"After long years."
It is raining, not only raining, but pouring. All the gracious sunshine
of yesterday is obliterated, forgotten, while in its place the sullen
raindrops dash themselves with suppressed fury against the
window-panes. Huge drops they are, swollen with the hidden rage of many
days, that fall, and burst heavily, and make the casements tremble.
Outside, the flowers droop and hang their pretty heads in sad wonder at
this undeserved Nemesis that has overtaken them. Along the sides of the
graveled paths small rivulets run frightened. There is no song of birds
in all the air. Only the young short grass uprears itself, and,
drinking in with eager greediness the welcome but angry shower, refuses
to bend its neck beneath the yoke.
"How I hate a wet day!" says Luttrell, moodily, for the twentieth time,
staring blankly out of the deserted school-room window, where he and
Molly have been yawning, moping for the last half-hour.
"Do you? I love it," replies she, out of a sheer spirit of
contradiction; as, if there is one thing she utterly abhors it is the
idea of rain.
"If I said I loved it, _you_ would say the reverse," says he,
laughing, not feeling equal to the excitement of a quarrel.
"Without doubt," replies she, laughing too: so that a very successful
opening is rashly neglected. "Surely it cannot keep on like this all
day," she says, presently, in a dismal tone, betraying by her manner
the falsity of her former admiration: "we shall have a dry winter if it
continues much longer. Has any wise man yet discovered how much rain
the clouds are capable of containing at one time? It would be such a
blessing if they had: then we might know the worst, and make up our
minds to it."
"Drop a line to the clerk of the weather office; he might make it his
business to find out if you asked him."
"Is that a joke?" with languid disgust. "And you professed yourself
indignant with me yesterday when I perpetrated a really superior one!
You ought to be ashamed of yourself. I would not condescend to anything
so feeble."
"That reminds me I have never yet paid you off for that misdemeanor.
Now, when time is hanging so heavily on my hands, is a most favorable
opportunity to pay the debt. I embrace it. And you too. So 'prepare for
cavalry.'"
"A fig for all the hussars in Europe," cries Molly, with indomitable
courage.
* * * * *
Meantime, Letitia and John in the morning room--that in a grander house
would have been designated a boudoir--are holding a hot discussion.
Lovat, the eldest son, being the handsomest and by far the most
scampish of the children, is of course his mother's idol. His master,
however, having written to say that up to this, in spite of all the
trouble that has been taken with him, he has evinced a far greater
disposition for cricket and punching his companions' heads than for his
Greek and Latin, Lovat's father had given it as his opinion that Lovat
deserves a right good flogging; while Lovat's mother maintains that all
noble, high-spirited boys are "just like that," and asks Mr.
Massereene, with the air of a Q. C., whether he never felt a distaste
for the dead languages.
Mr. Massereene replying that he never did, that he was always a model
boy, and never anywhere but at the head of his class, his wife
instantly declares she doesn't believe a word of it, and most unfairly
rakes up a dead-and-gone story, in which Mr. Massereene figures as the
principal feature, and is discovered during school hours on the top of
a neighbor's apple-tree, with a long-suffering but irate usher at the
foot of it, armed with his indignation and a birch rod.
"And for three mortal hours he stood there, while I sat up aloft
grinning at him," says Mr. Massereene, with (considering his years) a
disgraceful appreciation of his past immoral conduct; "and when at last
the gardener was induced to mount the tree and drag me ignominiously to
the ground, I got such a flogging as made a chair for some time assume
the character of a rack."
"And you deserved it, too," says Letitia, with unwonted severity.
"I did, indeed, my dear," John confesses, heartily, "richly. I am glad
to see that at last you begin to take a sensible view of the subject.
If I deserved a flogging because I once shirked my tasks, what does not
Lovat deserve for a long course of such conduct?"
"He is not accused of stealing apples, at all events; and, besides,
Lovat is quite different," says Letitia, vaguely. Whereupon John tells
her her heart is running away with her head, and that her partiality is
so apparent that he must cease from further argument, and goes on with
his reading.
Presently, however, he rises, and, crossing the room, stands over her,
watching her white shapely fingers as they deftly fill up the holes in
the little socks that lie in the basket beside her. She is so far _en
rapport_ with him as to know that his manner betokens a desire for
confidence.
"Have you anything to say to me, dear?" she asks, looking up and
suspending her employment for the time being.
"Letitia," begins he, thoughtfully, not to say solemnly, "it is quite
two months since Luttrell first put in an appearance in this house.
Now, I don't wish to seem inhospitable,--far be it from me: a thirst
for knowledge alone induces me to put the question,--but, _do_ you
think he means to reside here permanently?"
"It is certainly very strange," says Letitia, unmoved by his eloquence
to even the faintest glimmer of a smile, so deep is her interest in the
subject,--"the very oddest thing. If, now, it were a place where a
young man could find any amusement, I would say nothing; but here! Do
you know, John,"--mysteriously,--"I have my suspicions."
"No!" exclaims Mr. Massereene, betraying the wildest curiosity in voice
and gesture,--so wild as to hint at the possibility of its not being
genuine. "You don't say so!"
"It has once or twice occurred to me----"
"Yes?"
"I have certainly thought----"
"Letitia,"--with authority,--"don't think, or suspect, or let it occur
to you any more: _say_ it."
"Well, then, I think he is in love with Molly."
John breaks into a heavy laugh.
"What it is to be a woman of penetration," says he. "So you have found
that out. Now, that is where we men fail. But are you certain? Why do
you think it?"
