"Gather the roses while ye may;
Old time is still a-flying;
And the same flower that smiles to-day
To-morrow will be dying."
--Herrick.
It is four o'clock, and a hush, a great stillness, born of oppressive
heat, is over all the land. Again the sun is smiting with hot wrath the
unoffending earth; the flowers nod drowsily or lie half dead of
languor, their gay leaves touching the ground.
"The sky was blue as the summer sea,
The depths were cloudless overhead;
The air was calm as it could be;
There was no sight or sound of dread,"
quotes Luttrell, dreamily, as he strays idly along the garden path,
through scented shrubs and all the many-hued children of light and dew.
His reverie is lengthened yet not diffuse. One little word explains it
all. It seems to him that word is everywhere: the birds sing it, the
wind whistles it as it rushes faintly past, the innumerable voices of
the summer cry ceaselessly for "Molly."
"Mr. Luttrell, Mr. Luttrell," cries some one, "look up." And he does
look up.
Above him, on the balcony, stands Molly, "a thing of beauty," fairer
than any flower that grows beneath. Her eyes like twin stars are
gleaming, deepening; her happy lips are parted; her hair drawn loosely
back, shines like threads of living gold. Every feature is awake and
full of life; every movement of her sweet body, clad in its white gown,
proclaims a very joyousness of living.
With hands held high above her head, filled with parti-colored roses,
she stands laughing down upon him; while he stares back at her, with a
heart filled too full of love for happiness. With a slight momentary
closing of her lids she opens both her hands and flings the scented
shower into his uplifted face.
"Take your punishment," she whispers, saucily, bending over him, "and
learn your lesson. Don't look at me another time."
"It was by your own desire I did so," exclaims he, bewildered, shaking
the crimson and yellow and white leaves from off his head and
shoulders. "How am I to understand you?"
"How do I know, when I don't even understand myself? But when I called
out to you 'Look up,' of course I meant 'look down.' Don't you remember
the old game with the handkerchief?--when I say 'Let go,' 'hold fast;'
and when I say 'Hold fast,' 'let go?' You must recollect it."
"I have a dim idea of something idiotic, like what you say."
"It is not idiotic, but it suits only some people; it suits me. There
is a certain perverseness about it, a determination to do just what one
is told not to do, that affects me most agreeably. Did I"--glancing at
the rosy shower at his feet--"did I hurt you _much_?" With a
smile.
There is a little plank projecting from the wood-work of the pillars
that supports the balcony: resting his foot on this, and holding on by
the railings above, Luttrell draws himself up until his face is almost
on a level with hers,--almost, but not quite: she can still overshadow
him.
"If that was all the injury I had received at your hands, how easy it
would be to forgive!" says he, in a low tone.
"Poor hands," says Molly, gazing at her shapely fingers, "how have they
sinned? Am I to understand, then, that I am not forgiven?"
"Yes."
"You are unkind to me."
"Oh, Molly!"
"_Dreadfully_ unkind to me. Can you deny it? Now, tell me what
this crime is that I have committed and you cannot pardon."
"I will not," says the young man, turning a little pale, while the
smile dies out of his eyes and from round his lips. "I dread to put my
injuries into words. Should they anger you, you might with one look
seal my death-warrant."
"Am I so blood-thirsty? How badly you think of me!"
"Do I?" Reading with the wistful sadness of uncertainty her lovely
face. "You know better than that. You know too--do you not?--what it is
I would say,--if I dared. Oh, Molly, what have you done to me, what
witchery have you used, that, after escaping for twenty-seven long
years, I should now fall so hopelessly in----"
"Hush!" says Molly, quickly, and, letting her hand fall lightly on his
forehead, brings it slowly, slowly, over his eyes and down his face,
until at length it rests upon his lips rebukingly. "Not another word.
You have known me but a few days,--but a little short three weeks,--and
you would----"
"Yes, I would," eagerly, devouring with fond kisses the snow-flake that
would stay his words. "Three weeks,--a year,--ten years,--what does it
matter? I think the very first night I saw you here in this garden the
mischief was done. My heart left me. You stole the very best of me; and
will you give nothing in exchange?"
"I will not listen," says Molly, covering her ears with her hands, but
not so closely that she must be deaf. "Do you hear? You are to be
silent."
