"'Why come you drest like a village maid
That are the flower of the earth?'
'If I come drest like a village maid
I am but as my fortunes are.'"
--_Lady Clare._
It is close on October. Already the grass has assumed its sober garb of
brown; a general earthiness is everywhere. The leaves are falling,--not
now in careful couples or one by one, but in whole showers,--slowly,
sorrowfully, as though loath to quit the sighing branches, their last
faint rustling making their death-song.
Molly's visit has drawn to an end. Her joyous month is over. To-day a
letter from her brother reminding her of her promise to return is
within her hand, recalling all the tender sweets of home life, all the
calm pleasure she will gain, yet bringing with it a little sting, as
she remembers all the gay and laughing hours that she must lose. For
indeed her time at Herst has proved a good time.
"I have had a letter from my brother, grandpapa: he thinks it is time I
should return," she says, accosting the old man as he takes his
solitary walk up and down one of the shaded paths.
"Do you find it so dull here?" asks he, sharply, turning to read her
face.
"Dull? No, indeed. How should I? I shall always remember my visit to
you as one of the happy events of my life."
"Then remain a little longer," he growls, ungraciously. "The others
have consented to prolong their stay; why should not you? Write to
your--to Mr. Massereene to that effect. I cannot breathe in an empty
house. It is my wish, my desire that you shall stay," he finishes,
irritably, this being one of his painful days.
So it is settled. She will obey this crabbed veteran's behest and enjoy
a little more of the good the gods have provided for her before
returning to her quiet home.
"You will not desert us in our increased calamities, Molly, will you?"
asks Cecil, half an hour later, as Molly enters the common boudoir
where Lady Stafford and Marcia sit alone, the men being absent with
their guns, and Mrs. Darley consequently in the blues. "Where have you
been? We quite fancied you had taken a lesson out of poor dear Maudie's
book and retired to your couch. Do you stay on at Herst?" She glances
up anxiously from her painting as she speaks.
"Yes. Grandpapa has asked me to put off my departure for a while. So I
shall. I have just written to John to say so, and to ask him if I may
accept this second invitation."
"Do you think it likely he will refuse?" Marcia asks, unpleasantly.
"He may. But when I represent to him how terribly his obduracy will
distress you all, should he insist on my return, I feel sure he will
relent," retorts Molly, nonchalantly.
"Now that Mr. Amherst has induced us all to stay, don't you think he
might do something to vary the entertainment?" says Cecil, in a faintly
injured tone. "Shooting is all very well, of course, for those who like
it; and so is tennis; and so are early hours; but _toujours
perdrix_. I confess I hate my bed until the small hours are upon me.
Now, if he would only give a ball, for instance! Do you think he would,
Marcia, if he was asked?"
"How can I say?"
"Would _you_ ask him, dear?"
"Well, I don't think I would," replies Marcia, with a rather forced
laugh; "for this reason, that it would not be of the slightest use. I
might as well ask him for the moon. If there is one thing he distinctly
abhors, it is a ball."
"But he might go to bed early, if he wished," persists Cecil; "none of
us would interfere or find fault with that arrangement. We would try
and spare him, dear old thing. I don't see why our enjoyment should put
him out in the least, if he would only be reasonable. I declare I have
a great mind to ask him myself."
"Do," says Molly, eagerly, who is struck with admiration at the entire
idea, having never yet been to a really large ball.
"I would rather somebody else tried it first," confesses Cecil, with a
frank laugh. "A hundred times I have made up my mind to ask a favor of
him, but when I found myself face to face with him, and he fixed me
with his eagle eye, I quailed. Molly, you are a new importation; try
your luck."
"Well, I don't mind if I do," says Molly, valiantly. "He can't say
worse than 'No.' And here he is, coming slowly along under the balcony.
Shall I seize the present opportunity and storm the citadel out of
hand? I am sure if I wait I shall be like Bob Acres and find my courage
oozing out through my fingers."
"Then don't," says Cecil. "If he molests you badly, I promise to
interfere."
