"Music hath charms."
"May I come in?" says Molly, next day, knocking softly at Lady
Stafford's door.
"By all means," returns the plaintive voice from within; and Molly,
opening the door, finds Cecil has risen, and is coming forward eagerly
to meet her.
"I knew your voice," says the blonde, gayly. "Come in and sit down, do.
I am _ennuyee_ to the last degree, and will accept it as a
positive charity if you will devote half an hour to my society."
"But you are sure I am not in the way?" asks Molly, hesitating; "you
are not--busy?"
"Busy! Oh, what a stranger I am to you, my dear," exclaims Cecil,
elevating her brows: "it is three long years since last I was busy. I
am sure I wish I were: perhaps it might help me to get through the
time. I have spent the last hour wondering what on earth brought me to
this benighted spot, and I really don't know yet."
"Grandpapa's invitation, I suppose," says Molly, laughing.
"Well, yes, perhaps so; and something else,--something that I verily
believe brings us all!--the fact that he has untold money, and can
leave it where he pleases. There lies the secret of our yearly
visitations. We outsiders don't of course hope to be the heir,--Philip
is that, or Marcia, or perhaps both; but still there is a good deal of
ready money going, and we all hope to be 'kindly remembered.' Each time
we sacrifice ourselves by coming down here, we console ourselves by the
reflection that it is at least another hundred tacked on to our
legacy."
"What if you are disappointed?"
"I often think of that," says her ladyship, going off into a perfect
peal of laughter. "Oh, the fun it would be! Think of our expressions. I
assure you I spend whole hours picturing Maud Darley's face under the
circumstances; you know she takes those long drives with him every day
in the fond hope of cutting us all out and getting the lion's share."
"Poor woman! it is sad if she has all her trouble for nothing. I do not
think I should like driving with grandpapa."
"I share your sentiments: neither should I. Still, there is a charm in
money. Every night before going to bed I tot up on my fingers the
amount of the bequest I feel I ought to receive. It has reached two
thousand pounds by this. Next visit will commence a fresh thousand."
"You are sanguine," says Molly. "I wonder if I shall go on hoping like
you, year after year."
"I request you will not even insinuate such a thing," cries Lady
Stafford in pretended horror. "'Year after year!' Why, how long do you
mean him to live? If he doesn't die soon, I shall certainly throw up my
chance and cut his acquaintance." Then, with sudden self-reproach,
"Poor old fellow," she says, "it is a shame to speak of him like this
even in jest. He may live forever, as far as I am concerned. Now tell
me something about yourself, and do take a more comfortable chair: you
don't look half cozy."
"Don't make me too comfortable, or perhaps I shall bore you to death
with the frequency of my visits. You will have me again to-morrow if
you don't take care."
"Well, I hope so. Remember you have _carte blanche_ to come here
whenever you choose. I was fast falling into the blues when I heard you
knock, so you may fancy how welcome you were, almost as welcome as my
cousin."
"Marcia?" asks Molly, feeling slightly disappointed at the "almost."
"Oh, dear, no,--not Marcia; she and I don't get on a bit too well
together, and she was excessively disagreeable all this morning: she is
her grandfather's own child. I am sure she need not visit Philip's
defection on me; but she has a horrible temper, and that's the truth.
No, I meant Tedcastle; he is my cousin also. I do so like Tedcastle:
don't you?"
"Very much indeed," coloring faintly. "But," hastily, "I have not yet
told you what brought me here to-day."
"Do you mean to tell me you had an object in coming?" cries her
ladyship, throwing up her little white jeweled hands in affected
reproach. "That something keener than a desire for my society has
brought you to my boudoir? You reduce me to despair! I did for one
short quarter of an hour believe you 'loved me for myself alone.'"
"No," laughing, and blushing, too, all through her pale clear skin, "I
confess to the object. I--the fact is--I have felt a little deceitful
ever since last night. Because--in spite of Marcia's superior
information on the subject, I have had some slight education, and I
_do_ know a little French!"
"Ah!" cries Lady Stafford, rising and blushing herself, a vivid
crimson: "you heard, you understood all. Well," with a sudden revival,
and a happy remembrance of her own words, "I didn't say anything bad,
did I?"
"No, no: I would not have come here if you had. You said all there was
of the kindest. You were _so_ kind. I could not bear to deceive
you or let you retain a false opinion of me. Marcia, indeed, outdid
herself, though I am guiltless of offense toward her. She is evidently
not aware of the fact that one part of my life was spent in London with
my aunt, my father's sister, and that while with her I had the best
masters to be found. I am sorry for Marcia, but I could not bring
myself to speak just then."