"I am almost convinced of it," Letitia says, with much solemnity. "Last
night I happened to be looking out of one of the windows that overhang
the garden, and there in the moonlight (it was quite ten o'clock) I saw
Molly give him a red rose; and he took it, and gazed at it as though he
were going to devour it; and then he kissed it; and after that he
kissed Molly's hand! Now, I don't think, John, unless a young man
was--you know--eh?"
"I altogether agree with you. Unless a young man _was_, you know,
why, he wouldn't--that's all. I am glad, however, he had the grace to
stop at the hand,--that it was not Molly's lips he chose instead."
"My _dear_ John!"
"My darling Letty! have I said anything so very _outre_? Were you
never kissed by a young man?"
"Only by you," returns Mrs. Massereene, laughing apologetically, and
blushing a rare delicate pink that would not have disgraced her at
eighteen.
"Ah, you may well be excused, considering how you were tempted. It is
not every day one meets---- By the bye, Letty, did you cease your
eavesdropping at that point?"
"Yes; I did not like to remain longer."
"Then depend upon it, my dear, you did not see the last act in that
drama."
"You surely do not think Molly----"
"I seldom trouble to think. I only know Luttrell is an uncommonly
good-looking fellow, and that the moon is a white witch."
"He _is_ good-looking," says Letitia, rising and growing troubled;
"he is more than that,--he is charming. Oh, John! if our Molly were to
fall in love with him, and grow unhappy about it, what would we do? I
don't believe he has anything beyond his pay."
"He has something more than that, I know, but not much. The Luttrells
have a good deal of spare cash throwing about among them."
"But what of that? And a poor man would be wretched for Molly. Remember
what an expensive regiment he is in. Why, I suppose as it is he can
hardly keep himself. And how would it be with a wife and a large
family?"
"Oh, Letitia! let us have the marriage ceremony first. Why on earth
will you saddle the miserable man with a large family so soon? And
wouldn't a small one do? Of what use to pile up the agony to such a
height?"
"I think of no one but Molly. There is nothing so terrible as a long
engagement, and that is what it will come to. Do you remember Sarah
Annesley? She grew thinner and thinner day by day, and her complexion
became positively yellow when Perceval went away. And her mother said
it was suspense preying upon her."
"So they _said_, my dear; but we all _know_ it was
indigestion."
"John,"--austerely,--"what is the exact amount of Mr. Luttrell's
income?"
"About six hundred a year, I think."
"As much as that?" Slightly relieved. "And will his father allow him
anything more?"
"Unless you insist upon my writing to Sir William, I could not tell you
that."
"Six hundred a year is far too little."
"It is almost as much as we have."
"But you are not in the army, and you are not a fashionable young man."
"If you say that again I shall sue for a divorce. But seriously, Letty,
perhaps you are exciting yourself about nothing. Who knows but they are
indifferent to each other?"
"I fear they are not. And I will not have poor Molly made unhappy."
"Why not 'poor Luttrell'? It is far more likely as I see it."
"I don't want any one to be unhappy. And something must be done."
"Exactly." After a pause, with ill-concealed cowardice: "Will you do
it?"
"Do what?"
"That awful 'something' that is to be done."
"Certainly not. It is your duty to--to--find out everything, and ask
them both what they mean."
"Then I won't," declares John, throwing out his arms decisively. "I
would not be bribed to do it. What! ask a man his intentions! I
couldn't bring myself to do such a thing. How could I look him in the
face again? They must fight the best battle they can for themselves,
like every one else. I won't interfere."
"Very good. I shall speak to Molly. And I really think we ought to go
and look them up. I have seen neither of them since breakfast time."
"The rain has ceased. Let us go out by the balcony," says Mr.
Massereene, stepping through the open window. "I heard them in the
school-room as I passed."
Now, this balcony, as I have told you, runs along all one side of the
house, and on it the drawing-room, school-room, and one of the parlor
windows open. Thick curtains hang from them and conceal in part the
outer world; so that when John and Letty stand before the school-room
window to look in they do so without being themselves seen. And this, I
regret to say, is what they see:
In the centre of the room a square table, and flying round and round
it, with the tail of her white gown twisted over her right arm, is Miss
Massereene, with Mr. Luttrell in full chase after her.
"Well, upon my word!" says Mr. Massereene, unable through bewilderment
to think of any remark more brilliant.
Round and round goes Molly, round and round follows her pursuer; until
Luttrell, finding his prey to be quite as fleet if not fleeter than
himself, resorts to a mean expedient, and, catching hold of one side of
the table, pushes it, and Molly behind it, slowly but surely into the
opposite corner.
There is no hope. Steadily, certainly, she approaches her doom, and
with flushed cheeks and eyes gleaming with laughter, makes a vain
protest.
"Now I have you," says Luttrell, drawing an elaborate penknife from his
pocket, in which all the tools that usually go to adorn a carpenter's
shop fight for room. "Prepare for death, or--I give you your choice: I
shall either cut your jugular vein or kiss you. Don't hurry. Say which
you prefer. It is a matter of indifference to me."
"Cut every vein in my body first," cries Molly, breathless but defiant.
["Letitia," whispers John, "I feel I am going to laugh. What shall I
do?"
"Don't," says Letitia, with stern promptitude. "That is what you will
do. It is no laughing matter. I hope you are not going to make a jest
of it, John."
"But, my dear, supposing I can't help it?" suggests he, mildly. "Our
risible faculties are not always under our control."
"On an occasion such as this they should be."
"Letitia," says Mr. Massereene, regarding her with severity, "you are
going to laugh yourself; don't deny it."
"No,--no, indeed," protests Letitia, foolishly, considering her
handsome face is one broad smile, and that her plump shoulders are
visibly shaking.]
"It is mean! it is shameful!" says Molly, from within, seeing no chance
of escape. Whichever way she rushes can be only into his arms.
