"The guests are met, the feast is set;
May'st hear the merry din."
--_Ancient Mariner._
"Teddy is coming to-day," is Molly's first thought next morning, as,
springing from her bed, she patters across the floor in her bare feet
to the window, to see how the weather is going to greet her lover.
"He is coming." The idea sends through her whole frame a little thrill
of protective gladness. How happy, how independent she will feel with
her champion always near her! A sneer loses half its bitterness when
resented by two instead of one, and Luttrell will be a sure partisan.
Apart from all which, she is honestly glad at the prospect of so soon
meeting him face to face.
Therefore it is that with shining eyes and uplifted head she takes her
place at the breakfast-table, which gives the pleasantest meal at
Herst--old Amherst being ever conspicuous by his absence at it.
Philip, too, is nowhere to be seen.
"It will be a _tete-a-tete_ breakfast," says Marcia, with a view
to explanation. "Grandpapa never appears at this hour, nor--of
late--does Philip."
"How unsociable!" says Molly, rather disappointed at the latter's
defection. "Do they never come? All the year round?"
"Grandpapa never. But Philip, I presume, will return to his usual
habits once the house begins to fill,--I mean, when the guests arrive."
"This poor little guest is evidently of small account," thinks Molly,
rather piqued, and, as the thought crosses her mind, the door opens and
Philip comes toward her.
"Good-morning," he says, cheerfully.
"You have breakfasted?" Marcia asks, coldly, in a rather surprised
tone.
"Long since. But I will take a cup of coffee from you now, if you will
allow me."
"I hardly think you deserve it," remarks Molly, turning luminous,
laughing eyes upon him. "Marcia has just been telling me of your bad
habits. Fancy your preferring your breakfast all alone to having it
with----"
"You?" interrupts he, quickly. "I admit your argument; it was bearish;
but I was particularly engaged this morning. You shall not have to
complain of my conduct in the future, however, as I am resolved to mend
my ways. See how you have improved me already."
"Too sudden a reformation, I fear, to be lasting."
"No. It all hinges on the fact that the iron was hot. There is no
knowing what you may not do with me before you leave, if you will only
take the trouble to teach me. Some more toast?"
"No, thank you."
Marcia grows a shade paler, and lets one cup rattle awkwardly against
another. Have they forgotten her very presence?
"I have not much fancy for the _role_ of teacher," goes on Molly,
archly: "I have heard it is an arduous and thankless one. Besides, I
believe you to be so idle that you would disgrace my best efforts."
"Do you? Then you wrong me. On the contrary, you would find me a very
apt pupil,--ambitious, too, and anxious to improve under your tuition."
"Suppose," breaks in Marcia, with deadly civility, "you finish your
_tete-a-tete_ in the drawing-room. We have quite done breakfast, I
think, and one wearies of staring at the very prettiest china after a
bit. Will you be good enough to ring the bell, Philip?"
"Our _tete-a-tete_, as you call it, must be postponed," says
Philip, smiling, rising to obey her order; "I am still busy, and must
return to my work. Indeed, I only left it to pay you a flying visit."
Although his tone includes both women, his eyes rest alone on Molly.
"Then you do actually work, sometimes?" says that young lady, with
exaggerated surprise and uplifted lids.
"Now and then,--occasionally--as little as I can help."
"What a speech, coming from an ambitious pupil!" cries she, gayly. "Ah!
did I not judge you rightly a moment ago when I accused you of
idleness?"
Philip laughs, and disappears, while Molly follows Marcia into a small
drawing-room, a sort of general boudoir, where the ladies of the
household are in the habit of assembling after breakfast, and into
which, sooner or later, the men are sure to find their way.
Marcia settles down to the everlasting macrame work on which she seems
perpetually engaged, while indolent Molly sits calmly, and it must be
confessed very contentedly, with her hands before her.
After a considerable silence, Marcia says, icily:
"I fear you will find Herst Royal dull. There is so little to amuse one
in a house where the host is an invalid. Do you read?"
"Sometimes," says Molly, studying her companion curiously, and putting
on the air of ignorance so evidently expected.
"Yes? that is well. Reading is about the one thing we have to occupy
our time here. In the library you will probably be able to suit yourself.
What will you prefer? an English work? or"--superciliously--"perhaps
French? You are without doubt a French scholar."
"If you mean that I consider myself complete mistress of the French
language," says Molly, meekly, "I must say no."