Cecil burst into a merry, irresistible laugh.
"It is delicious!" cries she, wickedly. "A very comedy of errors. If we
could but manage some effective way of showing Marcia her mistake. Can
you," with sudden inspiration, "sing?"
"I can," says Molly, calmly.
"You can. That sounds promising. I wonder you don't say 'a little,' as
all young ladies do, more especially when they sing a good deal more
than any one wants them to! Come here, and let me see what you mean by
that uncompromising 'can.'"
Opening a small cottage piano at the other end of her pretty
sitting-room, she motions Molly to the instrument.
"Play for me," Molly says, bent on doing her very best. "I can sing
better standing."
"What, then?"
"This," taking up a song of Sullivan's, after a rapid survey of the
pile of music lying on one side.
She sings, her lovely voice thrilling and sobbing through the room,
sings with a passionate desire to prove her powers, and well succeeds.
For a minute after she has finished, Cecil does not speak, and then
goes into raptures, as "is her nature to."
"Oh that I had your voice!" cries she, with genuine tears in her eyes.
"I would have the world at my feet. What a gift! a voice for a goddess!
Molly--may I call you so?--I absolutely pity Marcia when I think of her
consternation."
"She deserves it," says Molly, who feels her cousin's conduct deeply.
"I will sing to-night, if you will get Marcia to ask me."
So the two conspirators arrange their little plan, Cecil Stafford being
quite mischievous enough to enjoy the thought of Miss Amherst's
approaching discomfiture, while Molly feels all a woman's desire to
restore her hurt vanity.
* * * * *
Dinner is half over; and so far it has been highly successful. Mr.
Amherst's temper has taken this satisfactory turn,--he absolutely
refuses to speak to any of his guests.
Under these circumstances every one feels it will be the better part of
valor not to address him,--all, that is, except Mrs. Darley, who,
believing herself irresistible, goes in for the doubtful task of
soothing the bear and coaxing him from his den.
"I am afraid you have a headache, dear Mr. Amherst," she says, beaming
sweetly upon him.
"Are you, madam? Even if I were a victim to that foolish disorder, I
hardly see why the fact should arouse a feeling of terror in your
breast. Only weak-minded girls have headaches."
A faint pause. Conversation is languishing, dying, among the other
guests; they smell the fight afar, and pause in hungry expectation of
what is surely coming.
"I pity any one so afflicted," says Mrs. Darley, going valiantly to her
death: "I am a perfect martyr to them myself." Here she gives way to a
little sympathetic sigh, being still evidently bent on believing him
weighed down with pain heroically borne.
"Are you?" says Mr. Amherst, with elaborate politeness. "You astonish
me. I should never have thought it. Rheumatism, now, I might. But how
old are you, madam?"
"Well, really," says Mrs. Darley, with a pretty childish laugh which
she rather cultivates, being under the impression that it is
fascinating to the last degree, "asking me so suddenly puts the precise
day I was born out of my head. I hardly remember--exactly--when----"
Conversation has died. Every one's attention is fixed; by experience
they know the end is nigh.
"Just so; I don't suppose you could, it happened such a long time ago!"
says this terrible old man, with an audible chuckle, that falls upon a
silent and (must it be said?) appreciative audience.
Mrs. Darley says no more; what is there left to say? and conversation
is once more taken up, and flows on as smoothly as it can, when
everybody else is talking for a purpose.
"_Is_ she old?" Molly asks Philip, presently, in a low tone, when
the buzz is at its highest; "very old, I mean? She looks so babyish."
"How old would you say?" speaking in the same guarded tone as her own,
which has the effect of making Luttrell and Marcia believe them deep in
a growing flirtation.
"About twenty-two or three."
"She does it uncommonly well then," says Philip, regarding Mrs. Darley
with much admiration,--"uncommonly well; her maid must be a treasure."
"But why? Is she older than that?"
"I don't know, I am sure," says Philip, unkindly, with an amused smile.
"She used to be my age, but I haven't the faintest idea in the world
what she is--now!"
After one or two more playful sallies on the part of their host,--for
having once found his tongue he takes very good care to use it, and
appears fatally bent on making his hearers well aware of its
restoration,--the ladies adjourn to the drawing-room, where Mrs. Darley
instantly retires behind her handkerchief and gives way to a gentle
sob.
