"Oh, beware, my lord, of jealousy;
It is the green-eyed monster who doth mock
The meat it feeds on."
--_Othello._
Next day at luncheon Mr. Amherst, having carefully mapped out one of
his agreeable little surprises, and having selected a moment when every
one is present, says to her, with a wicked gleam of anticipative
amusement in his cunning old eyes:
"Sir Penthony is in England."
Although she has neither hint nor warning of what is coming, Lady
Stafford is a match for him. Mr. Potts's intelligence of the evening
before stands her now in good stead.
"Indeed!" she says, without betraying any former knowledge, turning
eyes of the calmest upon him; "you surprise me. Tired so soon of
Egyptian sphinxes! I always knew he had no taste. I hope he is quite
well. I suppose you heard from him?"
"Yes. He is well, but evidently pines for home quarters and old
friends. Thinking you would like to see him after so long a separation,
I have invited him here. You--you don't object?"
"I?" says her ladyship, promptly, reddening, but laughing too very
successfully. "Now, why should I object? On the contrary, I shall be
charmed; he will be quite an acquisition. If I remember rightly,"--with
a little affected drooping of the lids,--"he is a very handsome man,
and, I hear, amusing."
Mr. Amherst, foiled in his amiable intention of drawing confusion on
the head of somebody, subsides into a grunt and his easy-chair. To have
gone to all this trouble for nothing, to have invited secretly this
man, who interests him not at all, in hopes of a little excitement, and
to have those hopes frustrated, disgusts him.
Yet, after all, there will, there must be some amusement in store for
him, in watching the meeting between this strange pair. He at least may
not prove as cool and indifferent as his pretty wife.
"He will be here to dinner to-day," he says, grumpishly, knowing that
all around him are inwardly rejoicing at his defeat.
This is a thunder-bolt, though he is too much disheartened by his first
defeat to notice it. Lady Stafford grows several shades paler,
and--luncheon being at an end--rises hurriedly. Going toward the door,
she glances back, and draws Molly by a look to her side.
"Come with me," she says; "I must speak to some one, and to you before
any of the others."
When they have reached Cecil's pretty sitting-room, off which her
bedroom opens, the first thing her ladyship does is to subside into a
seat and laugh a little.
"It is like a play," she says, "the idea of his coming down here, to
find _me_ before him. It will be a surprise; for I would swear
that horrible old man never told him of my being in the house, or he
would not have come. Am I talking Greek to you, Molly? You know my
story, surely?"
"I have heard something of it--not much--from Mr. Luttrell," says
Molly, truthfully.
"It is a curious one, is it not? and one not easily matched. It all
came of that horrible will. Could there be anything more stupid than
for an old man to depart this life and leave behind him a document
binding two young people in such a way as makes it 'do or die' with
them? I had never seen my cousin in all my life, and he had never seen
me; yet we were compelled at a moment's notice to marry each other or
forfeit a dazzling fortune."
"Why could you not divide it?"
"Because the lawyers said we couldn't. Lawyers are always aggressive.
My great-uncle had particularly declared it should not be divided. It
was to be all or none, and whichever of us refused to marry the other
got nothing. And there was so much!" says her ladyship, with an
expressive sigh.
"It was a hard case," Molly says, with deep sympathy.
"It was. Yet, as I managed it, it wasn't half so bad. Now, I dare say
many women would have gone into violent hysterics, would have driven
their relations to the verge of despair and the shivering bridegroom to
the brink of delirious joy, and then given in,--married the man, lived
with him, and been miserable ever after. But not I."
Here she pauses, charmed at her own superior wisdom, and, leaning back
in her chair, with a contented smile, puts the tips of her fingers
together daintily.
"Well, and you?" says Molly, feeling intensely interested.
"I? I just reviewed the case calmly. I saw it was a great deal of
money,--too much to hesitate about,--too much also to make it likely a
man would dream of resigning it for the sake of a woman more or less.
So I wrote to my cousin explaining that, as we had never known each
other, there could be very little love lost between us, and that I saw
no necessity why we ever _should_ know each other,--and that I was
quite willing to marry him, and take a third of the money, if he would
allow me to be as little to him in the future as I was in the present,
by drawing up a formal deed of separation, to be put in force at the
church-door, or the door of any room where the marriage ceremony should
be performed."
