"If I am not worth the wooing,
I surely am not worth the winning."
--_Miles Standish._
The minutes, selfishly thoughtless of all but themselves, fly rapidly.
Cecil makes her way to the drawing-room, where she is followed
presently by Molly, then by Luttrell; but, as these two latter refuse
to converse with each other, conversation is rather one-sided.
Mr. Amherst, contrary to his usual custom, appears very early on the
field, evidently desirous of enjoying the fray to its utmost. He looks
quite jubilant and fresh for him, and his nose is in a degree sharper
than its wont. He opens an animated discourse with Cecil; but Lady
Stafford, although _distrait_ and with her mind on the stretch,
listening for every sound outside, replies brilliantly, and,
woman-like, conceals her anxiety with her tongue.
At length the dreaded moment comes. There is a sound of footfalls,
nearer--nearer still--then, "clearer, deadlier than before," and the
door opens, to discover Sir Penthony upon the threshold.
Lady Stafford is sitting within the embrasure of the window.
"Fortune favors me," she says hurriedly to Molly, alluding to the other
guests' non-appearance.
"Your wife is staying with me," Mr. Amherst begins, complacently; and,
pointing to Cecil, "Allow me to introduce you to----"
"Lady Stafford," Cecil interrupts, coming forward while a good deal of
rich crimson mantles in her cheeks. She is looking lovely from
excitement; and her pretty, rounded, graceful figure is shown off to
the best advantage by the heavy fall of the red draperies behind her.
Sir Penthony gazes, spell-bound, at the gracious creature before him;
the color recedes from his lips and brow; his eyes grow darker.
Luttrell with difficulty suppresses a smile. Mr. Amherst is almost
satisfied.
"You are welcome," Cecil says, with perfect self-possession, putting
out her hand and absolutely taking his; for so stunned is he by her
words that he even forgets to offer it.
Drawing him into a recess of the window, she says, reproachfully, "Why
do you look so astonished? Do you not know that you are gratifying that
abominable old man? And will you not say you are glad to see me after
all these long three years?"
"I don't understand," Sir Penthony says, vaguely. "Are there two Lady
Staffords? And whose wife are you?"
"Yours! Although you don't seem in a hurry to claim me," she says, with
a rarely pretty pout.
"Impossible!"
"I am sorry to undeceive you, but it is indeed the truth I speak."
"And whose picture did I get?" he asks, a faint glimmer of the real
facts breaking in upon him.
"The parlor-maid's," says Cecil, now the strain is off her, laughing
heartily and naturally,--so much so that the other occupants of the
room turn to wonder enviously what is going on behind the curtains.
"The parlor-maid! And such a girl as she was! Do you remember her nose?
It was celestial. When that deed on which we agreed was sealed, signed,
and delivered, without hope of change, I meant to send you my real
photo, but somehow I didn't. I waited until we should meet; and now we
have met and---- Why do you look so disconsolate? Surely, surely, I am
an improvement on Mary Jane?"
"It isn't that," he says, "but--what a fool I have been!"
"You have indeed," quickly. "The idea of letting that odious old man
see your discomfiture! By the bye, does my 'ugliness go to the bone,'
Sir Penthony?"
"Don't! When I realize my position I hate myself."
"Could you not even see my hair was yellow, whilst Mary Jane's was
black,--a sooty black?"
"How could I see anything? Your veil was so thick, and, besides, I
never doubted the truth of----"
"Oh, that veil! What trouble I had with it!" laughs Cecil. "First I
doubled it, and then nearly died with fright lest you should imagine me
the Pig-faced Lady, and insist on seeing me."
"Well, and if I had?"
"Without doubt you would have fallen in love with me," coquettishly.
"Would not that have been desirable? Is it not a good thing for a man
to fall in love with the woman he is going to marry?"
"Not unless the woman falls in love with him," with a little expressive
nod that speaks volumes.
"Ah! true," says Sir Penthony, rather nettled.