"All that you can say shan't prevent me," decides Luttrell, moving
toward her with fell determination in his eye.
"Perhaps a little that I can say may have the desired effect," breaks
in Mr. Massereene, advancing into the middle of the room, with Letitia,
looking rather nervous, behind him.
Tableau.
There is a sudden, rather undignified, cessation of hostilities on the
part of Mr. Luttrell, who beats a hasty retreat to the wall, where he
stands as though glad of the support. He bears a sneaky rather than a
distinguished appearance, and altogether has the grace to betray a
considerable amount of shame.
Molly, dropping her gown, turns a rich crimson, but is, I need hardly
say, by far the least upset of the two delinquents. She remains where
she is, hedged in by the table, and is conscious of feeling a wild
desire to laugh.
Determined to break the silence, which is proving oppressive, she says,
demurely:
"How fortunate, John, that you happened to be on the spot! Mr. Luttrell
was behaving _so_ badly!"
"I don't need to be told that."
"But how did you come here?" asks Molly, making a brave but
unsuccessful effort to turn the tables upon the enemy. "And Letitia,
too! I do hate people who turn up when they are least expected. What
were you doing on the balcony?"
"Watching you--and--your friend," says John, very gravely for him. He
addresses himself entirely to Molly, her "friend" being in the last
stage of confusion and utterly incapable of speech. At this, however,
he can support the situation no longer, and, coming forward, says
eagerly:
"John, let me explain. The fact is, I asked Miss Massereene to marry
me, a little time ago, and she has promised to do so--if you--don't
object." After this bit of eloquence he draws himself up, with a little
shake, as though he had rid himself of something disagreeable, and
becomes once more his usual self.
Letitia puts on a "didn't I tell you?" sort of air, and John says:
"Is that so?" looking at Molly for confirmation.
"Yes, if it is your wish," cries she, forsaking her retreat, and coming
forward to lay her hand upon her brother's arm entreatingly, and with a
gesture full of tenderness. "But if you do object, if it vexes you in
the very slightest degree, John, I----"
"But you will give your consent, Massereene," interrupts her lover,
hastily, as though dreading the remainder of the sentence, "won't you?"
He too has come close up to John, and stands on one side, opposite
Molly. Almost, from the troubled expression of his face as he looks at
the girl, one might imagine him trying to combat her apparent
lukewarmness more then her brother's objections.
"Things seem to have progressed very favorably without my consent,"
says John, glancing at the unlucky table, which has come in for a most
unfair share of the blame. "But before giving you my blessing I
acknowledge--now we are on the subject--I would like to know on what
sum you intend setting up housekeeping." Here Letitia, who has
preserved a strict neutrality throughout, comes more to the front. "It
is inconvenient, and anything but romantic, I know, but people must
eat, and those who indulge in _violent exercise_ are generally
possessed of healthy appetites."
"I have over five hundred a year," says Luttrell, coloring, and feeling
as if he had said fifty and was going to be called presumptuous. He
also feels that John has by some sudden means become very many years
older than he really is.
"That includes everything?"
"Everything. When my uncle--Maxwell Luttrell--hops the--that is, drops
off--I mean dies," says Luttrell whose slang is extensive and rather
confusing, "I shall come in for five thousand pounds more."
"How can you speak in such a cold-blooded way of your uncle's death?"
says Molly, who is not so much impressed by the occasion as she should
be.
"Why not? There is no love lost between us. If he could leave it away
from me he would; but that is out of his power."
"That makes it seven hundred," says Letitia, softly, _a propos_ of
the income.
"Nearer eight," says he, brightening at her tone.
"Molly, you wish to marry Tedcastle?" John asks his sister, gazing at
her earnestly.
"Ye--es; but I'm not in a hurry, you know," replies she, with a little
nod.
Massereene regards her curiously for a moment or two; then he says:
"She is young, Luttrell; she has seen little of the world. You must
give her time. I know no man I would prefer to you as a brother;
but--give her time. Be satisfied with the engagement; do not let us
speak of marriage just yet."
"Not unless she wishes it," says the young man bravely, and perhaps a
little proudly.
"In a year," says John, still with his eyes on his beautiful sister,
and speaking with marked hesitation, as though waiting for her to make
some sign by which he shall know how to best forward her secret wishes;
"then we may begin to talk about it."
"Yes, then we may talk about it," echoes Molly, cheerfully.
"But a year!--it is a lifetime," says Luttrell, with some excitement,
turning his eyes, full of a mute desire for help, upon Letitia. And
when did Letitia ever fail any one?
"I certainly think it is too long," she says, truthfully and kindly.
"No," cries Molly, pettishly, "it shall be as John wishes. Why, it is
nothing! Think of all the long years to come afterward, when we shall
not be able to get rid of each other, no matter how earnestly we may
desire it; and then see how small in comparison is this one year."
Luttrell, who has grown a little pale, goes over to her and takes her
hand in both his. His face is grave, fuller of purpose than they have
ever seen it. To him the scene is a betrothal, almost a marriage.
"You will be true to me?" he says, with suppressed emotion. "Swear that
you will, before your brother."
"Of course I will," with a quick, nervous laugh. "Why should I be
otherwise? You frighten me with your solemn ways. Am I more to you than
I was yesterday? Why, how should I be untrue to you, even if I wished
it? I shall see no one from the day you leave until you come again."
At this moment the noise of the door-handle being turned makes him drop
her hand, and they all fall simultaneously into what they hope is an
easy attitude. And then Sarah appears upon the threshold with a letter
and a small packet between her first finger and thumb. She is a very
genteel girl, is Sarah, and would scorn to take a firm grasp of
anything.