"Do you forbid me to speak?"
"Yes; I am in a hurry; I cannot listen,--_now_," says this born
coquette, unable to release her slave so soon.
"Some other time,--when you know me better,--you will listen then: is
that what you mean?" Still detaining her with passionate entreaty both
in tone and manner. "Molly, give me one word of hope."
"I don't know what I mean," she says, effecting her escape, and moving
back to the security of the drawing-room window, which stands open. "I
never do know. And I have not got the least bit of memory in the world.
Do you know I came out here to tell you tea was to be brought out for
us under the trees on the lawn; and when I saw you I forgot everything.
Is that a hopeful sign?" With a playful smile.
"I will try to think so; and--don't go yet, Molly." Seeing her about to
enter the drawing-room. "Surely, if tea is to be on the lawn, it is
there we ought to go."
"I am half afraid of you. If I consent to bestow upon you a little more
of my society, will you promise not to talk in--in--that way again to
me?"
"But----"
"I will have no 'buts.' Promise what I ask, or I will hide myself from
you for the rest of the day."
"I swear, then," says he; and, so protected, Miss Massereene ventures
down the balcony steps and accompanies him to the shaded end of the
lawn.
By this time it is nearly five o'clock, and as yet oppressively warm.
The evening is coming with a determination to rival in dull heat the
early part of the day. The sheep in great white snowy patches lie
panting in the distant corners of the adjoining fields; the cows, tired
of whisking their foolish tails in an unsuccessful war with the
insatiable flies, are all huddled together, and give way to mournful
lows that reproach the tarrying milkmaid.
Above in the branches a tiny bird essays to sing, but stops half
stifled, and, forgetting the tuneful note, contents itself with a lazy
"cluck-cluck" that presently degenerates still further into a dying
"coo" that is hardly musical, because so full of sleep.
Molly has seated herself upon the soft young grass, beneath the shade
of a mighty beech, against the friendly trunk of which she leans her
back. Even this short walk from the house to the six stately beeches
that are the pride and glory of Brooklyn has told upon her. Her usually
merry eyes have subsided into a gentle languor; over them the white
lids droop heavily. No little faintest tinge of color adorns her pale
cheeks; upon her lap her hands lie idle, their very listlessness
betokening the want of energy they feel.
At about two yards' distance from her reclines her guest, full length,
his fingers interlaced behind his head, looking longer, slighter than
usual, as with eyes upturned he gazes in silence upon the far-off,
never-changing blue showing through the net-work of the leaves above
him.
"Are you quite used up?" asks Molly, in the slow, indifferent tone that
belongs to heat, as the crisp, gay voice belongs to cold. "I never
heard you silent for so long before. Do you think you are likely to
_die_? Because--don't do it here, please: it would give me such a
shock."
"I am far more afraid I shall live," replies her companion. "Oh, how I
loathe the summer!"
"You are not so far gone as I feared: you can still use bad language.
Now, tell me what sweet thought has held you in thrall so long."
"If I must confess it, I have been thinking of how untold a luxury at
this moment would be an iced bath."
"'An iced bath'!" With as much contempt as she can summon. "How
prosaic! And I quite flattered myself you were thinking of me." She
says this as calmly as though she had supposed him thinking of his
dinner.
Tedcastle's lips part in a faint smile, a mere glimmer,--a _laugh_
is beyond him,--and he turns his head just so far round as will permit
his eyes to fall full upon her face.
"I fancied such thoughts on my part tabooed," he says. "And besides,
would they be of any advantage to you?"
"No material advantage, but they would have been only fair. _I_
was thinking of _you_."
"Were you? Really!" With such overpowering interest as induces him to
raise himself on his elbow, the better to see her. "You were
thinking--that----"
"Don't excite yourself. I was wondering whether, when you were a baby,
your nose--in proportion, of course--was as lengthy and solemn as it is
now."
"Pshaw!" mutters Mr. Luttrell, angrily, and goes back to his original
position.
"If it was," pursues Molly, with a ruthless and amused laugh, "you must
have been an awfully funny baby to look at." She appears to find
infinite amusement in this idea for a full minute, after which follows
a disgusted silence that might have lasted until dinner-hour but for
the sound of approaching footsteps.