"However, you showed no vulgar curiosity on the occasion, although I
think Mr. Lowry, who supported you at the last moment, suggested the
advisability of seeing your bride. Ah, that reminds me he lives near
here. You will be glad to renew acquaintance with so particular a
friend."
"There was nothing particular about our friendship; I met him by chance
in London at the time, and--er--he did as well as any other fellow."
"Better, I should say. He is a particular friend of mine."
"Indeed! I shouldn't have thought him your style. Like Cassius, he used
to have a 'lean and hungry look.'"
"Used he? I think him quite good-looking."
"He must have developed, then, in body as in intellect. Three years ago
he was a very gaunt youth indeed."
"Of course, Stafford," breaks in Mr. Amherst's rasping voice, "we can
all make allowances for your joy on seeing your wife again after such a
long absence. But you must not monopolize her. Remember she is the life
of our party."
"Thank you, Mr. Amherst. What a delightful compliment!" says Cecil,
with considerable _empressement_. "Sir Penthony was just telling
me what an enjoyable voyage he had; and I was congratulating him. There
is nothing on earth so depressing or so humiliating as sea-sickness.
Don't you agree with me?"
Mr. Amherst mutters something in which the word "brazen" is distinctly
heard; while Cecil, turning to her companion, says hastily, holding out
her hand, with a soft, graceful movement:
"We are friends?"
"Forever, I trust," he replies, taking the little plump white hand
within his own, and giving it a hearty squeeze.
* * * * *
To some the evening is a long one,--to Luttrell and Molly, for
instance, who are at daggers drawn and maintain a dignified silence
toward each other.
Tedcastle, indeed, holds his head so high that if by chance his gaze
should rest in Molly's direction, it must perforce pass over her
without fear of descending to her face. (This is wise, because to look
at Molly is to find one's self disarmed.) There is an air of settled
hostility about him that angers her beyond all words.
"What does he mean by glowering like that, and looking as though he
could devour somebody? How different he used to be in dear old
Brooklyn! Who could have thought he would turn out such a Tartar? Well,
there is no knowing any man; and yet---- It is a pity not to give him
something to glower about," thinks Miss Massereene, in an access of
rage, and forthwith deliberately sets herself out to encourage Shadwell
and Mr. Potts.
She has a brilliant success, and, although secretly sore at heart,
manages to pass her time agreeably, and, let us hope, profitably.
Marcia, whose hatred toward her rival grows with every glance cast at
her from Philip's eyes, turns to Tedcastle and takes him in hand. Her
voice is low, her manner subdued, but designing. Whatever she may be
saying is hardly likely to act as cure to Teddy's heart-ache; at least
so thinks Cecil, and, coming to the rescue, sends Sir Penthony across
to talk to him, and drawing him from Marcia's side, leads him into a
lengthened history of all those who have come and gone in the old
regiment since he sold out.
The _ruse_ is successful, but leaves Cecil still indignant with
Molly. "What a wretched little flirt she is!" She turns an enraged
glance upon where Miss Massereene is sitting deep in a discussion with
Mr. Potts.
"Have you any Christian name?" Molly is asking, with a beaming smile,
fixing her liquid Irish eyes upon the enslaved Potts. "I hear you
addressed as Mr. Potts,--as Potts even--but never by anything that
might be mistaken for a first name."
"Yes," replies Mr. Potts, proudly. "I was christened Plantagenet. Good
sound, hasn't it? Something to do with the Dark Ages and Pinnock, only
I never remember clearly what. Our fellows have rather a low way of
abbreviating it and bringing it down to 'Planty.' And--would you
believe it?--on one or two occasions they have so far forgotten
themselves as to call me 'the regular Plant.'"
"What a shame!" says Miss Massereene, with deep sympathy.
"Let 'em," says Mr. Potts, heroic, if vulgar, shaking his crimson head.