"That detestable old man!" she says, viciously; "how I hate him! What
have I done, that he should treat me with such exceeding rudeness? One
would think I was as old as--as--Methuselah! Not that his mentioning my
age puts me out in the least,--why should it?--only his manner is so
offensive!"
And as she finishes she rolls up the corners of her handkerchief into a
little point, and carefully picks out, one by one, the two tears that
adorn her eyes, lest by any chance they should escape, and, running
down her cheeks, destroy the evening's painting.
"Don't distress yourself about it, Maud," says Lady Stafford, kindly,
although strongly divided between pity for the angry Maud and a growing
desire to laugh; "nobody minds him: you know we all suffer in turn.
Something tells me it will be my turn next, and then you will indeed
see a noble example of fortitude under affliction."
There is no time for more; the door opens and the men come in, more
speedily to-night than is their wont, no doubt driven thereto by the
amiability of Mr. Amherst.
Maud suppresses the tell-tale handkerchief, and puts on such a sweet
smile as utterly precludes the idea of chagrin. The men, with the usual
amount of bungling, fall into their places, and Cecil seizes the
opportunity to say to Marcia, in a low tone:
"You say Miss Massereene sings. Ask her to give us something now. It is
so slow doing nothing all the evening, and I feel Mr. Amherst is bent
on mischief. Besides, it is hard on you, expecting you to play all the
night through."
"I will ask her if you wish it," Marcia says, indifferently, "but
remember, you need not look for a musical treat. I detest bad singing
myself."
"Oh, anything, anything," says Cecil, languidly sinking back into her
chair.
Thus instigated, Marcia does ask Molly to sing.
"If you will care to hear me," Molly answers, coldly rather than
diffidently, and rising, goes to the piano.
"Perhaps there may be something of mine here that you may know," Marcia
says, superciliously, pointing to the stand; but Molly, declaring that
she can manage without music, sits down and plays the opening chords of
Gounod's "Berceuse."
A moment later, and her glorious voice, rarely soft, and sweet as a
child's, yet powerful withal, rings through the room, swells, faints,
every note a separate delight, falling like rounded pearls from her
lips.
A silence--truest praise of all--follows. One by one the talkers cease
their chatter; the last word remains a last word; they forget the
thought of a moment before.
A dead calm reigns, while Molly sings on, until the final note drops
from her with lingering tenderness.
Even then they seem in no hurry to thank her; almost half a minute
elapses before any one congratulates her on the exquisite gift that has
been given her.
"You have been days in the house, and never until now have let us hear
you," Philip says, leaning on the top of the piano; he is an enthusiast
where music is concerned. "How selfish! how unkind! I could hardly have
believed it of you."
"Was I ever asked before?" Molly says, raising her eyes to his, while
her fingers still run lightly over the notes.
"I don't know. I suppose it never occurred to us, and, as you may have
noticed, there is a dearth of graciousness among us. But for you to
keep such a possession a secret was more than cruel. Sing again."
"I must not monopolize the piano: other people can sing too."
"Not like you." He pauses, and then says, slowly, "I used to think
nature was impartial in the distribution of her gifts,--that, as a
rule, we all received pretty much the same amount of good at her hands;
to one beauty, to another talent, and so on; but I was wrong: she has
her favorites, it appears. Surely already you had had more than your
share, without throwing in your perfect voice."
Molly lowers her eyes, but makes no reply; experience has taught her
that this is one of the occasions on which "silence is golden."
"You sing yourself, perhaps?" she says, presently, when she has tired
of waiting for him to start a subject.
"Occasionally. Will you sing this with me?" taking up a celebrated duet
and placing it before her. "Do you know it?"
"Yes, Mr. Luttrell and I used to sing it often at Brooklyn: it was a
great favorite of ours."
"Oh, that! Indeed!" laying it aside with suspicious haste. "Shall we
try something else?"
"And why something else?" composedly. "Does that not suit your voice?
If it does, I will sing it with you with pleasure."
"Really?" regarding her closely, with what is decidedly more than
admiration in his gaze. "Are there no recollections hidden in that
song?"
"How can I tell? I never saw that particular edition before. Open it,
and let us see," returns Molly, with a merry laugh. "Who knows what we
may find between the pages?"
"If I might only believe you," he says, earnestly, still only half
convinced. "Do you mean to tell me Luttrell spent an entire month with
you, and left you heart-whole? I cannot believe it."