Looking up simultaneously, they perceive Letitia coming toward them,
with Sarah behind, carrying a tray, on which are cups, and small round
cakes, and plates of strawberries.
"I have brought you your tea at last," cries Letitia, looking like some
great fair goddess, with her large figure and stately walk and benign
expression, as she bears down upon them. She is still a long way off,
yet her voice comes to them clear and distinct, without any suspicion
of shouting. She is smiling benevolently, and has a delicious pink
color in her cheeks.
"We thought you had forgotten us," says Molly, springing to her feet
with a sudden return of animation. "But you have come in excellent
time, as we were on the very brink of a quarrel that would have
disgraced the Kilkenny cats. And what have you brought us? Tea, and
strawberries, and dear little hot cakes! Oh, Letty, how I love you!"
"So do I," says Luttrell. "Mrs. Massereene, may I sit beside you?"
"For protection?" asks she, with a laugh.
In the meantime Molly has arranged the tray before herself, and is
busily engaged placing all the worst strawberries and the smallest cake
on one plate.
"Before you go any further," says Luttrell, "I won't have that plate.
Nothing shall induce me. So you may spare your trouble."
"Then you may go without any, as I myself intend eating all the
others."
"Mrs. Massereene, you are my only friend. I appeal to you; is it fair?
Just look at all she is keeping for herself. If I die for it, I will
get my rights," exclaims Tedcastle, goaded into activity, and springing
from his recumbent position, makes straight for the tray. There is a
short but decisive battle; and then, victory being decided in favor of
Luttrell, he makes a successful raid upon the fruit, and retires
covered with glory and a good deal of juice.
"Coward, thief! won't I pay you for this?" cries Molly, viciously.
"I wouldn't use school-boy slang if I were you," returns Luttrell, with
provoking coolness, and an evident irritating appreciation of the
fruit.
Fortunately for all parties, at this moment John appears upon the
scene.
"It _is_ warm," says he, sinking on the grass, under the weak
impression that he is imparting information.
"I think there is thunder in the air," says Letitia, with a mischievous
glance at the late combatants, at which they laugh in spite of
themselves.
"Not at all, my dear; you are romancing," says ignorant John. "Well,
Molly Bawn, where is my tea? Have you kept me any?"
"As if I would forget _you_! Is it not an extraordinary thing,
Letty, that Sarah cannot be induced to bring us a tea-pot? Now, I want
more, and must only wait her pleasure."
"Remonstrate with her," says John.
"I am tired of doing so. Only yesterday I had a very lengthy argument
with her on the subject, to the effect that as it was I who was having
the tea, and not she, surely I might be allowed to have it the way I
wished. When I had exhausted my eloquence, and was nearly on the verge
of tears, I discovered that she was still at the very point from which
we started. 'But the tea is far more genteeler, Miss Molly, when
brought up without the tea-pot. It spoils the look of the tray.' I said
'Yes, the _want_ of it does,' with much indignation; but I might
as well have kept my temper."
"Much _better_," says Luttrell, placidly.
"I do hate having my tea poured out for me," goes on Molly, not
deigning to notice him. "I am convinced Sarah lived with a retired
tallow-chandler, or something equally horrible, before she came to us.
She has one idol to which she sacrifices morning, noon, and night, and
I think she calls it 'style.'"
"And what is that?" interposes Luttrell, anxiously.
"I don't know, but I think it has something to do with not putting the
tea-pot on the tray, for instance, and taking the pretty fresh covers
off the drawing-room chairs when any one is coming, to convince them of
the green damask beneath. And once when, during a passing fit of
insanity, I dressed my hair into a pyramid, she told me I looked
'stylish.' It took me some time to recover that shock to my vanity."
"I like 'stylish' people myself," says John. "Lady Barton, I am
positive, is just what Sarah means by that, and I admire her
immensely,--within bounds, of course, my dear Letitia."
"Dreadful, vulgar woman!" says Molly, with a frown. "I'm sure I
wouldn't name Letty in the same day with her."
"We all know you are notoriously jealous of her," says John. "Her
meridian charms eclipse yours of the dawn."
"How poetical!" laughs Molly. "But the thing to see is Letitia
producing the children when her ladyship comes to pay a visit. She
always reminds me of the Mother of the Gracchi. Now, confess it, Letty,
don't you think Lady Barton's diamonds and rubies and emeralds grow
pale and lustreless beside your living jewels?"