"It's fun to them, and it's by no means 'death' to me. It does no harm.
But it's a nuisance to have one's mother put to the trouble of
concocting a fine name, if one doesn't get the benefit of it."
"I agree with you. Were I a man, and rejoiced in such a name as
Plantagenet, I would insist upon having every syllable of it distinctly
sounded, or I'd know the reason why. 'All or nothing' should be my
motto."
"I never think of it, I don't see my wife's cards," says Mr. Potts, who
has had a good deal of champagne, and is rather moist about the eyes.
"'Mrs. Plantagenet Potts' would look well, wouldn't it?"
"Very aristocratic," says false Molly, with an admiring nod. "I almost
think,--I am not quite sure,--but I almost think I would marry a man to
bear a name like that."
"Would you?" cries Mr. Potts, his tongue growing freer, while
enthusiasm sparkles in every feature. "If I only thought that, Miss
Molly----"
"How pretty Mrs. Darley is looking to-night!" interrupts Molly,
adroitly; "what a clear complexion she has!--just like a child's."
"Not a bit of it," says Mr. Potts. "Children don't require 'cream of
roses' and 'Hebe bloom' and--and all that sort of thing, you know--to
get 'emselves up."
"Ah! my principal pity for her is that she doesn't seem to have
anything to say."
"Englishwomen never have, as a rule; they are dull to the last degree.
Now, you are a singular exception."
"English! I am not English," says Molly, with exaggerated disgust. "Do
not offend me. I am Irish--altogether, thoroughly Irish,--heart and
mind a Paddy."
"No! are you, by Jove?" says Mr. Potts. "So am I--at least, partly so.
My mother is Irish."
So she had been English, Welsh, and Scotch on various occasions; there
is scarcely anything Mrs. Potts had _not_ been. There was even one
memorable occasion on which she had had Spanish blood in her veins, and
(according to Plantagenet's account) never went out without a lace
mantilla flowing from her foxy head. It would, indeed, be rash to fix
on any nationality to which the venerable lady might not lay claim,
when her son's interests so willed it.
"She came from--er--Galway," he says now; "good old family
too--but--out at elbows and--and--that."
"Yes?" Molly says, interested. "And her name?"
"Blake," replies he, unblushingly, knowing there never was a Blake that
did not come out of Galway.
"I feel quite as though I had known you forever," says Molly, much
pleased. "You know my principal crime is my Hibernian extraction, which
perhaps makes me cling to the fact more and more. Mr. Amherst cannot
forgive me--my father."
"Yet he was of good family, I believe, and all that?" questioningly.
"Beyond all doubt. What a question for you to ask! Did you ever hear of
an Irishman who wasn't of good family? My father"--with a mischievous
smile--"was a direct descendant of King O'Toole or Brian Boru,--I don't
know which; and if the king had only got his own, my dear brother would
at this moment be dispensing hospitality in a palace."
"You terrify me," said Mr. Potts, profoundly serious. "Why, the blood
of all the Howards would be weak as water next to yours. Not that there
is anything to be surprised at; for if over there was any one in the
world who ought to be a princess it is----"
"Molly, will you sing us something?" Lady Stafford breaks in,
impatiently, at this juncture, putting a stop to Mr. Potts's
half-finished compliment.
* * * * *
"Molly, I want to speak to you for a moment," Luttrell says next day,
coming upon her suddenly in the garden.
"Yes?" coldly. "Well, hurry, then; they are waiting for me in the
tennis-ground."
"It seems to me that some one is always waiting for you now when I want
to speak to you," says the young man, bitterly.
"For me?" with a would-be-astonished uplifting of her straight brows.
"Oh, no, I am not in such request at Herst. I am ready to listen to you
at any time; although I must confess I do not take kindly to
lecturing."
"Do I lecture you?"
"Do not let us waste time going into details: ask me this all-important
question and let me be gone."
"I want to know"--severely, yet anxiously--"whether you really meant
all you said yesterday morning?"