Molly steps on to the balcony, and, looking down, awaits the slow and
languid approach of her grandfather. Just as he arrives beneath her she
bends over until he, attracted by her presence, looks up.
She is laughing down upon him, bent on conquest, and has a blood-red
rose in one hand. She waves it slightly to and fro, as though
uncertain, as though dallying about giving utterance to some thought
that pines for freedom.
The old man, pausing, looks up at her, and, looking, sighs,--perhaps
for his dead youth, perhaps because she so much resembles her mother,
disowned and forgotten.
"Have a rose, grandpapa?" says Molly, stooping still farther over the
iron railings, her voice sweet and fresh as the dead and gone
Eleanor's. As she speaks she drops the flower, and he dexterously, by
some fortuitous chance, catches it.
"Well done!" cries she, with a gay laugh, clapping her hands, feeling
half surprised, wholly amused, at his nimbleness. "Yet stay, grandpapa,
do not go so soon. I--have a favor to ask of you."
"Well?"
"We have been discussing something delightful for the past five
minutes,--something downright delicious; but we can do nothing without
you. Will you help us, grandpapa? will you?" She asks all this with the
prettiest grace, gazing down undaunted into the sour old face raised to
hers.
"Why are you spokeswoman?" demands he, in a tone that makes the deeply
attentive Cecil within groan aloud.
"Well--because--I really don't believe I know why, except that I chose
to be so. But grant me this, my first request. Ah! do, now, grandpapa."
The sweet coaxing of the Irish "Ah!" penetrates even this withered old
heart.
"What is this wonderful thing you would have me do?" asks he, some of
the accumulated verjuice of years disappearing from his face; while
Lady Stafford, from behind the curtain, looks on trembling with fear
for the success of her scheme, and Marcia listens and watches with
envious rage.
"We want you to--give a ball," says Molly, boldly, with a little gasp,
keeping her large eyes fixed in eager anxiety upon his face, while her
pretty parted lips seem still to entreat. "Say 'yes' to me, grandpapa."
How to refuse so tender a pleading? How bring the blank that a "No"
must cause upon her _riante_, lovely face?
"Suppose I say I cannot?" asks he; but his tone has altered
wonderfully, and there is an expression that is almost amiable upon his
face. The utter absence of constraint, of fear, she displays in his
presence has charmed him, being so unlike the studied manner of all
those with whom he comes in contact.
"Then I shall cry my eyes out," says Molly, still lightly, though
secretly her heart is sinking.
There is a perceptible pause. Then Mr. Amherst says, slowly,
regretfully:
"Crying will come too soon, child. None escape. Keep your eyes dry as
long as your heart will let you. No, you shall not fret because of me.
You shall have your ball, I promise you, and as soon as ever you
please."
So saying, and with a quick movement of the hand that declines all
thanks, he moves away, leaving Molly to return to the boudoir
triumphant, though somewhat struck and saddened by his words and
manner.
"Let me embrace you," cries Cecil, tragically, flinging herself into
her arms. "Molly, Molly, you are a siren!"
Without a word or a look, Marcia rises slowly and quits the room.
* * * * *
The invitations are issued, and unanimously accepted. A ball at Herst
is such a novelty, that the county to a man declare their intention of
being present at it. It therefore promises to be a great success.
As for the house itself, it is in a state of delicious unrest. There is
a good deal of noise, but very little performance, and every one gives
voice now and then to the most startling opinions. One might, indeed,
imagine that all these people--who, when in town during the season,
yawn systematically through their two or three balls of a night--had
never seen one, so eager and anxious are they for the success of this
solitary bit of dissipation.
Lady Stafford is in great form, and becomes even more _debonnaire_
and saucy than is her wont. Even Marcia seems to take some interest in
it, and lets a little vein of excitement crop up here and there through
all the frozen placidity of her manner; while Molly, who has never yet
been at a really large affair of the kind, loses her head and finds
herself unable to think or converse on any other subject.
Yet in all this beautiful but unhappy world where is the pleasure that
contains no sting of pain? Molly's is a sharp little sting that pricks
her constantly and brings an uneasy sigh to her lips. Perhaps in a
man's eyes the cause would be considered small, but surely in a woman's
overwhelming. It is a question of dress, and poor Molly's mind is much
exercised thereon.
