-dog here is snarling;
He takes me for a thief, you see;
For he knows I'd steal you, Molly darling,
And then transported I should be!
Oh, Molly Bawn! Molly Bawn!"
"An odd old song, isn't it?" she says, presently, glancing at him
curiously, when she has finished singing, and waited, and yet heard no
smallest sound of praise. "You do not speak. Of what are you thinking?"
"Of the injustice of it," says he, in a low, thoughtful tone. "Had you
not a bounteous store already when this last great charm was added on?
Some poor wretches have nothing, some but a meagre share, while you
have wrested from Fortune all her best gifts,--beauty----"
"No, no! stop!" cries Molly, gayly; "before you enumerate the good
things that belong to me, remember that I still lack the chiefest: I
have no money. I am without doubt the most poverty-stricken of your
acquaintances. Can any confession be more humiliating? Good sir, my
face is indeed my fortune. Or is it my voice?" pausing suddenly, as
though a cold breath from the dim hereafter had blown across her cheek.
"I hardly know."
"A rich fortune either way."
"And here I am recklessly imperiling one," hastily putting on her hat
once more, "by exposing my precious skin to that savage sun. Come,--it
is almost cool now,--let us have a good race down the hill." She slips
her slender fingers within his,--a lovable trick of hers, innocent of
coquetry,--and, Luttrell conquering with a sigh a wild desire to clasp
and kiss the owner of those little clinging fingers on the spot,
together they run down the slope into the longer grass below, and so,
slowly and more decorously, journey homeward.
* * * * *
On their return they find the house still barren of inmates; no sign of
the master or mistress anywhere. Even the servants are invisible. "It
might almost be the enchanted palace," says Molly.
Two of the children, seeing her on the lawn, break from their nurse,
who is sleeping the sleep of the just, with her broad back against an
elm, and running to Molly, fling their arms around her. She rewards
them with a kiss apiece, one of which Luttrell surreptitiously purloins
from the prettiest.
"Oh, you have come back, Molly. And where have you been?"
"Over the hills and far away."
"_Very_ far away? But you brought her back again," nodding a
golden head gravely at Luttrell; "and nurse said you wouldn't. She said
all soldiers were wicked, and that some day you would steal our Molly.
But you won't," coaxingly: "will you, now?"
Luttrell and Molly laugh and redden a little.
"I doubt if I would be able," he says, without raising his eyes from
the child's face.
"I don't think you are a soldier at all," declares the darker maiden,
coming more boldly to the front, as though fortified by this assertion.
"You have no sword; and there never was a soldier without a sword, was
there?"
"I begin to feel distinctly ashamed of myself," says Luttrell. "I
_have_ a sword, Daisy, somewhere. But not here. The next time I
come I will bring it with me for your special delectation."
"Did you ever cut off any one's head?" asks the timid, fair-haired
Renee, in the background, moving a few steps nearer to him, with rising
hope in her voice.
"Miss Massereene, if you allow this searching examination to go on, I
shall sink into the ground," says Luttrell. "I feel as if the eyes of
Europe were upon me. Why cannot I boast that I have sent a thousand
blacks to glory? No, Renee, with shame I confess it, I am innocent of
bloodshed."
"I am so glad!" says the darker Daisy, while the gentler looking child
turns from him with open disappointment.
"Do you think you can manage to amuse yourself for a little while?"
says Molly. "Because I must leave you; I promised Letty to see after
some of her housekeeping for her: I won't be too long," with a view to
saving him from despair.
"I will see what a cigar can do for me," replies he, mournfully. "But
remember how heavily time drags--sometimes."
Kissing her hand to him gayly, she trips away over the grass, leaving
him to the tender mercies of the children. They, with all the frightful
energy of youth, devote themselves to his service, and, seizing on him,
carry him off to their especial sanctum, where they detain him in
durance vile until the welcome though stentorian lungs of the nurse
make themselves heard.
"There, you may go now," says Daisy, giving him a last ungrateful push;
and as in a body they abscond, he finds himself depressed, but free.
Not only free, but alone. This brings him back to thoughts of Molly.
How long she is! Women never do know what time means. He will walk
round to the yard and amuse himself with the dogs until she has
finished her tiresome business.
Now, the kitchen window looks out upon the path he means to tread;--not
only the kitchen window, but Molly. And as Luttrell comes by, with his
head bent and a general air of moodiness about him, she is so far
flattered by his evident dullness that she cannot refrain from tapping
at the glass to call his attention.
"Have you been enjoying yourself?" asks she, innocently. "You
_look_ as if you had."
He starts as her voice so unexpectedly meets his ear, and turns upon
her a face from which all _ennui_ has fled.
"Do I?" he says. "Then my looks lie. _Enjoying_ myself, with a
pack of small demons! For what do you take me? No, I have been
wretched. What on earth are you doing down there? You have been
_hours_ about it already. Surely, whatever it is, it must be done
now. If you don't come out shortly you will have murder on your soul,
as I feel suicidal."