"Well?"
"Well, I don't know how it would have been but that, to aid my request,
I inclosed a photograph of our parlormaid (one of the ugliest women it
has ever been my misfortune to see), got up in her best black silk,
minus the cap, and with a flaming gold chain round her neck,--you know
the sort of thing,--and I never said who it was."
"Oh, Cecil, how could you?"
"How couldn't I? you mean. And, after all, my crime was of the passive
order; I merely sent the picture, without saying anything. How could I
help it if he mistook me for Mary Jane? Besides, I was fighting for
dear life, and all is fair in love and war. I could not put up with the
whims and caprices of a man to whom I was indifferent."
"Did you know he had whims and caprices?"
"Molly," says Lady Stafford, slowly, with a fine show of pity, "you are
disgracefully young: cure yourself, my dear, as fast as ever you can,
and as a first lesson take this to heart: if ever there was a mortal
man born upon this earth without caprices it must have been in the year
one, because no one that I have met knows anything about him."
"Well, for the matter of that," says Molly, laughing, "I don't suppose
I should like a perfect man, even if I did chance to meet him. By all
accounts they are stilted, disagreeable people, with a talent for
making everybody else seem small. But go on with your story. What was
his reply?"
"He agreed cordially to all my suggestions, named a very handsome sum
as my portion, swore by all that was honorable he would never interfere
with me in any way, was evidently ready to promise anything, and--sent
me back my parlor-maid. Was not that insulting?"
"But when he came to marry you he must have seen you?"
"Scarcely. I decided on having the wedding in our drawing-room, and
wrote again to say it would greatly convenience my cousin and myself (I
lived with an old cousin) if he would not come down until the very
morning of the wedding. Need I say he grasped at this proposition also?
I was dressed and ready for my wedding by the time he arrived, and
shook hands with him with my veil down. You may be sure I had secured a
very thick one."
"Do you mean to tell me," says Molly, rising in her excitement, "that
he never asked you to raise your veil?"
"Never, my dear. I assure you the 'best man' he brought down with him
was by far the more curious of the two. But then, you must remember,
Sir Penthony had seen my picture." Here Cecil goes off into a hearty
burst of laughter. "If you had seen that maid once, my dear, you would
not have been ambitious of a second view."
"Still I never heard of anything so cold, so unnatural," says Miss
Massereene, in high disgust. "I declare I would have broken off with
him then and there, had it been me."
"Not if you lived with my cousin Amelia, feeling yourself a dependent
on her bounty. She was a startling instance of how a woman _can_
worry and torment. The very thought of her makes my heart sore in my
body and chills my blood to this day. I rejoice to say she is no more."
"Well, you got married?"
"Yes, in Amelia's drawing-room. I had a little gold band put on my
third finger, I had a cold shake-hands from my husband, a sympathetic
one from his groomsman, and then found myself once more alone, with a
title and plenty of money, and--that's all."
"What was his friend's name?"
"Talbot Lowry. He lives about three miles from here, and"--with an airy
laugh--"is rather too fond of me."
"What a strange story!" says Molly, regarding her wistfully. "Do you
never wish you had married some one you loved?"
"I never do," gayly. "Don't look to me for sentiment, Molly, because I
am utterly devoid of it. I know I suffer in your estimation by this
confession, but it is the simple truth. I don't wish for anything. And
yet"--pausing suddenly--"I do. I have been wishing for something ever
since that old person down-stairs tried to take me back this morning,
and failed so egregiously."
"And your wish is----"
"That I could make my husband fall madly in love with me. Oh, Molly,
what a revenge that would be! And why should he not, indeed?" Going
over to a glass and gazing earnestly at herself. "I am pretty,--very
pretty, I think. Speak, Molly, and encourage me."
"You know you are lovely," says Molly, in such good faith that Cecil
kisses her on the spot. "But what if you should fall in love with him?"