"Then don't," still laughing.
At this instant, Luttrell, who has with moody eyes been watching
Philip's eager face from the other end of the room, saunters up, and
seeing the old well-remembered duet lying open before Molly, suddenly
thinks it may be there for him, and cheering up, says pleasantly:
"Are you going to sing it with me?"
"Not to-night," Molly replies, kindly; "Philip has just asked me to
sing it with him. Some other time."
"Ah!" says Luttrell, more wounded than he cares to confess; for is not
that very song endeared to him by a thousand memories? and turning on
his heel, he walks away.
With a little impulsive gesture Molly rises from the piano-stool, and,
without again looking at Philip, moves across the room to the seat she
had originally vacated. As she does so she passes close by Marcia, who,
ever since her cousin's voice first sounded in her ears, has been
sitting silent, now pale, now red.
She stays Molly by a slight movement of the hand, and says, coldly:
"I thought you told me you could neither sing nor understand French?"
"I don't think I could have said quite that," Molly replies, quietly;
"I told you I sang a little; it is not customary to laud one's own
performances."
"You are a clever actress," says Marcia, so low as to be unheard by all
but Molly: "with such a voice as yours, and such masterly command of
all emotion and expression, you should make the stage your home."
"Perhaps I shall find your hint useful in the future," says Molly, with
a slight shrug of her shoulders: "when one is poor it is always well to
know there is something one can put one's hand to when things come to
the worst; but at present I feel sufficiently at home where I am. I am
glad," calmly, "my singing pleased you,--if, indeed, it did."
"You sing magnificently," Marcia says, aloud, giving her meed of praise
justly, but unwillingly.
"And such a charming song as that is!" breaks in Mrs. Darley: "I
remember hearing it for the first time, just after my marriage; indeed,
while we were yet enjoying our wedding tour. Do you remember it,
dearest?" As she murmurs the tender words, she turns upon her lord two
azure eyes so limpid and full of trust and love that any man ignorant
of the truth would have sworn by all his gods her desire was with her
husband, whereas every inch of heart she possesses has long since been
handed over to a man in the Horse Guards Blue.
"Humph!" says Henry Darley, eloquently; and without further rejoinder
goes on with the game of chess he is playing with Mr. Amherst.
"Let us have something else, Eleanor," her grandfather says, looking up
for an instant from his beloved queens and kings and castles; "another
song."
This is such a wonderful request coming from Mr. Amherst, who is known
to abhor Marcia's attempts, that every one looks surprised.
"Willingly, grandpapa," says Molly, and, going once more to the piano,
gladly puts the obnoxious duet away, feeling sure its appearance has
caused Tedcastle's annoyance. "Though if he is going to be jealous so
early in the game as this," thinks she, "I don't fancy I shall have an
altogether festive time of it."
"What shall it be?" she asks, aloud.
"Nothing Italian, at all events," says Mr. Amherst (all Marcia's
endeavors are in that language); "I like something I can understand,
and I hate your runs and trills."
"I will sing you my own song," says Molly, gayly, and gives them "Molly
Bawn" deliciously.
"How pretty that is!" says Lady Stafford; "and so wild,--quite Irish!
But your name, after all, is Eleanor, is it not?"
"There is, I believe, a tradition in the family to that effect," says
Molly, smiling, "but it is used up, and no one now pays to it the least
attention. I myself much prefer Molly. I am always called Molly Bawn at
home."
Her voice lingers on the word "home." In an instant, amidst all the
luxuries and charms of this beautiful drawing-room at Herst, her mind
goes back to the old, homely, beloved sanctum at Brooklyn, where she
sees John, and Letty, and all the happy, merry, good-hearted children,
harmoniously mixed up together.
"It is a pity," says Mr. Amherst, purposely, seeing an opening for one
of his cheerful remarks, "that everything about Ireland should be so
wretchedly low."
"It _is_ swampy," replies Miss Molly, promptly.
At this dangerous moment the door is thrown wide open, and a servant
announces "Mr. Potts."
The effect is electric. Everybody looks up, and pleased, and glad;
while the owner of this euphonious name comes forward, and, having
shaken hands with Marcia, turns to old Amherst.
"How d'ye do, sir?" he says, heartily. "I hope you are better."