When all the others sit and talk complacently of their silks and
satins, floating tulles and laces, she, with a pang, remembers that all
she has to wear is a plain white muslin. It is hard. No doubt she will
look pretty--perhaps prettier and fairer than most--in the despised
muslin; but as surely she will look poorly attired, and the thought is
not inspiring.
No one but a woman can know what a woman thinks on such a subject; and
although she faces the situation philosophically enough, and by no
means despises herself for the pangs of envy she endures when listening
to Maud Darley's account of the triumph in robes to be sent by Worth
for the Herst ball, she still shrinks from the cross-examination she
will surely have to undergo at the hands of Cecil Stafford as to her
costume for the coming event.
One day, a fortnight before the ball, Cecil does seize on her, and,
carrying her off to her own room and placing her in her favorite chair,
says, abruptly:
"What about your dress, Molly?"
"I don't know that there is anything to say about it," says Molly, who
is in low spirits. "The only thing I have is a new white muslin, and
that will scarcely astonish the natives."
"Muslin! Oh, Molly! Not but that it is pretty always,--I know nothing
more so,--but for a ball-dress--terribly _rococo_. I have set my
heart on seeing you resplendent; and if you are not more gorgeous than
Marcia I shall break down. Muslin won't do at all."
"But I'm afraid it must."
"What a pity it is I am so much shorter than you!" says Cecil,
regretfully. "Now, if I was taller we might make one of my dresses suit
you."
"Yes, it is a pity,--a dreadful pity," says Molly, mournfully. "I
should like to be really well dressed. Marcia, I suppose, will be in
satin, or something else equally desirable."
"No doubt she will deck herself out in Oriental splendor, if she
discovers you can't," says Cecil, angrily.
There is a pause,--a decided one. Cecil sits frowning and staring at
Molly, who has sunk into an attitude expressive of the deepest
dejection. The little ormolu clock, regardless of emotion, ticks on
undisturbed until three full minutes vanish into the past. Then Cecil,
as though suddenly inspired, says, eagerly:
"Molly, why not ask your grandfather to give you a dress?"
"Not for all the world! Nothing would induce me. If I never was to see
a ball I would not ask him for sixpence. How could you think it of me,
Cecil?"
"Why didn't I think of it long ago, you mean? I only wish he was
_my_ grandfather, and I would never cease persecuting him,
morning, noon, and night. What is the use of a grandfather if it isn't
to tip one every now and then?"
"You forget the circumstances of my case."
"I do not indeed. Of course, beyond all doubt, he behaved badly;
still----I really think," says Cecil, in a highly moralizing tone,
"there is nothing on earth so mistaken as pride. I am free from it. I
don't know the meaning of it, and I know I am all the happier in
consequence."
"Perhaps I am more angry than proud."
"It is the same thing, and I wish you weren't. Oh, Molly! do ask him.
What can it signify what he thinks?"
"Nothing; but a great deal what John thinks. It would be casting a
slight upon him, as though he stinted me in clothes or money, and I
will not do it."
"It would be such a simple way," says Cecil, with a melancholy
sigh,--dear Molly is so obstinate and old-fashioned; then follows
another pause, longer and more decided than the last. Molly, with her
back turned to her friend, commences such a dismal tattoo upon the
window-pane as would be sufficient to depress any one without further
cause. Her friend is pondering deeply.
"Molly," she says, presently, with a fine amount of indifference in her
tone,--rather suspicious, to say the least of it,--"I feel sure you are
right,--quite right. I like you all the better for--your pride, or
whatever you may wish to call it. But what a pity it is your
grandfather would not offer you a dress or a check to buy it! I
suppose"--quietly---"if he did, you would take it?"
"What a chance there is of that!" says Molly, still gloomy. "Yes, if he
_offered_ it I do not think I could bring myself to refuse it. I
am not adamant. You see"--with a faint laugh--"my pride would not carry
me very far."