"Ah! of course not. The remote country parts in which you live afford,
I dare say, few opportunities of acquiring accomplishments."
"We have a National School," says Molly, with increasing mildness, and
an impassive countenance.
"Ah!" says Marcia again. Her look--her tone--say volumes.
"You are very accomplished, I suppose," says Molly, presently, her
voice full of resigned melancholy. "You can paint and draw?"
"Yes, a little."
"And play, and sing?"
"Well, yes," modestly; "I don't sing much, because my chest is
delicate."
"Thin voice," thinks Molly to herself.
"How fortunate you are!" she says aloud. "How I envy you! Why, there is
positively _nothing_ you cannot do! Even that macrame, which seems
to me more difficult than all the other things I have mentioned, you
have entirely mastered. Now, I could not remember all those different
knots to save my life. How clever you are! How attractive men must find
you!" Molly sighs.
A shade crosses Marcia's face. Her eyelids quiver. Although the shaft
(be it said to Molly's praise) was innocently shot, still it reached
her cousin's heart, for has she not failed in attracting the one man
she so passionately loves?
"I really hardly know," Miss Amherst says, coldly. "I--don't go in for
that sort of thing. And you,--do you paint?"
"Oh, no."
"You play the piano, perhaps?"
"I try to, now and then."
("'The Annen Polka,' and on memorable occasions 'The Battle of
Prague,'" thinks Marcia, comfortably.) "You sing," she says.
"I do," with hesitation.
("'Rosalie the Prairie Flower,' and the 'Christy Minstrels' generally,"
concludes Marcia, inwardly.) "That is charming," she says out loud: "it
is so long since we have had any one here with a talent for music."
"Oh," says Molly, biting a little bit off her nail, and then examining
her finger in an embarrassed fashion, "you must not use the word
talented, that implies so much, and I--really you know I---- Why,"
starting to her feet, and regaining all her usual impulsive gayety,
"that is surely Philip walking across the lawn, and he said he was so
busy. Can we not go out, Marcia? The day is so lovely."
"If you want Philip, I dare say one of the servants will bring him to
you," says Marcia, insolently.
* * * * *
Just before luncheon the Darleys arrive. Henry Darley, tall, refined,
undemonstrative; Mrs. Darley, small and silly, with flaxen hair, blue
eyes, pink and white complexion, and a general wax-dollyness about her;
and just such a tiny, foolishly obstinate mouth as usually goes with a
face like hers. She is vain, but never ill-natured, unless it suits her
purpose; frivolous, but in the main harmless; and, although indifferent
to her husband,--of whom she is utterly unworthy,--takes care to be
thoroughly respectable. Full of the desire, but without the pluck, to
go altogether wrong, she skirts around the edges of her pet sins, yet
having a care that all those who pass by shall see her garments free of
stain.
"I understand my husband, and my husband understands me," she is in the
habit of saying to those who will take the trouble to listen; which is
strictly true as regards the latter part of the speech, though perhaps
the former is not so wise an assertion.
With her she brings her only child, a beautiful little boy of six.
She greets Marcia with effusion, and gushes over Molly.
"So glad, dear, so charmed to make your acquaintance. Have always felt
such a deep interest in your poor dear mother's sad but romantic story.
So out of the common as it was, you know, and delightfully odd,
and--and--all that. Of course you are aware there is a sort of
cousinship between us. My father married your----" and so on, and on,
and on.
She talks straight through lunch to any one and every one without
partiality; although afterward no one can remember what it was she was
so eloquent about.
"Tedcastle not come?" she says, presently, catching Marcia's eye. "I
quite thought he was here. What an adorable boy he was! I do hope he is
not changed. If India has altered him, it will be quite too bad."
"He may come yet," replies Marcia; "though I now think it unlikely.
When writing he said to-day, or to-morrow; and with him that always
means to-morrow. He is fond of putting off; his second thoughts are
always his best."
"Always," thinks Molly, angrily, feeling suddenly a keen sense of sure
disappointment. What does she know about him? After all he said on
parting he must, he _will_ come to-day.
Yet somehow, spite of this comforting conclusion, her spirits sink, her
smile becomes less ready, her luncheon grows flavorless. Something
within compels her to believe that not until the morrow shall she see
her lover.
When they leave the dining-room she creeps away unnoticed, and, donning
her hat, sallies forth alone into the pleasant wood that surrounds the
house.