"This 'ere is for you, sir," she says, delivering the packet to
Luttrell, who consigns it hastily to his coat-pocket; "and this for
you, Miss Molly," giving the letter. "The postman says, sir, as 'ow
they only come by the afternoon, but I am of the rooted opinion that he
forgot 'm this morning."
Thus Sarah, who is loquacious though trustworthy, and bears an undying
grudge to the postman, in that he has expressed himself less enamored
of her waning charms than of those of the more buxom Jane, who queens
it over the stewpans and the cold joints.
"Most improper of the postman," replies Mr. Massereene, soothingly.
Meantime, Molly is standing staring curiously at her missive.
"I don't know the writing," she says in a vague tone. "I do hope it
isn't a bill."
"A bill, with that monogram!" exclaims Luttrell. "Not likely. I would
swear to a dunning epistle at twenty yards' distance."
"Who can it be from?" wonders Molly, still dallying with one finger
inserted beneath the flap of the envelope.
"Perhaps, if you look within you may find out," suggests John, meekly;
and thus encouraged she opens the letter and reads.
At first her face betrays mere indifference, then surprise, then a
sudden awakening to intense interest, and lastly unmitigated
astonishment.
"It is the most extraordinary thing," she says, at last, looking up,
and addressing them in an awestruck whisper, "the most unexpected.
After all these years,--I can scarcely believe it to be true."
"But what is it, darling?" asks Letty, actually tingling with
excitement.
"An invitation to Herst Royal!"
"I don't believe you," cries Luttrell, who means no rudeness at all,
but is merely declaring in a modern fashion how delighted beyond
measure he is.
"Look: is not that Marcia's writing? I suppose she wrote it, though it
is dictated by grandpapa."
All four heads were instantly bent over the clear, bold calligraphy to
read the cold but courteous invitation it contains.
"Dear Eleanor" is given to understand that her grandfather will be
pleased to make her acquaintance, if she will be pleased to transfer
herself and her maid to Herst Royal on the twenty-seventh of the
present month. There are a few hints about suitable trains, a request
that a speedy reply in the affirmative will be sent, and then "dear
Eleanor" is desired to look upon Mr. Amherst as her "affectionate
grandfather." Not one word about all the neglect that has been showered
upon her for nineteen years.
"Well?" says Luttrell, who is naturally the first to recover himself.
"Had you anything to do with this?" asks John, turning almost fiercely
to him.
"Nothing, on my honor."
"He must be near death," says Letitia. Molly is silent, her eyes still
fixed upon the letter. "I think, John--she ought to go."
"Of course she shall go," returns John, a kind of savage jealousy
pricking him. "I can't provide for her after my death. That old man may
be softened by her face or terrified by the near approach of
dissolution into doing her justice. He has neither watched her, nor
tended her, nor loved her; but now that she has come to perfection he
claims her."
"John," cries Molly, with sudden passion, flinging herself into his
arms, "I will not go. No, not one step. What is he to me, that stern
old tyrant, who has refused for nineteen years to acknowledge me? While
you, my dear, my darling, you are my all."
"Nonsense, child!" speaking roughly, although consoled and strengthened
by her caress and loving words. "It is what I have been wishing for all
these years. Of course you must go. It is only right you should be
recognized by your relations, even though it is so late in the day.
Perhaps he will leave you a legacy; and"--smiling--"I think I may
console myself with the reflection that old Amherst will scarcely be
able to cut me out."
"You may, without flattering yourself," says Luttrell.
"Letitia, do you too want to get rid of me?" asks Molly, still half
crying.
"You are a hypocrite," says Letitia; "you know you are dying to go. I
should, were I in your place. Instead of lamenting, you ought to be
thanking your stars for this lucky chance that has befallen you; and
you should be doubly grateful to us for letting you go, as we shall
miss you horribly."
"I shan't stay any time," says Molly, reviving. "I shall be back before
you realize the fact that I have gone. I know in polite society no one
is expected to outstay a month at the very longest."
"You cover me with confusion," says Luttrell, laughing. "Consider what
unmentionable form I have displayed. How long have I outstayed my time?
It is uncommonly good of you, Mrs. Massereene, not to have given me my
_conge_ long ago; but my only excuse is that I have been so
utterly happy. Perhaps you will forgive me when you learn that I must
tear myself away on Thursday."
"Oh! must you?" says Letitia, honestly sorry. Now that the engagement
is _un fait accompli_, and the bridegroom-elect has declared
himself not altogether so insolvent as she had feared, she drops
precautionary measures and gives way to the affection with which she
has begun to regard him. "You are going to Herst also. Why cannot you
stay here to accompany Molly? Her going is barely three weeks distant."
"If I could I would not require much pressing, you can readily believe
that. But duty is imperative, and go I must."
"You did not tell me you were going," says Molly, looking aggrieved.
"How long have you known it?"
"For a week. I could not bear to think about leaving, much less to
speak of it, so full of charms has Brooklyn proved itself,"--with a
smile at Mrs. Massereene,--"but it is an indisputable fact for all
that."
"Well, in spite of Lindley Murray I maintain that life is long," says
Massereene, who has been silent for the past few minutes. "And I need
hardly tell you, Luttrell, you are welcome here whenever you please to
come."
"Thank you, old boy," says Luttrell.
"Come out," whispers Molly, slipping her hand into her lover's (she
minds John and Letitia about as much as she minds the tables and
chairs); "the rain has ceased; and see what a beautiful sun. I have any
amount of things to say to you, and a whole volume of questions to ask
about my detested _grand-pere_. So freshen your wits. But first
before we go"--mischievously, and with a little nod full of reproof--"I
really think you ought to apologize to John for your scandalous
behavior of this morning."