"Perhaps I have done so long ago," her ladyship replies, in a tone
impossible to translate, being still intent on the contemplation of her
many charms. Then, quickly, "No, no, Molly, I am fire-proof."
"Yet any day you may meet some one to whom you must give your love."
"Not a bit of it. I should despise myself forever if I once found
myself letting my pulse beat half a second faster for one man than for
another."
"Do you mean to tell me you have never loved?"
"Never, never, never. And, indeed, to give myself due credit, I believe
the fact that I have a husband somewhere would utterly prevent anything
of the sort."
"That is a good thing, if the idea lasts. But won't you feel awkward in
meeting him this evening?"
"I? No, but I dare say he will; and I hope so too," says her ladyship,
maliciously. "For three long years he has never been to see whether I
were well or ill--or pining for him," laughing. "And yet, Molly, I do
feel nervous, awfully, ridiculously nervous, at the bare idea of our so
soon coming face to face.
"Is he handsome?"
"Ye--es, pretty well. Lanky sort of man, with a good deal of nose, you
know, and very little whisker. On my word, now I think of it, I don't
think he had any at all."
"Nose?"
"No, whisker. He was clean-shaven, all but the moustache. I suppose you
know he was in Ted's regiment for some time?"
"So he told me."
"I wonder what he _hasn't_ told you? Shall I confess, Molly, that
I know your secret, and that it was I chose that diamond ring upon your
finger? There, do not grudge me your confidence; I have given you mine
and anything I have heard is safe with me. Oh, what a lovely blush, and
what a shame to waste such a charming bit of color upon me! Keep it for
dessert."
"How will Sir Penthony like Mr. Lowry's close proximity?" Molly asks,
presently, when she has confessed a few interesting little facts to her
friend.
"I hope he won't like it. If I thought I could make him jealous I would
flirt with poor Talbot under his nose," says Cecil, with eloquent
vulgarity. "I feel spitefully toward him somehow, although our
separation was my own contrivance."
"Have you a headache, dear?" Seeing her put her hand to her head.
"A slight one,--I suppose from the nerves. I think I will lie down for
an hour or two before commencing the important task of arming for
conquest. And--are you going out, Molly? Will you gather me a few fresh
flowers--anything white--for my hair and the bosom of my dress?"
"I will," says Molly, and, having made her comfortable with pillows and
perfumes, leaves her to her siesta.
"Anything white." Molly travels the gardens up and down in search of
all there is of the loveliest. Little rosebuds, fresh though late, and
dainty bells, with sweet-scented geraniums and drooping heaths,--a pure
and innocent bouquet.
Yet surely it lacks something,--a little fleck of green, to throw out
its virgin fairness. Above, high over her head, a creeping rosebush
grows, bedecked with palest, juiciest leaves.
Reaching up her hand to gather one of the taller branches, a mote, a
bit of bark--some hateful thing--falls into Molly's right eye. Instant
agony is the result. Tears stream from the offended pupil; the other
eye joins in the general tribulation; and Molly, standing in the centre
of the grass-plot, with her handkerchief pressed frantically to her
face, and her lithe body swaying slightly to and fro through force of
pain, looks the very personification of woe.
So thinks Philip Shadwell as, coming round the corner, he unperceived
approaches.
"What is it?" he asks, trying to see her face, his tones absolutely
trembling from agitation on her behalf. "Molly, you are in trouble. Can
I do anything for you?"
"You can," replies Miss Massereene, in a lugubrious voice; though, in
spite of her pain, she can with difficulty repress an inclination to
laugh, so dismal is his manner. "Oh! you _can_."
"Tell me what. There is nothing--_Speak_, Molly."
"Well, I'm not exactly weeping," says Miss Massereene, slowly
withdrawing one hand from her face, so as to let the best eye rest upon
him; "it is hardly mental anguish I'm enduring. But if you can get this
awful thing that is in my eye out of it I shall be intensely grateful."
"Is that all?" asks Philip, much relieved.
"And plenty, too, I think. Here, do try if you can see anything."
"Poor eye!"--pathetically--"how inflamed it is! Let me
see--there--don't blink--I won't be able to get at it if you do. Now,
turn your eye to the right. No. Now to the left. Yes, there is,"
excitedly. "No, it isn't," disappointedly. "Now let me look below; it
_must_ be there."