"Far enough. Let us go down to the others," says Cecil, rising and
yawning slightly. "They will think we are planning high treason if we
absent ourselves any longer."
Together they go down-stairs and into the drawing-room, which they find
empty.
As they reach the centre of it, Cecil stops abruptly, and, saying
carelessly, "I will be back in one moment," turns and leaves the room.
The apartment is deserted. No sound penetrates to it. Even the very
fire, in a fit of pique, has degenerated into a dull glow.
Molly, with a shiver, rouses it, throws on a fresh log, and amuses
herself trying to induce the tardy flames to climb and lick it until
Lady Stafford returns. So busy has she been, it seems to her as though
only a minute has elapsed since her departure.
"This does look cozy," Cecil says, easily sinking into a
lounging-chair. "Now, if those tiresome men had not gone shooting we
should not be able to cuddle into our fire as we are doing at present.
After all, it is a positive relief to get them out of the
way,--sometimes."
"You don't seem very hearty about that sentiment."
"I am, for all that. With a good novel I would now be utterly content
for an hour or two. By the bye, I left my book on the library table. If
you were good-natured, Molly, I know what you would do."
"So do I: I would get it for you. Well, taking into consideration all
things, your age and growing infirmities among them, I will accept your
hint." And, rising, she goes in search of the missing volume.
Opening the library door with a little bang and a good deal of reckless
unconsciousness, she finds herself in Mr. Amherst's presence.
"Oh!" cries she, with a surprised start. "I beg your pardon, grandpapa.
If"--pausing on the threshold--"I had known you were here, I would not
have disturbed you."
"You don't disturb me," replies he, without looking up; and, picking up
the required book, Molly commences a hasty retreat.
But just as she gains the door her grandfather's voice once more
arrests her.
"Wait," he says; "I want to ask you a question that--that has been on
my mind for a considerable time."
To the commonest observer it would occur that from the break to the
finish of this little sentence is one clumsy invention.
"Yes?" says Molly.
"Have you a dress for this ball,--this senseless rout that is coming
off?" says Mr. Amherst, without looking at her.
"Yes, grandpapa." In a tone a degree harder.
"You are my granddaughter. I desire to see you dressed as such.
Is"--with an effort--"your gown a handsome one?"
"Well, that greatly depends upon taste," returns Molly, who, though
angry, finds a grim amusement in watching the flounderings of this
tactless old person. "If we are to believe that beauty unadorned is
adorned the most, I may certainly flatter myself I shall be the best
dressed woman in the room. But there _may_ be some who will not
call white muslin 'handsome.'"
"White muslin up to sixteen is very charming," Mr. Amherst says, in a
slow tone of a connoisseur in such matters, "but not beyond. And you
are, I think----"
"Nineteen."
"Quite so. Then in your case I should condemn the muslin. You will
permit me to give you a dress, Eleanor, more in accordance with your
age and position."
"Thank you very much, grandpapa," says Molly, with a little ominous
gleam in her blue eyes. "You are too good. I am deeply sensible of all
your kindness, but I really cannot see how my position has altered of
late. As you have just discovered, I am now nineteen, and for so many
years I have managed to look extremely well in white muslin."
As she finishes her modest speech she feels she has gone too far. She
has been almost impertinent, considering his age and relationship to
her; nay, more, she has been ungenerous.
Her small taunt has gone home. Mr. Amherst rises from his chair; the
dull red of old age comes painfully into his withered cheeks as he
stands gazing at her, slight, erect, with her proud little head upheld
so haughtily.
For a moment anger masters him; then it fades, and something as near
remorse as his heart can hold replaces it.
Molly, returning his glance with interest, knows he is annoyed. But she
does not know that, standing as she now does, with uplifted chin and
gleaming eyes, and just a slight in-drawing of her lips, she is the
very image of the dead-and-gone Eleanor, that, in spite of her Irish
father, her Irish name, she is a living, breathing, defiant Amherst.
In silence that troubles her she waits for the next word. It comes
slowly, almost entreatingly.