"Molly, I predict this glorious future for you," says her brother:
"that you will be returned to me from Herst Royal in disgrace."
* * * * *
When they have reached the summer-house in the garden, whither they
have wended their way, with a view to shade (as the sun, having been
debarred from shining for so many hours, is now exerting itself to the
utmost to make up for lost time), Luttrell draws from his pocket the
identical parcel delivered to him by Sarah, and, holding it out to
Molly, says, somewhat shamefacedly:
"Here is something for you."
"For me?" coloring with surprise and pleasant expectation. She is a
being so unmistakably delighted with anything she receives, be it small
or great, that it is an absolute joy to give to her. "What is it?"
"Open it and see. I have not seen it myself yet, but I hope it will
please you."
Off comes the wrapper; a little leather case is disclosed, a mysterious
fastener undone, and there inside, in its velvet shelter, lies an
exquisite diamond ring that glistens and flashes up into her enchanted
eyes.
"Oh, Teddy! it cannot be for me," she says, with a little gasp that
speaks volumes; "it is too beautiful. Oh, how good of you to think of
it! And how did you know that if there is one thing on earth which I
love it is a ring? And _such_ a ring! You wicked boy, I do believe
you have spent a fortune on it." Yet in reality she hardly guesses the
full amount of the generous sum that has been so willingly expended on
that glittering hoop.
"I am glad you like it," he says, radiant at her praise. "I think it is
pretty."
"'Pretty' is a poor word. It is far too handsome. I would scold you for
your extravagance, but I have lost the power just now. And do you
know," raising her soft, flushed face to her lover,--"I never had a
ring before in my life, except a very old-fashioned one of my mother's,
an ancient square, you know, with hair in the centre, and all around it
big pearls, that are anything but pearly now, as they have grown quite
black. Thank you a thousand times."
She slips her arm around his neck and presses her lips warmly,
unbashfully to his cheek. Be it ever so cold, so wanting in the shyness
that belongs to conscious tenderness, it is still the very first caress
she has ever given him of her own accord. A little thrill runs through
him, and a mad longing to catch her in his arms, as he feels the sweet,
cool touch; yet he restrains himself. Some innate sense of honor, born
on the occasion, a shrinking lest she should deem him capable of
claiming even so natural a return for his gift, compels him to forego
his desire. It is noticeable, too, that he does not even place the ring
upon her engaged finger, as most men would have done. It is a bauble
meant to gratify her: why make it a fetter, be it ever so light a one?
"I am amply repaid," he says, gently. "Was there ever such luck as your
getting that invitation this morning? I wonder what could have put it
into the old fellow's head to invite you? Are you glad you are going?"
"I am. I almost think it is mean of me to be so glad, but I can't help
it. Is my grandfather so very terrific?"
"He is all of that," says Luttrell, "and a good deal more. If I were an
American I would have no scruples about calling him a 'darned old
cuss': as it is, I will smother my feelings, and let you discover his
failings for yourself."
"If he is as bad as you say, I wonder he gets any one to visit him."
"He does, however. We all go,--generally the same lot every year;
though I have been rather out of it for a time, on account of my short
stay in India. He has first-class shooting; and when he is not in the
way, it is pretty jolly. He hates old people, and never allows a
chaperon inside his doors,--I mean elderly chaperons. The young ones
don't count: they, as a rule, are backward in the art of talking at one
and making things disagreeable all round."
"But he is old himself."
"That's just it. It is all jealousy. He finds every old person he
meets, no matter how unpleasant, a decided improvement on himself;
whereas he can always hope the young ones may turn out his
counterparts."
"Really, if you say much more, I shall be afraid to go to Herst."
"Oh, well"--temporizing--"perhaps I exaggerate slightly. He has a
wretched temper, and he takes snuff, you know, but I dare say there are
worse."
"I have heard of damning praise," says Molly, laughing. "You are an
adept at it."
"Am I? I didn't know. Well, do you know, in spite of all my uncivil
remarks, there is a certain charm about Herst that other country-houses
lack? We all understand our host's little weaknesses, in the first
place, and are, therefore, never caught sleeping. We feel as if we were
at school again, united by a common cause, with all the excitement of a
conspiracy on foot that has a master for its victim; though, to confess
the truth, the master in our case has generally the best of it, as he
has a perfect talent for hitting on one's sore point. Then, too, we
know to a nicety when the dear old man is in a particularly vicious
mood, which is usually at dinner-time, and we keep looking at each
other through every course, wondering on whose devoted head the shell
of his wrath will first burst; and when that is over we wonder again
whose turn it will be next."
"It must keep you very lively."
"It does; and, what is better, it prevents formality, and puts an end
to the earlier stages of etiquette. We feel a sort of relationship, a
clanship among us; and, indeed, for the most part, we are related, as
Mr. Amherst prefers entertaining his family to any others,--it is so
much easier to be unpleasant to them than to strangers. I am connected
with him very distantly through my mother; so is Cecil Stafford; so is
Potts in some undefined way."
"Now, don't tell me you are my cousin," says Molly, "because I wouldn't
like it."
"I am not proud; if you will let me be your husband, I won't ask
anything more. Oh, Molly, how I wish this year was at an end!"
"Do you? I don't. I am absolutely dying to go to Herst." Then, turning
eyes that are rather wistful upon him, she says, earnestly, "Do
they--the women, I mean--wear very lovely clothes? To be like them must
I--be very well dressed?"
"You always are very well dressed, are you not?" asks her lover, in
return, casting a loving, satisfied glance over the fresh, inexpensive
Holland gown she wears, with a charming but strictly masculine
disregard of the fact that muslin is not silk, nor cotton cashmere.