Just at this delicate moment who should turn the corner but Luttrell!
Oh, those unlucky corners that will occur in life, bringing people upon
the scene, without a word of warning, at the very time when they are
least wanted!
Luttrell, coming briskly onward in search of his ladylove, sees, marks,
and comes to a dead stop. And this is what he sees.
Molly in Philip's--well, if not exactly in his embrace, something very
near it; Philip looking with wild anxiety into the very depths of
Molly's lovely eyes, while the lovely eyes look back at Philip full of
deep entreaty. Tableau!
It is too much. Luttrell, stung cruelly, turns as if to withdraw, but
after a step or two finds himself unable to carry out the dignified
intention, and pauses irresolutely. His back being turned, however, he
is not in at the closing act, when Philip produces triumphantly on the
tip of his finger such a mere atom of matter as makes one wonder how it
could ever have caused so much annoyance.
"Are you better now?" he asks, anxiously, yet with pardonable pride.
"I--am--thank you." Blinking thoughtfully, as though not yet assured of
the relief. "I am so much obliged to you. And--yes, I _am_ better.
Quite well, I think. What should I have done without you?"
"Ah, that I could believe myself necessary to you at any time!" Philip
is beginning, with fluent sentimentality, when, catching sight of
Tedcastle, he stops abruptly. "Here is Luttrell," he says, in an
injured tone, and seeing no further prospect of a _tete-a-tete_,
takes his departure.
Molly is still petting her wounded member when Luttrell reaches her
side.
"What is the matter with you?" he asks, with odious want of sympathy.
"Have you been crying?"
"No," replies Molly, indignant at his tone,--so unlike Shadwell's. "Why
should you think so?"
"Why? Because your eyes are red; and certainly as I came up, Shadwell
appeared to be doing his utmost to console you."
"Anything the matter with you, Teddy?" asks Miss Massereene, with
suspicious sweetness. "You seem put out."
"Yes,"--sternly,--"and with cause. I do not relish coming upon you
suddenly and finding you in Shadwell's arms."
"Where?"
"Well, if not exactly in his arms, very nearly there," says Tedcastle,
vehemently.
"You are forgetting yourself." Coldly. "If you are jealous of Philip,
say so, but do not disgrace yourself by using coarse language. There
was a bit of bark in my eyes. I suppose you think it would have been
better for me to endure torments than allow Philip--who was very
kind--to take it out? If you do, I differ from you."
"I am not speaking alone of this particular instance in which you seem
to favor Shadwell," says the young man, moodily, his eyes fixed upon
the sward beneath him. "Every day it grows more palpable. You scarcely
care to hide your sentiments now."
"You mean"--impatiently--"you would wish me to speak to no one except
you. You don't take into account how slow this would be for me." She
says this cruelly. "I care no more for Philip than I do for any other
man."
"Just so. I am the other man, no doubt. I have never been blind to the
fact that you do not care for me. Why take the trouble of acting a part
any longer?"
"'Acting a part'! Nonsense!" says Molly. "I always think that the most
absurd phrase in the world. Who does not act a part? The thing is to
act a good one."
"Is yours a good part?" Bitterly.
"You are the best judge of that," returns she, haughtily. "If you do
not think so, why keep to our engagement? If you wish to break it, you
need fear no opposition from me." So saying, she sweeps past him and
enters the house.
Yet in spite of her anger and offended pride, her eyes are wet and her
hands trembling as she reaches Cecil's room and lays the snow-white
flowers upon her table.
Cecil is still lying comfortably ensconced among her pillows, but has
sufficient wakefulness about her to notice Molly's agitation.
"You have been quarreling, _ma belle_," she says, raising herself
on her elbow; "don't deny it. Was it with Marcia or Tedcastle?"
"Tedcastle," Molly replies, laughing against her will at the other's
shrewdness, and in consequence wiping away a few tears directly
afterward. "It is nothing; but he is really intolerably jealous, and I
can't and won't put up with it."
"Oh, that some one was jealous about me!" says Cecil, with a prolonged
sigh. "Go on."