For a mile or two she walks steadily on, crunching beneath her feet
with a certain sense of vicious enjoyment those early leaves that
already have reached death. How very monotonous all through is a big
wood! Trees, grass, sky overhead! Sky, grass, trees.
She pulls a few late wild flowers that smile up at her coaxingly, and
turns them round and round within her fingers, not altogether tenderly.
What a fuss poets, and painters, and such-like, make about flowers,
wild ones especially! When all is said, there is a terrible sameness
about them; the same little pink ones here, the same little blue ones
there; here the inevitable pale yellow, there the pure warm violet.
Well, no doubt there is certainly a wonderful variety--but still----
Looking up suddenly from her weak criticism, she sees coming quickly
toward her--very close to her--Teddy Luttrell.
With a glad little cry, she flings the ill-treated flowers from her and
runs to him with hands outstretched.
"You have come," she cries, "after all! I _knew_ you would;
although she said you wouldn't. Oh, Teddy, I had _quite_ given you
up."
Luttrell takes no notice of this contradictory speech. With his arms
round her, he is too full of the intense happiness of meeting after
separation the beloved, to heed mere words. His eyes are fastened on
her perfect face.
How more than fair she is! how in his absence he has misjudged her
beauty! or is it that she grows in excellence day by day? Not in all
his lover's silent raptures has he imagined her half as lovely as she
now appears standing before him, her hands clasped in his, her face
flushed with unmistakable joy at seeing him again.
"Darling, darling!" he says, with such earnest delight in his tones
that she returns one of his many kisses, out of sheer sympathy. For
though glad as she is to welcome him as a sure ally at Herst, she
hardly feels the same longing for the embrace that he (with his heart
full of her alone) naturally does.
"You look as if you were going to tell me I have grown tall," she says,
amused at his prolonged examination of her features. "John always does,
when he returns from London, with the wild hope of keeping me down.
Have I?"
"How can I tell? I have not taken my eyes from your face yet."
"Silly boy, and I have seen all the disimprovements in you long ago. I
have also seen that you are wearing an entirely new suit of clothes.
Such reckless extravagance! but they are very becoming, and I am fond
of light gray, so you are forgiven. Why did you not come sooner? I have
been _longing_ for you. Oh, Teddy, I don't like Marcia or
grandpapa a bit; and Philip has been absent nearly all the time; you
said you would come early."
"So I did, by the earliest train; you could hardly have left the house
when I arrived, and then I started instantly to find you. My own dear
darling," with a sigh of content, "how good it is to see you again, and
how well you are looking!"
"Am I?" laughing. "So are you, disgracefully well. You haven't a
particle of feeling, or you would be emaciated by this time. Now
confess you did not miss me at all."
"Were I to speak forever, I could not tell you how much. Are you not
'the very eyes of me'?" says the young man, fondly.
"That is a very nonsensical quotation," says Molly, gayly. "Were you to
see with my eyes, just consider how different everything would appear.
Now, for instance, _I_ would never have so far forgotten myself as
to fall so idiotically and ridiculously in love, as you did, with
beautiful Molly Massereene!"
At this little touch of impertinence they both laugh merrily. After
which, with some hesitation, and a rather heightened color, Tedcastle
draws a case from his pocket, and presents it to her.
"I brought you a--a present," he says, "because I know you are fond of
pretty things."
As she opens the case and sees within it, lying on its purple velvet
bed, a large dull gold locket, with a wreath of raised forget-me-nots
in turquoises and enamel on one side, she forms her lips into a round
"Oh!" of admiration and delight, more satisfactory than any words.
"Do you like it? I am so glad! I saw it one day, quite accidentally, in
a window, and at once it reminded me of you. I thought it would exactly
suit you. Do you remember down by the river-side that night, after our
first important quarrel, when I asked you to marry me?"
"I remember," softly.
"You had forget-me-nots in your hands then, and in your dress. I can
never forget you, as you looked at that moment; and those flowers will
ever be associated with you in my mind. Surely they are the prettiest
that grow. I call them 'my sweet love's flower.'"
"How fond you are of me!" she says, wistfully, something like moisture
in her eyes, "and," turning her gaze again upon his gift, "you are too
good: you are always thinking how to please me. There is only one thing
wanting to make this locket perfect," raising her liquid eyes to his
again, "and that is your face inside it."
At which words, you may be sure, Luttrell is repaid over and over again
all the thought and care he has expended on the choosing of the
trinket.