"Am I? You stupid boy!" says Molly; but she laughs in a little pleased
way and pats his hand. Next to being praised herself, the sweetest
thing to a woman is to have her dress praised. "Not I. Well, no matter;
they may crush me if they please with their designs by Worth, but I
defy them to have a prettier ring than mine," smiling at her new toy as
it still lies in the middle of her hand. "Is Herst very large, Teddy?
How shall I remember my own room? It will be so awkward to be forever
running into somebody else's, won't it?"
"Your maid will manage all that for you."
"My maid?" coloring slowly, but still with her eyes on his.
"And--supposing I have no maid?"
"Well, then," says Tedcastle, who has been bred in the belief that a
woman without her maid is as lost as a babe without its mother, "why,
then, I suppose, you would borrow one from your nearest neighbor. Cecil
Stafford would lend you hers. I know my sisters were only allowed one
maid between each two; and when they spent the autumn in different
houses they used to toss up which should have her."
"What does a maid do for one, I wonder?" muses independent Molly.
"I should fancy you could better answer that than I."
"No,--because I never had one."
"Well, neither had I," says Luttrell; at which they both laugh.
"I am afraid," says Molly, in a rather dispirited tone, "I shall feel
rather strange at Herst. I wish you could manage to be there the very
day I arrive,--could you, Teddy? I would not be so lonely if I knew for
certain you would be on the spot to welcome me. It is horrible going
there for--that is--to be inspected."
"I will surely be there a day or two after, but I doubt if I could be
there on the twenty-seventh. You may trust me to do my best."
"I suppose it is--a very grand place," questions Molly, growing more
and more depressed, "with dinner-parties every day, and butlers, and
footmen, and all the rest of it? And I shall be there, a stranger, with
no one to care whether I enjoy myself or not."
"You forget me," says Luttrell, quietly.
"True," returns she, brightening; "and whenever you see me sitting by
myself, Teddy, you are to come over to me, no matter how engaged you
may be, and sit down beside me. If I have any one else with me, of
course you need not mind it."
"I see." Rather dryly. "Two is company, three is trumpery."
"Have I vexed you? How foolish you are! Why, if you are jealous in
imagination, how will it be in reality? There will be many men at
Herst; and perhaps--who knows----"
"What?"
"I may fall in love with some of them."
"Very likely." With studied coolness.
"Philip Shadwell, for instance?"
"It may be."
"Or your Mr. Potts?"
"There is no accounting for tastes."
"Or any one else that may happen to please me?"
"I see nothing to prevent it."
"And what then?"
"Why, then you will forget me, and like him,--until you like some one
else better."
"Now, if I were a dignified young lady," says Molly, "I should feel
insulted; but, being only Molly Bawn, I don't. I forgive you; and I
won't fall in love with any one; so you may take that thunder-cloud off
your brow as soon as it may please your royal highness."
"What do you gain by making me unhappy?" asks he, impetuously seizing
the hand she has extended to him with all the air of an offended but
gracious queen.
"Everything." Laughing. "I delight in teasing you, you look so
deliciously miserable all through; it is never time thrown away upon
you. Now, if you could only manage to laugh at my sallies or tease me
back again, I dare say I should give in in a week and let you rest in
peace ever after. Why don't you?"
"Perhaps because I can't. All people are not gifted with your fertile
imagination. Or because it would give _me_ no pleasure to see
_you_ 'deliciously miserable.'"
"Oh, you _wouldn't_ see that," says Molly, airily. "All you could
say would not suffice to bring even the faintest touch of misery into
my face. Angry I might be, but 'miserable,' never!"
"Be assured, Molly, I shall never put your words to the test. Your
happiness means mine."
"See how the diamonds flash!" says Molly, presently, recurring to her
treasure. "Is this the engagement-finger? But I will not let it stay
there, lest it might betray me."
"But every one knows it now."
"Are John and Letty every one? At Herst they are still in blissful
ignorance. Let them remain so. I insist on our engagement being kept
secret."
"But why?"
"Because if it was known it would spoil all my fun. I have noticed that
men avoid a _fiancee_ as they would a--a rattlesnake."
"I cannot see why being engaged should spoil your fun."
"But it would for all that. Come now, Ted, be candid: how often were
you in love before you met me?"
"Never." With the vehemence of a thousand oaths.
"Well, then, to put it differently, how many girls did you like?"
"Like?" Reluctantly. "Oh, as for that, I suppose I did fancy I liked a
few girls."
"Just so; and I should like to like a few men," says Miss Massereene,
triumphantly.
"You don't know what you are talking about," says Tedcastle, hotly.
"Indeed I do. That is just one of the great points which the defenders
of women's rights forget to expatiate upon. A man may love as often as
he chooses, while a woman must only love once, or he considers himself
very badly used. Why not be on an equal footing? Not that I want to
love any one," says Molly; "only it is the injustice of the thing I
abhor."
"Love any one you choose," says Tedcastle, passionately, springing to
his feet, "Shadwell or any other fellow that comes in your way, I
shan't interfere. It is hardly necessary for you to say you don't 'want
to love one.' Your heart is as cold as ice. It is high time this
engagement--this farce--should come to an end."
"If you wish it," says Molly, quietly, in a subdued tone, yet as she
says it she moves one step--no more--closer to him.
"But I do not wish it; that is my cruel fate!" cries the young man,
taking both her hands and laying them over his heart with a despairing
tenderness. "There are none happy save those incapable of knowing a
lasting affection. Oh, Molly!"--remorsefully--"forgive me. I am
speaking to you as I ought not. It is all my beastly temper; though I
used not to be ill-tempered," says he, with sad wonder. "At home and
among our fellows I was always considered rather easy-going than
otherwise. I think the knowledge that I must part from you on Thursday
(though only for a short time) is embittering me."