"Do you?" says Mr. Amherst, unamiably, feeling still a keen regret that
the neat retort intended for Molly must wait another occasion. "I would
believe you if I could, but it isn't in human nature. Yes, I am better,
thank you; much better. I dare say with care I shall last this winter,
and probably the next, and perhaps outlive a good many of you." He
chuckles odiously as he winds up this pleasing speech.
Mr. Potts, rather taken aback, mutters something inaudible, and turns
to Lady Stafford, who receives him warmly.
He is a young man of about twenty-four (though he might, in appearance,
be any age from that to forty-four), and is short rather than tall. His
eyes are gray, small, and bright, and full of fun, bespeaking
imperturbable good humor.
His hair is red. It is hair that admits of no compromise; it is neither
auburn, golden, nor light brown--it is a distinct and fiery red. His
nose is "poor, but honest," and he has a thorough and most apparent
appreciation of himself.
As I said before, Lady Stafford greets him warmly; he is one of her
special pets.
"How are you getting on?" he asks, mysteriously, when the first
questions and answers have been gone through. "Old boy evidently worse
than ever. The wine theory would not suit his case; age does anything
but improve him. He has gone to the bad altogether. I suppose you've
been putting in an awful bad time of it?"
"We have, indeed," says Lady Stafford; "he has been unbearable all
through dinner, though he was pretty well yesterday. I think myself it
must be gout; every twinge brings forth a caustic speech."
By this time every one had shaken hands with the newcomer, and welcomed
him heartily. He seems specially pleased to see Tedcastle.
"Luttrell! you here? Never had a hint of it. So glad to see you, old
man! Why, you're looking as fit as even your best friend could wish
you."
"Meaning yourself," says Luttrell. "Now, let's have a look at you. Why,
Planty, what an exquisite get up! New coat and--etc. latest tie, and
diamonds _ad lib_. Quite coquettish, upon my word. Who gave you
the diamonds, Potts? Your mother?"
"No; I got tired of hinting there," says Potts, ingenuously, "so gave
it up, and bought 'em myself. They are fetching, I take it. Luttrell,
who is the girl at the piano? Never saw anything so lovely in all my
life."
"Miss Massereene."
"Indeed! Been received, and all that? Well, there's been nothing this
season to touch on her. Introduce me, Ted, do!"
He is introduced. And Molly, smiling up at him one of her own
brightest, kindliest smiles, makes him then and there her slave
forever. On the spot, without a second's delay, he falls head over ears
in love with her.
By degrees he gets back to Lady Stafford, and sinks upon the sofa
beside her. I say "sinks" unadvisedly; he drops upon the sofa, and very
nearly makes havoc of the springs in doing so.
"I want to tell you who I saw in town the day before I left--a week
ago," he says, cautiously.
"A week ago! And have you been ever since getting here?"
"No; I did it by degrees. First, I went down to the Maplesons', and
spent two days there--very slow, indeed; then I got on to the Blouts',
and found it much slower there; finally, I drove to Talbot Lowry's
night before last, and stayed there until this evening. You know he
lives only three miles from here."
"He is at home now, then?"
"Yes. He always _is_ at home, I notice, when--you are here!"
"No!" says Cecil, with a little faint laugh. "You don't say so! what a
remarkable coincidence!"
"An annual coincidence. But you don't ask me who it was I saw in
London. Guess."
"The Christy Minstrels, without doubt. They never perform out of
London, so I suppose are the only people in it now."
"Wrong. There was one other person--Sir Penthony Stafford!"
"Really!" says Cecil, coloring warmly, and sitting in a more upright
position. "He has returned, then? I thought he was in Egypt."
"So he was, but he has come back, looking uncommon well, too--as brown
as a berry. To my thinking, as good a fellow to look at as there is in
England, and a capital fellow all round into the bargain!"
"Dear me!" says Cecil. "What a loss Egypt has sustained! And what a
partisan you have become! May I ask," suppressing a pretended yawn
behind her perfumed fan, "where your _rara avis_ is at present
hiding?"
"I asked him," says Mr. Potts, "but he rather evaded the question."
* * * * *
"And is _that_ your Mr. Potts?" asks Molly, finding herself close
to Tedcastle, speaking with heavy and suspicious emphasis.
"Yes," Tedcastle admits, coloring slightly as he remembers the glowing
terms in which he has described his friend. "Don't you--eh, don't you
like him?"
"Oh! like him? I cannot answer that yet; but," laughing, "I certainly
don't admire him."
And indeed Mr. Potts's beauty is not of the sort to call forth raptures
at first sight.