"And so you are not in love with Herst?" he says, presently, as they
move on through the sweet wood, his arm around her.
"With Herst? No, I have no fault to find with Herst; the place is
beautiful. But I confess I do not care about my grandfather or Marcia:
of the two I prefer my grandfather, but that is saying very little.
Philip alone has been very nice to me,--indeed, more than kind."
"More! What does Marcia say to that?"
"Oh, there is nothing between them; I am sure of that. They either hate
each other or else familiarity has bred contempt between them, and they
avoid each other all they can, and never speak unless compelled. For
instance, she says to him, 'Tea or coffee, Philip?' and he makes her a
polite reply; or he says to her, 'Shall I stir the fire for you?' and
she makes _him_ a polite reply. But it can hardly be called a
frantic attachment."
"Like ours?" laughing and bending his tall slight figure to look into
her face.
"In our case you have all the franticness to yourself," she says; but
as she says it she puts her own soft little hand over the one that
encircles her waist, to take the sting out of her words; though why she
said it puzzles even herself: nevertheless there is great truth, in her
remark, and he knows it.
"Then Philip is handsome," she says: "it is quite a pleasure to look at
him. And I admire him very much."
"He _is_ a good-looking fellow," reluctantly, and as though it
were a matter of surprise nature's having bestowed beauty upon Philip
Shadwell, "but surly."
"'Surly!' not to me."
"Oh, of course not to you! A man must be a brute to be uncivil to a
woman. And I don't say he is that," slowly, and as though it were yet
an undecided point whether Philip should be classed with the lower
creation or not. "Do not let your admiration for him go too far,
darling; remember----"
"About that," interrupts she, hurriedly, "you have something to
remember also. Your promise to keep our engagement a dead secret. You
will not break it?"
"I never," a little stiffly, "break a promise. You need not have
reminded me of this one."
Silence.
Glancing up at her companion stealthily, Molly can see his lips are in
a degree compressed, and that for the first time since their reunion
his eyes are turned determinedly from her. Her heart smites her. So
good as he is to her, she has already hurt and wounded him.
With a little caressing, tender movement, she rubs her cheek up and
down against his sleeve for a moment or two, and then says, softly:
"Are you cross with me, Teddy? Don't then. I am so glad, so happy, to
have you with me again. Do not spoil this one good hour by putting a
nasty unbecoming little frown upon your forehead. Come, turn your face
to me again: when you look at me, I know you will smile, for my sake."
"My own darling," says Luttrell, passionately.
* * * * *
The morrow brings new faces, and Herst is still further enlivened by
the arrival of two men from some distant barracks,--one so tall, and
the other so diminutive, as to call for an immediate joke about "the
long and the short of it."
Captain Mottie is a jolly, genial little soul, with a perpetual look on
all occasions as though he couldn't help it, and just one fault, a
fatal tendency toward punning of the weakest description with which he
hopes in vain to excite the risibility of his intimates. Having a mind
above disappointment, however, he feels no depression on marking the
invariable silence that follows his best efforts, and, with a
perseverance worthy of a better cause, only nerves himself for fresh
failures.
Nature, having been unprodigal to him in the matter of height, makes up
for it generously in the matter of breadth, with such lavish generosity,
indeed, that he feels the time has come when, with tears in his eyes, he
must say "no" to his bitter beer.
His chum, Mr. Longshanks (commonly called "Daddy Longlegs," on account
of the length of his lower limbs), is his exact counterpart, being as
silent as the other is talkative; seldom exerting himself, indeed, to
shine in conversation, or break the mysterious quiet that envelops him,
except when he faithfully (though unsmilingly) helps out his friend's
endeavors at wit, by saying "ha! ha!" when occasion calls for it. He
has a red nose that is rather striking and suggests expense. He has
also a weakness for gaudy garments, and gets himself up like a showy
commercial traveler.
They are both related in some far-off manner to their host, though how,
I believe, both he and they would be puzzled to explain. Still, the
relationship beyond dispute is there, which is everything. _Enfin_
they are harmless beings, such as come in useful for padding purposes
in country houses during the winter and autumn seasons, being,
according to their friends' account, crack shots, "A1 at billiards,"
and "beggars to ride."
It is four o'clock. The house is almost deserted. All the men have been
shooting since early morning. Only Molly and Marcia remain in
possession of the sitting-room that overlooks the graveled walk, Mrs.