"Then you are really sorry to leave me?" questions Molly, peering up at
him from under her straw hat.
"You know I am."
"But very sorry,--desperately so?"
"Yes." Gravely, and with something that is almost tears in his eyes.
"Why do you ask me, Molly? Is it not palpable enough?"
"It is not. You look just the same as ever,--quite as
'easy-going'"--with a malicious pout--"as either your 'home' or your
'fellows' could desire. I quite buoyed myself up with the hope that I
should see you reduced to a skeleton as the last week crept to its
close, and here you are robust and well to do as usual. I call it
unfeeling," says Miss Massereene, reproachfully, "and I don't believe
you care a pin about me."
"Would you like to see me 'reduced to a skeleton'?" asks Luttrell,
reproachfully. "You talk as though you had been done out of something;
but a man may be horribly cut up about a thing without letting all the
world know of it."
"You conceal it with great skill," says Molly, placing her hand beneath
his chin, under a pretense of studying his features, but in reality to
compel him to look at her; and, as it is impossible for any one to gaze
into another's eyes for any length of time without showing emotion of
some kind, presently he laughs.
"Ah!" cries she, well pleased, "now I have made you laugh, your little
attack of the spleens will possibly take to itself wings and fly away."
All through the remainder of this day and the whole of the next--which
is his last--she is sweetness itself to him. Whatever powers of
tormenting she possesses are kept well in the background, while she
betrays nothing but a very successful desire to please.
She wanders with him contentedly through garden and lawn; she sits
beside him; at dinner she directs swift, surreptitious smiles at him
across the flowers; later on she sings to him his favorite songs; and
why she scarcely knows. Perhaps through a coquettish desire to make the
parting harder; perhaps to make his chains still stronger; perhaps to
soothe his evident regret; perhaps (who can say?) because she too feels
that same regret.
And surely to-night some new spirit is awake within her. Never has she
sung so sweetly. As her glorious voice floats through the dimly-lighted
room and out into the more brilliant night beyond, Luttrell, and
Letitia, and John sit entranced and wonder secretly at the great gift
that has been given her.
"If ever words are sweet, what, what is song
When lips we love the melody prolong!"
Molly in every-day life is one thing; Molly singing divinely is
another. One wonders curiously, when hearing her, how anything so gay,
so _debonnaire_ as she, can throw such passion into words, such
thrilling tenderness, such wild and mournful longing.
"Molly," cries John impatiently from the balcony, "I cannot bear to
hear you sing like that. One would think your heart was broken. Don't
do it, child."
And Molly laughs lightly, and bursts into a barcarolle that utterly
precludes the idea of any deep feeling; after which she gives them her
own "Molly Bawn," and then, shutting down the piano, declares she is
tired, and that evidently John doesn't appreciate her, and so she will
sing no more.
Then comes the last morning,--the cruel moment when farewell must be
said.
The dog-cart is at the door; John is good-naturedly busy about the
harness; and, Letitia having suddenly and with suspicious haste
recollected important commands for the kitchen, whither she withdraws
herself, the lovers find themselves alone.
"Hurry, man; you will barely catch it," cries John, from outside,
meaning the train; having calculated to a nicety how long it would take
him to give and receive a kiss, now that he has been married for more
years than he cares to count.
Luttrell, starting at his voice, seizes both Molly's hands.
"Keep thinking of me always," he says, in a low tone, "always, lest at
any moment you forget."
Molly makes him no answer, but slowly raises to him eyes wet with
unshed tears. It is more than he has hoped for.
"Molly," he cries, hurriedly, only too ready to grasp this small bud of
a longed-for affection, "you will be sorry for me? There are tears in
your eyes,--you will _miss_ me? You love me, surely,--a little?"
Once more the lovely dewy eyes meet his; she nods at him and smiles
faintly.
"A little," he repeats, wistfully. (Perhaps he has been assuring
himself of some more open encouragement,--has dreamed of spoken
tenderness, and feels the disappointment.) "Some men," he goes on,
softly, "can lay claim to all the great treasure of their love's heart,
while I--see how eagerly I accept the bare crumbs. Yet, darling,
believe me, your sweet coldness is dearer to me than another woman's
warmest assertion. And later--who knows?--perhaps----"
"Yes, perhaps," says Molly, stirred by his emotion or by some other
stronger sentiment lying deep at the bottom of her heart, "by and by I
may perhaps bore you to death by the violence of my devotion.
Meantime"--standing on tiptoe, and blushing just enough to make her
even more adorable than before, and placing two white hands on his
shoulders--"you shall have one small, wee kiss to carry away with you."
Half in doubt he waits until of her own sweet accord her lips do verily
meet his; and then, catching her in his arms, he strains her to him,
forgetful for the moment of the great fact that neither time nor tide
waits for any man.
"You are not going, I suppose?" calls John, his voice breaking in
rudely upon the harrowing scene. "Shall I send the horse back to the
stables? Here, James,"--to the stable boy,--"take round Rufus; Mr.
Luttrell is going to stay another month or two."
"Remember," says Luttrell, earnestly, still holding her as though loath
to let her go.
"You remind me of Charles the First," murmurs she, smiling through her
tears. "Yes, I will remember _you_, and all you have _said_,
and--_everything_. And more, I shall be longing to see you again.
Now go." Giving him a little push.
Presently--he hardly knows how--he finds himself in the dog-cart, with
John, oppressively cheerful, beside him, and, looking back as they
drive briskly up the avenue, takes a last glance at Brooklyn, with
Molly on the steps, waving her hand to him, and watching his retreating
form with such a regretful countenance as gives him renewed courage.