"I have seen many different shades of red in people's hair," says
Molly, "but I have never seen it rosy until now. Is it dyed? It is the
most curious thing I ever looked at."
As indeed it is. When introduced to poor Potts, when covering him with
a first dispassionate glance, one thinks not of his pale gray orbs, his
large good-humored mouth, his freckles, or his enormous nose, but only
of his hair. Molly is struck by it at once.
"He is a right good fellow," says Luttrell, rather indignantly, being
scarcely in the mood to laugh at Molly's sarcasms.
"He may be," is her calm reply, "but if I were he, rather than go
through life with that complexion and that unhappy head, I would commit
suicide."
Then there is a little more music. Marcia plays brilliantly enough, but
it is almost impossible to forget during her playing that she has had
an excellent master. It is not genuine, or from the heart. It is
clever, but it is acquired, and falls very flatly after Molly's perfect
singing, and no one in the room feels this more acutely than Marcia
herself.
Then Luttrell, who has a charming voice, sings for them something
pathetic and reproachful, you may be sure, as it is meant for Molly's
ears; and then the evening is at an end, and they all go to their own
rooms.
What a haven of rest and security is one's own room! How instinctively
in grief or joy one turns to it, to hide from prying eyes one's inmost
thoughts, one's hopes, and despairs!
To-night there are two sad hearts at Herst; Marcia's, perhaps, the
saddest, for it is full of that most maddening, most intolerable of all
pains, jealousy.
For hours she sits by her casement, pondering on the cruelty of her
fate, while the unsympathetic moon pours its white rays upon her.
"Already his love is dead," she murmurs, leaning naked arms upon the
window-sill, and turning her lustrous southern eyes up to the skies
above her. "Already. In two short months. And how have I fallen short?
how have I lost him? By over-loving, perhaps. While she, who does not
value it, has gained my all."
A little groan escapes her, and she lets her dark head sink upon her
outstretched arms. For there is something in Philip's eyes as they rest
on Molly, something undefined, hardly formed, but surely there, that
betrays to Marcia the secret feeling, of which he himself is scarcely
yet aware.
One hardly knows how it is, but Molly, with a glance, a gesture, three
little words pointed by a smile from the liquid eyes, can draw him to
her side. And when a man of his cold, reserved nature truly loves, be
sure it is a passion that will last him his life.
Tedcastle, too, is thoroughly unhappy to-night. His honest, unprying
mind, made sharp by "love's conflict," has seen through Philip's
infatuation, and over his last cigar before turning in (a cigar that
to-night has somehow lost half its soothing properties) makes out with
a sinking of the heart what it all means.
He thinks, too, yet upbraids himself for so thinking, that Miss
Massereene must see that Philip Shadwell, heir to Herst and twenty
thousand pounds a year, is a better catch than Teddy Luttrell, with
only his great love for her, and a paltry six hundred pounds a year.
Is it not selfish of him to seek to keep her from what is so evidently
to her advantage? Perhaps he ought to throw up his engagement, and,
passing out of her life, leave her to reap the "good the gods provide."
In vain he tries to argue himself into this heroic frame of mind. The
more he tries, the more obnoxious grows the idea. He cannot, he will
not give her up.
"Faint heart," says Teddy, flinging the remnant of his cigar with
fierce determination into the grate, "never won fair lady; she is mine,
so far, the fairest darling that ever breathed, and be it selfish or
otherwise, keep her I will if I can."
But he sighs as he utters the word "can," and finds his couch, when at
length he does seek it, by no means a bed of roses.
While Molly, the pretty cause of all this heart-burning, lies in
slumber, soft and sweet, and happy as can be, with her "red, red" lips
apart and smiling, her breathing pure and regular as a little child's,
and all her "nut-brown" hair like a silken garment round her.
Cecil Stafford, walking leisurely up and down her apartment, is feeling
half frightened, half amused, at the news conveyed to her by Mr. Potts,
of her husband's arrival in England. Now, at last, after these three
years, she may meet him at any moment face to face.
Surely never was a story so odd, so strange as hers! A bride unknown, a
wife whose face has never yet been seen!
"Well," thinks Cecil, as she seats herself while her maid binds up her
long fair hair, "no use troubling about it beforehand. What must be
must be. And at all events the dreaded interview cannot be too soon, as
until my return to town I believe I am pretty safe from him here."
But in saying this she reckons without her host in every sense of the
word.