"Molly," says her grandfather, in a tone that trembles ever so
little,--it is the first time he has ever called her by her pet
name,--"Molly, I shall take it as a great favor if you will accede to
my request and accept--this."
As he finishes he holds out to her a check, regarding her earnestly the
while.
The "Molly" has done it. Too generous even to hesitate, she takes the
paper, and, going closer to him, lays her hand upon his shoulder.
"I have been rude, grandpapa,--I beg your pardon,--and I am very much
obliged to you for this money."
So saying, she bends and presses her soft sweet lips to his cheek. He
makes no effort to return the caress, but long after she leaves the
room sits staring vaguely before him out of the dreary window on to the
still more dreary landscape outside, thinking of vanished days and
haunting actions that will not be laid, but carry with them their sure
and keen revenge, in the knowledge that to the dead no ill can be
undone.
Molly, going back to the drawing-room, finds Cecil there, serene as
usual.
"Well, and where is my book?" asks that innocent. "I thought you were
never coming."
"Cecil, why did you tell grandpapa to offer me a dress?" demands Molly,
abruptly.
"My dearest girl!----" exclaims Cecil, and then has the grace to stop
and blush, a little.
"You did. There is no use your denying it."
"You didn't refuse it? Oh, Molly, after all my trouble!"
"No,"--laughing, and unfolding her palm, where the paper lies
crushed,--"but I was very near it. But that his manner was so kind, so
marvelously gentle, for him, I should have done so. Cecil, I couldn't
help thinking that perhaps long ago, before the world hardened him,
grandpapa was a nice young man."
"Perhaps he was, my dear,--there is no knowing what any of us may come
to,--though you must excuse me if I say I rather doubt it. Well, and
what did he say?"
"Very little, indeed; and that little a failure. When going about it
you might have given him a few lessons in his _role_. So bungling
a performance as the leading up to it I never witnessed; and when he
wound up by handing me a check ready prepared beside him on the desk I
very nearly laughed."
"Old goose! Never mind; 'they laugh who win.' I have won."
"So you have."
"Well, but look, Molly, look. I want to see how far his unwonted
'gentleness' has carried him. I am dying of curiosity. I do hope he has
not been shabby."
Unfolding the paper, they find the check has been drawn for a hundred
pounds.
"Very good," says Cecil, with a relieved sigh. "He is not such a bad
old thing, when all is told."
"It is too much," says Molly, aghast. "I can't take it, indeed. I would
have thought twenty pounds a great deal, but a _hundred_ pounds! I
must take it back to him."
"Are you mad," exclaims Cecil, "to insult him? He thinks _nothing_
of a hundred pounds. And to give back money,--that scarce
commodity,--how could you bring yourself to do it?" In tones of the
liveliest reproach. "Be reasonable, dear, and let us see how we can
spend it fast enough."
Thus adjured, Molly succumbs, and, sinking into a chair, is soon deep
in the unfathomable mysteries of silks and satins, tulle and flowers.
"And, Cecil, I should like to buy Letitia a silk dress like that one of
yours up-stairs I admire so much."
"The navy blue?"
"No, the olive-green; it would just suit her. She has a lovely
complexion, clear and tinted, like your own."
"Thank you, dear. It is to be regretted you are of the weaker sex. So
delicately veiled a compliment would not have disgraced a
Chesterfield."
"Was it too glaring? Well, I will do away with it. I was thinking
entirely of Letty. I was comparing her skin very favorably with yours.
That reminds me I must write home to-day. I hope John won't be offended
with me about this money. Though, after all, there can't be much harm
in accepting a present from one's grandfather."
"I should think not, indeed. I only wish I had a grandfather, and
wouldn't I utilize him! But I am an unfortunate,--alone in the world."
Even as she speaks, the door in the next drawing-room opens, and
through the folding-doors, which stand apart, she sees her husband
enter, and make his way to a davenport.
"That destroys your argument," says Molly, with a low laugh, as she
runs away to her own room to write her letters.
For a few minutes Cecil sits silently enjoying a distant view of her
husband's back. But she is far too much of a coquette to let him long
remain in ignorance of her near proximity. Going softly up to him, and
leaning lightly over his shoulder, she says, in a half-whisper, "What
are you doing?"