"I can't come yet."
"Then would you let me--might I----"
"Oh, come here if you like," says Molly. "_I_ don't mind, if you
don't."
Without waiting further invitation, Luttrell goes rapidly round,
descends the kitchen steps, and presently finds himself in Molly's
presence.
It is a pretty old-fashioned, low-ceilinged kitchen, full of quaint
corners and impossible cupboards so high up in the wall as at first
sight to be pronounced useless.
A magnificent fire burns redly, yet barely causes discomfort. (Why is
it that a fire in the kitchen fails to afflict one as it would, if lit
in summer, in the drawing-room or parlor?) Long, low benches, white as
snow, run by the walls. The dresser--is there anything prettier than a
well-kept dresser?--shines out conceitedly from its own place, full of
its choicest bravery. In the middle of the gleaming tiles stands the
table, and beside it stands Molly.
Such a lovely Molly!--a very goddess of a Molly!
Her white arms, bare to the elbow, are covered with flour; a little
patch of it has found a resting-place on the right side of her hair,
where undoubtedly one hand must have gone to punish some amorous lock
that would wander near her lips. Her eyes are full of light; her very
lips are smiling. Jane, the cook, at a respectful distance, is half
ashamed at the situation of her young lady; the young lady is not at
all ashamed.
"Do you like me?" cries she, holding her floury arms aloft. "Are you
lost in admiration? Ah! you have yet to learn how universal are my
gifts. I can _cook_!"
"Can you?" says Luttrell, with a grimace. "What are you making now? I
am anxious to know."
"Positively," bending a little forward, the better to see him; "you
look it. Why?"
"That I may avoid it by and by." Here, with a last faint glimmer of
prudence, he retires to the other end of the table.
"Have you come here to insult me in my own domain?" cries Molly
wrathfully. "Rash youth, you rush upon your fate; or, to speak more
truthfully, your fate intends to rush on you. Now take the
consequences."
With both her hands extended she advances on him, fell determination in
her eye. Alas for his coat when those ten snowy fingers shall have
marked it for their own!
"Mercy!" cries Luttrell, falling on his knees at her feet. "Anything
but that. I apologize, I retract; I will do penance; I will even eat
it, every bit; I will----"
"Will you go away?"
"No," heroically, rising to his full height, "I will _not_. I
would rather be white from head to heel than leave this adorable
kitchen."
There is a slight pause. Mercy and vengeance are in the balance, and
Molly holds the scales. After a brief struggle mercy triumphs.
"I forgive you," says Molly, withdrawing; "but as punishment you really
must help me, as I am rather late this evening. Here, stone these,"
pushing toward him a plateful of raisins."
"Law, miss, I'll do 'em," says Jane, who feels matters are going too
far. To have a strange gentleman, one of the "high-up" gentry, a "reel
millingtary swell," stoning raisins in her kitchen is more than she can
reconcile herself to in silence; she therefore opens the floodgates of
speech. "He'll soil hisself," she says, in a deep, reproachful whisper,
fixing an imploring eye on Molly.
"I hope so," murmurs that delinquent, cheerfully. "He heartily deserves
it. You may go and occupy yourself elsewhere, Jane; Mr. Luttrell and I
will make this pudding. Now go on, Mr. Luttrell; don't be shirking your
duty. It is either do or die."
"I think it is odds on the dying," says he.
Silence for at least three minutes,--in this case a long, long time.
"I can't find anything in them," ventures he, at last, in a slightly
dejected tone; "and they're so horrid sticky."
"_Nothing in them?_ Nonsense! you don't know how to go about it.
Look. I'll show you. Open them with your first finger and thumb--so;
and now do you see them?" triumphantly producing a round brown article
on the tip of her finger.
"Where?" asks Luttrell, bending forward.
"There," says Molly, bending too. Their heads are very close together.
The discreet Jane has retired into her pantry. "It is the real thing.
Can't you see it?"
"Scarcely. It is very small, isn't it?"
"Well, it _is_ small," Miss Massereene confesses, with reluctance;
"it certainly is the smallest I ever saw. Still----"
By this time they are looking, not at the seed of the raisin, but into
each other's eyes, and again there is an eloquent pause.
"May I examine it a little closer?" Luttrell asks, as though athirst
for information, possessing himself quietly of the hand, raisin-stone,
flour, and all, and bringing it suspiciously near to his lips. "Does
it--would it--I mean does flour come off things easily?"
"I don't know," returns Molly, with an innocent gravity that puts him
to shame. "Off some things it washes readily enough; but--mind you, I
can't say for certain, as I have had no experience; but I don't
think----"
"Yes?" seeing her hesitate.
"Well, I don't think," emphasizing each word with a most solemn nod,
"it would come off your moustache in a hurry."
"I'll risk it, anyhow," says Luttrell, stooping suddenly to impress a
fervent kiss upon the little powdered fingers he is holding.