"Indeed I do," returns Letitia, with the readiest, most unexpected
simplicity.
"Letitia," cries Molly, touched, giving her a little hug, "I do think
you are the dearest, sweetest, truest old goose in the world."
"Nonsense, my dear!" says Letitia, with a slow pleased blush that is at
once so youthful and so lovely.
"Oh! why won't Sarah come?" says Molly, recurring suddenly to her woes.
"I know, even if I went on my knees to Mr. Luttrell, he would not so
far trouble himself as to go in and find her; but I think she might
remember my weakness for tea."
"There she is!" exclaims John.
To their right rises a hedge, on which it has been customary for ages
to dry the household linen, and moving toward it appears Sarah, armed
with a basket piled high to the very top.
"Sarah," calls Molly, "Sarah--Sarah!"
Now, Sarah, though an undeniably good servant, and a cleanly one,
striking the beholder as a creature born to unlimited caps and spotless
aprons, is undoubtedly obtuse. She presents her back hair and
heels--that would not have disgraced an elephant--to Miss Massereene's
call, and goes on calmly with her occupation of shaking out and hanging
up to dry the garments she has just brought.
"Shall I go and call her?" asks Luttrell, with some remains of grace
and an air of intense fatigue.
"Not worth your while," says John, with all a man's delicious
consideration for a man; "she must turn in a moment, and then she will
see us."
For two whole minutes, therefore, they gaze in rapt silence upon the
unconscious Sarah. Presently Mr. Massereene breaks the eloquent
stillness.
"There is nothing," says he, mildly, "that so clearly declares the
sociability--the _bon camaraderie_, so to speak--that ought to
exist in every well-brought-up family as the sight of washing done at
home. There is such a happy mingling and yet such a thorough disregard
of sex about it. It is 'Hail, fellow! well met!' all through. If you
will follow Sarah's movements for a minute longer you will better
understand what I mean. There! now she is spreading out Molly's
pale-green muslin, in which she looked so irresistible last week. And
there goes Daisy's pinafore, and Bobby's pantaloons; and now she is
pausing to remove a defunct grasshopper from Renee's bonnet! What a
charming picture it all makes, so full of life! There go Molly's
stock----"
"John," interrupts Molly, indignantly, who has been frowning heavily at
him for some time without the smallest result.
"If you say another word," puts in Luttrell, burying his face in the
grass, with a deep groan, "if you go one degree further, I shall
faint."
"And now comes my shirt," goes on John, in the same even tone, totally
unabashed.
"My dear John!" exclaims Letitia, much scandalized, speaking in a very
superior tone, which she fondly but erroneously believes to be stern
and commanding, "I beg you will pursue the subject no further. We have
no desire whatever to learn any particulars about your shirts."
"And why not, my dear?" demands Mr. Massereene, his manner full of mild
but firm expostulation. "What theme so worthy of prolonged discussion
as a clean shirt? Think of the horrors that encompass all the 'great
unwashed,' and then perhaps you will feel as I do. In my opinion it is
a topic on which volumes might be written: if I had time I would write
them myself. And if you will give yourself the trouble to think, my
dear Letitia, you will doubtless be able to bring to mind the fact that
once a very distinguished and reasonable person called Hood wrote a
song about it. Besides which----"
"She is looking now!" cries Molly, triumphantly. "Sarah--Sa--rah!"
"The 'bells they go ringing for Sarah,'" quotes Mr. Luttrell,
irrelevantly. But Sarah has heard, and is hastening toward them, and
wrath is for the present averted from his unlucky head.
Smiling, panting, rubicund, comes Sarah, ready for anything.
"Some more tea, Sarah," says Molly, with a smile that would corrupt an
archbishop. Molly is a person adored by servants. "That's my cup."
"And that's mine," says Tedcastle, turning his upside down on his
saucer. "I am particular about getting my own cup, Sarah, and hope you
will not mistake mine for Miss Massereene's. Fill it, and bring it back
to me just like this."
"Yes, sir," says Sarah, in perfect good faith.
"And, Sarah--next time we would like the tea-pot," puts in Mr.
Massereene, mildly.