"It was nothing, I tell you. All because Philip kindly picked a little
bit of dust out of my eye."
"How good of Philip! considering all the dust you have thrown into his
of late. And Ted objected?"
"Yes, and was very rude into the bargain. I wouldn't have believed it
of him."
"Well, you know yourself you have been going on anyhow with Philip
during the past few days."
"Oh, Cecil, how can you say so? Am I to turn my back on him when he
comes to speak to me? And even supposing I had flirted egregiously with
him (which is not the case), is that a reason why one is to be scolded
and abused and have all sorts of the most dreadful things said to one?"
(I leave my readers to deplore the glaring exaggeration of this
speech.) "He looked, too, as if he could have eaten me then and there.
I know this, I shan't forgive him in a hurry."
"Poor Ted! I expect he doesn't have much of a time with you," says
Cecil, shaking her head.
"Are you laughing at me?" cries Molly, wrathfully. "Then make ready for
death." And, taking the smaller Cecil in her arms, she most unkindly
lifts her from among her cozy cushions and deposits her upon the floor.
"There! Now will you repent? But come, Cecil, get up, and prepare for
your husband's reception. I will be your maid to-night, if you will let
me. What will you wear?"
"Pale blue. It suits me best. See, that is my dress." Pointing to a
light-blue silk, trimmed with white lace, that lies upon the bed. "Will
you really help me to dress? But you cannot do my hair?"
"Try me."
She does try, and proves so highly satisfactory that Cecil is tempted
to offer splendid wages if she will consent to come and live with her.
The hair is a marvel of artistic softness. Every fresh jewel lends a
grace; and when at length Cecil is attired in her blue gown, she is all
that any one could possibly desire.
"Now, honestly, how do I look?" she asks, turning round to face Molly.
"Anything like a housemaid?" With a faint laugh that has something
tremulous about it.
"I never saw you half so charming," Molly answers, deliberately. "Oh,
Cecil! what will he say when he finds out--when he discovers how you
have deceived him?"
"Anything he likes, my dear!" exclaims Cecil, gayly giving a last touch
to the little soft fair locks near her temples. "He ought to be
pleased. It would be a different thing altogether, and a real
grievance, if, being like the housemaid, I had sent him a photo of
Venus. He might justly complain then; but now---- There, I can do no
more!" says her ladyship, with a sigh, half pleased, half fearful. "If
I weren't so shamefully nervous I would do very well."
"I don't believe you are half as frightened for yourself at this moment
as I am for you. If I were in your shoes I should faint. It is to me an
awful ordeal."
"I am so white, too," says Cecil, impatiently. "You haven't--I suppose,
Molly--but of course you haven't----"
"What, dear?"
"Rouge. After all, Therese was right. When leaving town she asked me
should she get some; and, when I rejected the idea with scorn, said
there was no knowing when one might require it. Perhaps afterward she
did put it in. Let us ring and ask her."
"Never mind it. You are no comparison prettier without it.
Cecil,"--doubtingly,--"I hope when it comes to the last moment you will
have nerve."
"Be happy," says Cecil. "I am always quite composed at last moments;
that is one of my principal charms. I never create sensations through
vulgar excitement. I shall probably astonish you (and myself also) by
my extreme coolness. In the meantime I"--smiling--"I own I should like
a glass of sherry. What o'clock is it, Molly?"
"Just seven."
"Ah! he must be here now. How I wish it was over!" says Lady Stafford,
with a little sinking of the heart.
"And I am not yet dressed. I must run," exclaims Molly. "Good-bye,
Cecil. Keep up your spirits, and remember above all things how well
your dress becomes you."
Two or three minutes elapse,--five,--and still Cecil cannot bring
herself to descend. She is more nervous about this inevitable meeting
than she cares to own. Will he be openly cold, or anxious to
conciliate, or annoyed? The latter she greatly fears. What if he should
suspect her of having asked Mr. Amherst to invite him? This idea
torments her more than all the others, and chains her to her room.
She takes up another bracelet and tries it on. Disliking the effect,
she takes it off again. So she trifles, in fond hope of cheating time,
and would probably be trifling now had not the handle of her door been
boldly turned, the door opened, and a young man come confidently
forward.