Darley having accompanied Mr. Amherst in his customary drive.
The sound of wheels coming quickly down the avenue compels Molly to
glance up from the book she is enjoying.
"Somebody is coming," she says to Marcia; and Marcia, rising with more
alacrity than is her wont, says, "It must be Lady Stafford," and goes
into the hall to receive her guest. Molly, full of eager curiosity to
see this cousin of Tedcastle's whose story has so filled her with
interest, rises also, and cranes her neck desperately round the corner
of the window to try and catch a glimspe of her, but in vain, the
unfriendly porch prevents her, and, sinking back into her seat, she is
fain to content herself by listening to the conversation that is going
on in the hall between Marcia and the new arrival.
"Oh, Marcia, is that you?" says a high, sweet voice, with a little
complaining note running through it, and then there is a pause,
evidently filled up by an osculatory movement. "How odiously cool and
fresh you do look! while I--what a journey it has been! and how out of
the way! I really don't believe it was nearly so far the last time.
Have the roads lengthened, or have they pushed the house farther on? I
never felt so done up in my life."
"You do look tired, dear. Better go to your room at once, and let me
send you up some tea."
"Not tea," says the sweet voice; "anything but _that_. I am quite
too far gone for _tea_. Say sherry, Marcia, or--no,--Moselle. I
think it is Moselle that does me good when I am fatigued to death."
"You shall have it directly. Matthews, show Lady Stafford her room."
"One moment, Marcia. Many people come yet? Tedcastle?"
"Yes, and Captain Mottie, with his devoted attendant, and the Darleys."
"Maudie? Is she as fascinating as ever? I do hope, Marcia, you have got
her young man for her this time, as she was simply unbearable last
year."
"I have not," laughing: "it is a dead secret, but the fact is, he
_wouldn't come_."
"I like that young man; though I consider he has sold us shamefully.
Any one else?"
"My cousin, Eleanor Massereene."
"_The_ cousin! I am so glad. Anything new is such a relief. And I
have heard she is beautiful: is she?"
"Beauty is in the eye of the beholder," quotes Marcia, in a low tone,
and with a motion of her hand toward the open door inside which sits
Molly, that sends Lady Stafford up-stairs without further parley.
"Is it Lady Stafford?" asks Molly, as Marcia re-enters the room.
"Yes."
"She seems very tired."
"I don't know, really. She thinks she is,--which amounts to the same
thing. You will see her in half an hour or so as fresh as though
fatigue were a thing unknown."
"How does she do it?" asks Molly, curiously, who has imagined Lady
Stafford by her tone to be in the last stage of exhaustion.
"How can I say? I suppose her maid knows."
"Why? Does she--paint?" asks Molly, with hesitation, who has been
taught to believe that all London women are a mixture of false hair,
rouge, pearl powder, and belladonna.
"Paint!" with a polite disgust, "I should hope not. If you are a judge
in that matter you will be able to see for yourself. I know nothing of
such things, but I don't think respectable women paint."
"But," says Molly, who feels a sudden anger at her tone, and as sudden
a desire to punish her for her insolence, opening her blue eyes
innocently wide, "_you_ are respectable, Marcia?"
"What do you mean by that?" growing pale with anger, even through that
delicate _soupcon_ of color that of late she has been compelled to
use to conceal her pallor. "Do you mean to insinuate that _I_
paint?"
"I certainly thought you did," still innocent, still full of wonder:
"you said----"
"I would advise you for the future to restrain such thoughts:
experience will teach you they show want of breeding. In the meantime,
I beg you to understand that I do _not_ paint."
"Oh, Marcia!"
"You are either extremely impertinent or excessively ignorant, or
both!" says Marcia, rising to her full height, and turning flashing
eyes upon her cousin, who is regarding her with the liveliest reproach.
"I insist on knowing what you mean by your remarks."
"Why, have you forgotten all about those charming water-color sketches
in the small gallery up-stairs?" exclaims Molly, with an airy
irrepressible laugh. "There, don't be angry: I was only jesting; no one
would for a moment suspect you of such a disreputable habit."
"Pray reserve your jests for those who may appreciate them," says Miss
Amherst, in a low angry tone: "I do not. They are as vulgar as they are
ill-timed."
"But I took a good rise out of her all the same," says Molly to
herself, as she slips from the room full of malicious laughter.
Before dinner--not sooner--Lady Stafford makes her appearance, and
quite dazzles Molly with her beauty and the sweetness of her manner.