He starts a little, not having expected to see so fair an apparition,
and lays one of his hands over hers as it rests upon his shoulder.
"Is it you?" he says. "I did not hear you coming."
"No? That was because I was farthest from your thoughts. You are
writing? To whom?"
"My tailor, for one. It is a sad but certain fact that, sooner or
later, one's tailor must be paid."
"So must one's _modiste_." With a sigh. "It is that sort of person
who spoils one's life."
"Is your life spoiled?"
"Oh, yes, in many ways."
"Poor little soul!" says he, with a half laugh, tightening his fingers
over hers. "Is your dressmaker hardhearted?"
"Don't get me to begin on that subject, or I shall never leave off. The
wrongs I have suffered at that woman's hands! But then why talk of what
cannot be helped?"
"Perhaps it may. Can I do nothing for you?"
"I am afraid not." Moving a little away from him. "And yet, perhaps, if
you choose, you might. You are writing; I wish"--throwing down her
eyes, as though confused (which she isn't), and assuming her most
guileless air--"you would write something for _me_."
"What a simple request! Of course I will--anything."
"Really? You promise?"
"Faithfully."
"It is not, perhaps, quite so simple a request as it appears. I want
you, in fact, to--write me--a check!"
Sir Penthony laughs, and covers the white and heavily-jeweled little
hand that glitters before him on the table once more with his own.
"For how much?" he asks.
"Not much,--only fifty pounds. I want to buy something particular for
this ball: and"--glancing at him--"being a lone woman, without a
protector, I dread going too heavily into debt."
"Good child," says Sir Penthony. "You shall have your check." Drawing
the book toward him as it lies before him on the davenport, he fills up
a check and hands it to her.
"Now, what will you give me for it?" asks he, holding the edge near him
as her fingers close upon the other end.
"What have I to give? Have I not just acknowledged myself insolvent? I
am as poor as a church mouse."
"You disparage yourself. I think you as rich as Croesus. Will you--give
me a kiss?" whispers her husband, softly.
There is a decided pause. Dropping the check and coloring deeply, Cecil
moves back a step or two. She betrays a little indignation in her
glance,--a very little, but quite perceptible. Stafford sees it.
"I beg your pardon," he says, hastily, an expression of mingled pain
and shame crossing his face. "I was wrong, of course. I will not buy
your kisses. Here, take this bit of paper, and--forgive me."
He closes her somewhat reluctant fingers over the check. She is still
blushing, and has her eyes fixed on the ground, but her faint anger has
disappeared. Then some thought--evidently a merry one--occurs to her;
the corners of her mouth widen, and finally she breaks into a musical
laugh.
"Thank you--very much," she says. "You are very good. It is something
to have a husband, after all. And--if you would really care for
it--I--don't mind letting you have one----Oh! here is somebody coming."
"There always _is_ somebody coming when least wanted," exclaims
Sir Penthony, wrathfully, pushing back his chair with much suppressed
ire, as the door opens to admit Mr. Potts.
"'I hope I don't intrude,'" says Potts, putting his comfortable face
and rosy head round the door; "but I've got an idea, and I must divulge
it or burst. You wouldn't like me to burst, would you?" This to Lady
Stafford, pathetically.
"I would not,--here," replies she, with decision.
"For fear you might, I shall take my departure," says Sir Penthony, who
has not yet quite recovered either his disappointment or his temper,
walking through the conservatory into the grounds beyond.
"I really wish, Plantagenet," says Lady Stafford, turning upon the
bewildered Potts with most unaccountable severity, "you could manage to
employ your time in some useful way. The dreadful manner in which you
spend your days, wandering round the house without aim or reason,
causes me absolute regret. _Do_ give yourself the habit of reading
or--or doing something to improve your mind, whenever you have a spare
moment."
So saying, she sweeps past him out of the room, without even making an
inquiry about that priceless idea, leaving poor Potts rooted to the
ground, striving wildly, but vainly, to convict himself of some
unpardonable offense.