His confidence comes to an untimely end as his astonished eyes rest on
Cecil.
"I beg your pardon, I'm sure," he says, beating a hasty retreat back to
the landing outside. "I had no idea--I'm awfully sorry--but this room
used to be mine."
"It is mine now," says Cecil, accepting the situation at a glance,
recognizing Sir Penthony without hesitation.
He is a tall young man,--"lanky," as she has herself expressed
him,--with thick brown hair, closely cropped. He has handsome dark
eyes, with a rather mocking expression in them, and has a trick of
shutting them slightly if puzzled or annoyed. His voice is extremely
charming, though it has a distinct croak (that can hardly be called
husky or hoarse) that is rather fascinating. His short upper lip is
covered by a heavy brown moustache that hides a laughing mouth. He is
aristocratic and good-looking, without being able to lay claim to
actual beauty.
Just now he is overwhelmed with confusion, as Cecil, feeling compelled
thereto, steps forward, smiling, to reassure him.
"You have made a mistake,--you have lost your way," she says, in a tone
that trembles ever such a little in spite of her efforts to be calm.
"To my shame I confess it," he says, laughing, gazing with
ill-concealed admiration at this charming azure vision standing before
him. "Foolishly I forgot to ask for my room, and ran up the stairs,
feeling certain that the one that used to be mine long ago must be so
still. Can you forgive me?"
"I think I can. Meantime, if you are Sir Penthony Stafford, your room
lies there," pointing to the last door opening on the corridor.
"Thank you," yet making no haste to reach the discovered shelter. "May
I not know to whom I am indebted for so much kindness?"
"I dare say you will be introduced in proper form by and by," says
Cecil, demurely, making a movement as though to leave him. "When you
are dressed you shall be formally presented."
"At least," he asks, hastily, with a view to detaining her, "do me one
more service before you go. If you know me so well, perhaps you can
tell me if any of my friends are staying here at present?"
"Several. Teddy Luttrell for one."
"Indeed! And----"
"The Darleys. You know them?"
"Little woman,--dolly,--bizarre in manner and dress?"
"A most accurate description. And there is another friend,--one who
ought to be your dearest: I allude to Lady Stafford."
"Lady Stafford!"
"Yes, your wife. You don't seem over and above pleased at my news."
"Is a man always pleased at his wife's unexpected appearance?" asks Sir
Penthony, recovering himself with a rather forced laugh. "I had no idea
she was here. I---- Is she a friend of yours?"
"The dearest friend I have. I know no one," declares her ladyship,
fervently, "I love so fondly."
"Happy Lady Stafford! I almost think I would change places with her
this moment. At all events, whatever faults she may possess, she has
rare taste in friends."
"You speak disparagingly. Has she a fault?"
"The greatest a woman can have: she lacks that one quality that would
make her a 'joy forever.'"
"Your severity makes you unkind. And yet, do you know she is greatly
liked. Nay, she has been _loved_. Perhaps when you come to know
her a little better (I do not conceal from you that I have heard
something of your story), you will think more tenderly of her.
Remember, 'beauty is only skin deep.'"
"Yes,"--with a light laugh,--"But 'ugliness goes to the bone.'"
"That is the retort discourteous. I see it is time wasted to plead my
friend's cause. Although, perhaps,"--reproachfully,--"not blessed with
actual beauty, still----"
"No, there's _not_ much beauty about her," says Sir Penthony, with
something akin to a groan. Then, "I beg your pardon," he murmurs; "pray
excuse me. Why should I trouble a stranger with my affairs?" He stands
aside, with a slight bow, to let her pass. "And you won't tell me your
name?" he cannot resist saying before losing sight of her.
"Make haste with your dressing; you shall know then," glancing back at
him, with a bewitching smile.
"Be sure I shall waste no time. If, in my hurry, I appear to less
advantage than usual to-night, you must not be the one to blame me."
"A very fair beginning," says Cecil, as she slips away. "Now I must be
firm. But, oh dear, oh dear! he is much handsomer even than I thought."