She seems in the gayest spirits, and quite corroborates all Marcia has
said about her exhibiting no symptoms of fatigue. Her voice, indeed,
still retains its sad tone, but it is habitual to her, and does not
interfere with the attractive liveliness of her demeanor, but only adds
another charm to the many she already possesses.
She is taller than Tedcastle has led Molly to believe, and looks even
smaller than she really is. Her eyelids droop at the corners, and give
her a pensive expression that softens the laughter of her blue eyes.
Her nose is small and clever, her mouth very merry, her skin exquisite,
though devoid of the blue veins that usually go with so delicate a
white, and her hair is a bright, rich gold. She is extremely lovely,
and, what is far better, very pleasing to the eye.
"I am much better," she says, gayly, addressing Marcia, and then,
turning to Molly, holds out to her a friendly hand.
"Miss Massereene, I know," she smiles, looking at her, and letting a
pleased expression overspread her features as she does so. "Marcia told
me of your arrival; I have heard of you also from other people; but
their opinion I must reserve until I have become your friend. At all
events, they did not lie in their description. No, you must not
cross-examine me; I will not tell what they said."
She is a decided addition to the household; they all find her so. Even
Mr. Longshanks brightens up, and makes a solitary remark at dinner;
but, as nobody catches it, he is hardly as unhappy as otherwise
assuredly he would have been.
After dinner she proves herself as agreeable in the drawing-room
(during that wretched half-hour devoid of men) as she had been when
surrounded by them, and chatters on to Marcia and Molly of all things
possible and impossible.
Presently, however, the conversation drifting toward people of whose
existence Molly has hitherto been unaware, she moves a little apart
from the other two, and amuses herself by turning over a book of
Byron's beauties; while wishing heartily those stupid men would weary
of their wine,--vain wish!
By degrees the voices on the other sofa wax fainter and fainter, then
rise with sudden boldness, as Marcia, secure in her French--says in
that language, evidently in answer to some remark, "No; just conceive
it,--she is totally uneducated, that is, in the accepted meaning of the
word. The very morning after her arrival she confessed to me she knew
nothing of French, nothing to signify of music, nothing, in fact, of
anything."
"But her air, her whole bearing,--it is inconceivable," says Lady
Stafford. "She must have had some education surely."
"She spoke of a National School! Consider the horror of it! I expect
her brother must be a very low sort of person. If she can read and
write it is as much as we need hope for. That is the worst of living in
one of those petty villages, completely out of society."
"What a pity, with her charming face and figure!" says Lady Stafford,
also (I regret to say) so far forgetting herself as to speak in the
language she believes falsely to be unknown to Molly.
"Yes, she is rather pretty," admits Marcia, against her will; "but
beauty when attached to ignorance is only a matter of regret, as it
seems to me."
"True," says Lady Stafford, pityingly, letting her eyes fall on Molly.
The latter, whose own eyes have been fixed vacantly on some distant and
invisible object outside in the dark garden, now rises, humming softly,
and going toward the window presses her forehead against one of the
cool panes. So stationed, she is out of sight and hearing.
The door opens, and the men come in by twos. Luttrell makes straight
for Molly, and as an excuse for doing so says out loud:
"Miss Massereene, will you sing us something?"
"I don't sing," returns Molly, in a distinct and audible tone,--audible
enough to make Marcia raise her shoulders and cast an "I told you so"
glance at Cecil Stafford.
Luttrell, bewildered, gazes at Molly.
"But----" he commences, rashly.
"I tell you I don't sing," she says, again, in a lower, more imperative
tone, although even now she repents her of the ill-humor that has
balked her of a revenge so ready to her hand. To sing a French song,
with her divine voice, before Marcia! A triumph indeed!
All night long the conversation between her cousin and Lady Stafford
rankles in her mind. What a foolish freak it was her ever permitting
Marcia to think of her as one altogether without education! Instinct
might have told that her cousin would not scruple about applying such
knowledge to her disadvantage. And yet why is Marcia her enemy? How has
she ever injured her? With what purpose does she seek to make her visit
unpleasant to her?
And to speak contemptuously of her to Lady Stafford, of all people,
whom already she likes well enough to covet her regard in return,--it
is too bad. Not for worlds would she have had her think so poorly of
her.
At all events she will lose no time in explaining, on the morrow; and
with this determination full upon her she retires to rest, with some
small comfort at her heart.