"Yesterday morning!" says Miss Massereene, running all her ten little
white fingers through her rebellious locks, and glancing up at him
despairingly. "Do you really expect me to remember all I may have said
yesterday morning? Think how long ago it is."
"Shall I refresh your memory? You gave me to understand that if our
engagement came to an end you would be rather relieved than otherwise."
"Did I? How very odd! Yes, by the bye, I do recollect something of the
kind. And you led up to it, did you not?--almost asked me to say it, I
think, by your unkind remarks."
"Let us keep to the truth," says Luttrell, sternly. "You know such an
idea would never cross my mind. While you--I hardly know what to think.
All last night you devoted yourself to Shadwell."
"That is wrong; he devoted himself to me. Besides, I spoke a little to
Mr. Potts."
"Yes, I suppose you could not be satisfied to let even an idiot like
Potts go free."
"Idiot! Good gracious! are you talking of your friend Mr. Potts? Why, I
was tired to death of hearing his praises sung in my ears morning,
noon, and night at Brooklyn; and now, because I am barely civil to him,
he must be called an idiot! That is rather severe on him, is it not?"
"Never mind Potts. I am thinking principally of Shadwell. Of course,
you are quite at liberty to spend your time with whom you choose, but
at all events I have the right to know what you mean seriously to do.
You have to decide between Shadwell and me."
"I shall certainly not be rude to Philip," Molly says, decisively,
leaning against the trunk of a flowering tree, and raising defiant,
beautiful violet eyes to his. "You seem to pass your time very
agreeably with Marcia. I do not complain, mind, but I like fairness in
all things."
"I thought little country girls like you were all sweetness, and
freshness, and simplicity," says Luttrell, with sudden vehemence. "What
lies one hears in one's lifetime! Why, you might give lessons in
coquetry and cruelty to many a town-bred woman."
"Might I? I am glad you appraise me so highly. I am glad I have escaped
all the 'sweetness, and freshness,' and general imbecility the orthodox
village maiden is supposed to possess. Though why a girl must
necessarily be devoid of wit simply because she has spent her time in
good, healthy air, is a thing that puzzles me. Have you delayed me only
to say this?"
"No, Molly," cries Luttrell, desperately, while Molly, with cool
fingers and a calm face, plucks a flower to pieces, "it is impossible
you can have so soon forgotten. Think of all the happy days at
Brooklyn, all the vows we interchanged. Is there inconstancy in the
very air at Herst?"
His words are full of entreaty, his manner is not. There is an acidity
about the latter that irritates Molly.
"All Irish people are fickle," she says recklessly, "and I am
essentially Irish."
"All Irish people are kind-hearted, and you are not so," retorts he.
"Every hour yields me an additional pang. For the last two days you
have avoided me,--you do not care to speak to me,--you----"
"How can I, when you spend your entire time upbraiding me and accusing
me of things of which I am innocent?"
"I neither accuse nor upbraid; I only say that----"
"Well, I don't think you can say much more,"--maliciously,--"because--I
see Philip coming."
He has taken her hand, but now, stung by her words and her evident
delight at Shadwell's proximity, flings it furiously from him.
"If so, it is time I went," he says, and turning abruptly from her,
walks toward the corner that must conceal him from view.
A passing madness seizes Molly. Fully conscious that Luttrell is still
within hearing, fatally conscious that it is within her power to wound
him and gain a swift revenge for all the hard words she chooses to
believe he has showered down on her, she sings,--slightly altering the
ideas of the poet to suit her own taste,--she sings, as though to the
approaching Philip:
"He is coming, my love, my sweet!
Was it ever so airy a tread,
My heart would know it and beat,
Had it lain for a century dead."
She smiles coquettishly, and glances at Shadwell from under her long
dark lashes. He is near enough to hear and understand; so is Luttrell.
With a suppressed curse the latter grinds his heel into the innocent
gravel and departs.