In an upper window is Letitia, more than equal to the occasion, armed
with one of John's largest handkerchiefs, that bears a strong
resemblance to a young sheet as it flutters frantically hither and
thither in the breeze; while below the two children, Daisy and
Renee,--under a mistaken impression that the hour is festive,--throw
after him a choice collection of old boots much the worse for wear,
which they have purloined with praiseworthy adroitness from under their
nurse's nose.
"Oh, Letty, I do feel so honestly lonely," says Molly, half an hour
later, meeting her sister-in-law on the stairs.
"Do you, dearest?" admiringly. "That is very nice of you. Never mind;
you know you will soon see him again. And let us come and consult about
the dresses you ought to wear at Herst."
"Yes, do let us," returns Miss Massereene, brightening with suspicious
alacrity, and drawing herself up as straight as a young tree out of the
despondent attitude she has been wearing. "That will pass the time
better than anything."
Whereupon Letitia chuckles with ill-suppressed amusement and gives it
as her opinion that "dear Molly isn't as bad as she thinks herself."
* * * * *
John has done his duty, has driven the melancholy young man to the
station, and very nearly out of his wits--by insisting on carrying on a
long and tedious argument that lasts the entire way, waiting
pertinaciously for a reply to every one of his questions.
This has taken some time, more especially as the train was late and the
back drive hilly; yet when at length he reaches his home he finds his
wife and Molly still deep in the mysteries of the toilet.
"Well?" says his sister, as he stands in the doorway regarding them
silently. As she speaks she allows the dejected expression of two hours
ago to return to her features, her lids droop a little over her eyes,
her forehead goes up, the corners of her mouth go down. She is in one
instant a very afflicted Molly. "Well?" she says.
"He isn't well at all," replies John, with a dismal shake of the head
and as near an imitation of Molly's rueful countenance as he can manage
at so short a notice; "he is very bad. I never saw a worse case in my
life. I doubt if he will last out the day. I don't know how you regard
it, but I call it cruelty to animals."
"You need not be unfeeling," says Molly, reproachfully, "and I won't
listen to you making fun of him behind his back. You wouldn't before
his face."
"How do you know?" As though weighing the point. "I never saw him funny
until to-day. He was on the verge of tears the entire way. It was lucky
I was beside him, or he would have drenched the new cushions. For
shame's sake he refrained before me, but I know he is in floods by
this."
"He is not," says Molly, indignantly. "Crying, indeed! What an idea! He
is far too much of a man for that."
"I am a man too," says John, who seems to find a rich harvest of
delight in the contemplation of Luttrell's misery. "And once, before we
were married, when Letitia treated me with disdain, I gave way to my
feelings to such an extent that----"
"Really, John," interposes his wife, "I wish you would keep your stupid
stories to yourself, or else go away. We are very busy settling about
Molly's things."
"What things? Her tea-things,--her playthings? Ah! poor little Molly!
her last nice new one is gone."
"Letty, I hope you don't mind, dear," says Molly, lifting a dainty
china bowl from the table near her. "Let us trust it won't break; but,
whether it does or not, I must and will throw it at John."
"She should at all events have one pretty new silk dress," murmurs
Letitia, vaguely, whose thoughts "are with her heart, and that is far
away," literally buried, so to speak, in the depths of her wardrobe.
"She could not well do without it. Molly,"--with sudden
inspiration,--"you shall have mine. That dove-color always looks pretty
on a girl, and I have only worn it once. It can easily be made to fit
you."
"I wish, Letitia, you would not speak to me like that," says Molly,
almost angrily, though there are tears in her eyes. "Do you suppose I
want to rob you? I have no doubt you would give me every gown you
possess, if I so willed it, and leave yourself nothing. Do remember I
am going to Herst more out of spite and curiosity than anything else,
and don't care in the least how I look. It is very unkind of you to say
such things."
"You are the kindest soul in the world, Letty," says John from the
doorway; "but keep your silk. Molly shall have one too." After which he
decamps.
"That is very good of John," says Molly. "The fact is, I haven't a
penny of my own,--I never have a week after I receive my allowance,--so
I must only do the best I can. If I don't like it, you know, I can come
home. It is a great thing to know, Letty, that _you_ will be glad
to have me, whether I am well dressed or very much the reverse."
"Exactly. And there is this one comfort also, that you look well in
anything. By the bye, you must have a maid. You shall take Sarah, and
we can get some one in until you come back to us. That"--with a
smile--"will prevent your leaving us too long to our own devices. You
will understand without telling what a loss the fair Sarah will be."
"You are determined I shall make my absence felt," says Molly, with a
half-smile. "Really, Letty, I don't like----"
"But I do," says Letty. "I don't choose you to be one whit behind any
one else at Herst. Without doubt they will beat you in the matter of
clothes; but what of that? I have known many titled people have a fine
disregard of apparel."
"So have I," returns Molly, gayly. "Indeed, were I a man, possessed
with a desire to be mistaken for a lord, I would go to the meanest 'old
clo' shop and purchase there the seediest garments and the most
dilapidated hat (with a tendency toward greenness), and a pair of boots
with a patch on the left side, and, having equipped myself in them,
saunter down the 'shady side of Pall Mall' with a sure and certain
conviction that I was 'quite the thing.' Should my ambitious longings
soar as high as a dukedom, I would add to the above costume a patch on
the right boot as well, and--questionable linen."
"Well," says Letitia, with a sigh, "I hope Marcia is a nice girl, and
that she will be kind to you."
"So do I,"--with a shrug,--"but from her writing I am almost sure she
isn't."