"Oh! how wrong, how extremely wrong of you!" exclaims Miss Massereene,
as successfully shocked as though the thought that he might be tempted
to such a deed has never occurred to her. Yet, true to her nature, she
makes no faintest pretense at withdrawing from him her hand until a
full minute has elapsed. Then, unable longer to restrain herself, she
bursts into a merry laugh,--a laugh all sweetest, clearest music.
"If you could only see how funny you look!" cries she. "You are fair
with a vengeance now. Ah! do go and see for yourself." Giving him a
gentle push toward an ancient glass that hangs disconsolately near the
clock, and thereby leaving another betraying mark upon the shoulder of
his coat.
Luttrell, having duly admired himself and given it as his opinion that
though flour on the arms may be effective, flour on the face is not,
has barely time to wipe his moustache free of it when Mrs. Massereene
enters.
"You here," exclaims she, staring at Tedcastle, "of all places in the
world! I own I am amazed. Oh, if your brother officers could only see
you now, and your coat all over flour! I need hardly inquire if this is
Molly's doing. Poor boy!" with a laugh. "It is a shame. Molly, you are
never happy unless you are tormenting some one."
"But I always make it up to them afterward: don't I, now, Letty?"
murmurs Molly, sweetly, speaking to Letitia, but directing a
side-glance at Luttrell from under her long, dark lashes: this
side-glance is almost a promise.
"Well, so you have come at last, Letty. And how did you enjoy your
'nice, long, happy day in the country,' as the children say?"
"Very much, indeed,--far more than I expected. The Mitchells were
there, which added a little to our liveliness."
"And my poor old mummy, was he there? And is he still holding
together?"
"Lord Rossmere? He is indeed, and was asking most tenderly for you. I
never saw him look so well."
"Oh! it grows absurd," says Molly, in disgust. "How much longer does he
intend keeping up the farce? He _must_ fall to pieces soon."
"He hasn't a notion of it," says Letitia, warming to her description;
"he has taken a new lease of his life. He looked only too
well,--positively ten years younger. I think myself he was 'done up.' I
could see his coat was padded; and he has adorned his head with a very
sleek brown wig."
"Jane," says Molly, weakly, "be so good as to stand close behind me. I
feel as if I were going to faint directly."
"Law, miss!" says Jane, giving way to her usual expletive. She is a
clean and worthy soul where pots and pans are concerned, but apart from
them can scarcely be termed eloquent.
"You are busy, Jane," says Mr. Luttrell, obligingly, "and I am not. (I
see you are winding up that long-suffering pudding.) Let me take a
little trouble off your hands. _I_ will stand close behind Miss
Massereene."
"He had quite a color too," goes on Letitia, mysteriously, "a very
extraordinary color. Not that of an old man, nor yet of a young one,
and I am utterly certain it was paint. It was a vivid, uncompromising
red; so red that I think the poor old thing's valet must have overdone
his work, for fun. Wasn't it cruel?"
"Are you ready, Jane?" murmurs Molly, with increasing weakness.
"Quite ready, miss," returns Luttrell, with hopeful promptness.
"I asked John on the way home what he thought," goes on Letitia, with
an evident interest in her tale, "and he quite agrees with me that it
was rouge, or, at all events, something artificial."
"One more word, Letitia,"--faintly,--"a last one. Has he had that sole
remaining tooth in the front of his mouth made steady?"
"No," cries Mrs. Massereene, triumphantly, "he has not. Do you too
remember that awful tooth? It is literally the only thing left undone,
and I can't imagine why. It still waggles uncomfortably when he talks,
and his upper lip has the same old trick of catching on it and refusing
to come down again until compelled. Sir John was there, and took me in
to luncheon; and as I sat just opposite Lord Rossmere I could see
distinctly. I particularly noticed that."
"You have saved me," cries Molly, briskly. "Had your answer been other
than it was, I would not have hesitated for a moment: I would have gone
off into a death-like swoon. Thank you, Jane,"--with a backward nod at
Luttrell, whom she has refused to recognize: "I need not detain you any
longer."
"Mrs. Massereene, I shall never forgive you," says Luttrell.
"And is this the way you entertain your guests, Molly?" asks Letitia.
"Have you spent your day in the kitchen?"
"The society of the 'upper ten' is not good for you, Letitia," says
Molly, severely. "There is a faint flavor of would-be sarcasm about
you, and it doesn't suit you in the least: your lips have not got the
correct curve. No, my dear: although unnoticed by the nobility of our
land, we, too, have had our 'nice, long, happy day in the country.'
Haven't we, Mr. Luttrell?"
"Do you think he would dare say 'No' with _your_ eyes upon him?"
says Letitia, laughing. "By and by I shall hear the truth. Come with
me"--to Tedcastle--"and have a glass of sherry before your dinner: I am
sure you must want it, after all you have gone through."