"Here's such a coil! Come, what says Romeo?"
--Shakespeare.
As eleven o'clock strikes, any one going up the stairs at Herst would
have stopped with a mingled feeling of terror and admiration at one
particular spot, where, in a niche, upon a pedestal, a very goddess
stands.
It is Molly, clad in white, from head to heel, with a lace scarf
twisted round her head and shoulders, and with one bare arm uplifted,
while with the other she holds an urn-shaped vase beneath her face,
from which a pale-blue flame arises.
Her eyes, larger, deeper, bluer than usual, are fixed with sad and
solemn meaning upon space. She scarcely seems to breathe; no quiver
disturbs her frame, so intensely does she listen for a coming footstep.
In her heart she hopes it may be Luttrell's.
The minutes pass. Her arm is growing tired, her eyes begin to blink
against her will; she is on the point of throwing up the game,
descending from her pedestal, and regaining her own room, when a
footfall recalls her to herself and puts her on her mettle.
Nearer it comes,--still nearer, until it stops altogether. Molly does
not dare turn to see who it is. A moment later, a wild cry, a smothered
groan, falls upon her ear, and, turning her head, terrified, she sees
her grandfather rush past her, tottering, trembling, until he reaches
his own room, where he disappears.
Almost at the same instant the others who have been in the
drawing-room, drawn to the spot by the delicate machinations of Mr.
Potts, come on the scene; while Marcia, who has heard that scared cry,
emerges quickly from among them and passes up the stairs into her
grandfather's room.
There follows an awkward silence. Cecil, who has been adorning a corner
farther on, comes creeping toward them, pale and nervous, having also
been a witness to Mr. Amherst's hurried flight; and she and Molly, in
their masquerading costumes, feel, to say the least of it, rather
small.
They cast a withering glance at Potts, who has grown a lively purple;
but he only shakes his head, having no explanation to offer, and
knowing himself for once in his life to be unequal to the occasion.
Mrs. Darley is the first to break silence.
"What is it? What has happened? Why are you both here in your
night-dresses?" she asks, unguardedly, losing her head in the
excitement of the moment.
"What do you mean?" says Cecil, angrily. "'Nightdresses'! If you don't
know dressing-gowns when you see them, I am sorry for you. Plantagenet,
what has happened?"
"It was grandpapa," says Molly, in a frightened tone. "He came by, and
I think was upset by my--appearance. Oh, I hope I have not done him any
harm! Mr. Potts, _why_ did you make me do it?"
"How could I tell?" replies Potts, who is as white as their costumes.
"What an awful shriek he gave! I thought such a stern old card as he is
would have had more pluck!"
"I was positive he was in bed," says Cecil, "or I should never have
ventured."
"He is never where he ought to be," mutters Potts gloomily.
Here conversation fails them. For once they are honestly dismayed, and
keep their eyes fixed in anxious expectation on the bedchamber of their
host. Will Marcia _never_ come?
At length the door opens and she appears, looking pale and
_distraite_. Her eyes light angrily as they fall on Molly.
"Grandpapa is very much upset. He is ill. It was heartless,--a cruel
trick," she says, rather incoherently. "He wishes to see you, Eleanor,
instantly. You had better go to him."
"Must I?" asks Molly, who is quite colorless, and much inclined to cry.
"Unless you wish to add disobedience to your other unfeeling conduct,"
replies Marcia, coldly.
"No, no; of course not. I will go," says Molly, nervously.
With faltering footsteps she approaches the fatal door, whilst the
others disperse and return once more to the drawing-room,--all, that
is, except Lady Stafford, who seeks her own chamber, and Mr. Potts,
who, in an agony of doubt and fear, lingers about the corridor,
awaiting Molly's return.
As she enters her grandfather's room she finds him lying on a couch,
half upright, an angry, disappointed expression on his face, distrust
in his searching eyes.
"Come here," he says, harshly, motioning her with one finger to his
side, "and tell me why you, of all others, should have chosen to play
this trick upon me. Was it revenge?"
"Upon you, grandpapa! Oh, not upon you," says Molly, shocked. "It was
all a mistake,--a mere foolish piece of fun; but I never thought
_you_ would have been the one to see me."
"Are you lying? Let me look at you. If so, you do it cleverly. Your
face is honest. Yet I hear it was for me alone this travesty was
enacted."
"Whoever told you so spoke falsely," Molly says, pale but firm, a great
indignation toward Marcia rising in her breast. She has her hands on
the back of a chair, and is gazing anxiously but openly at the old man.
"Why should I seek to offend you, who have been so kind to me,--whose
bread I have eaten? You do not understand: you wrong me."
"I thought it was your mother," whispers he, with a quick shiver, "from
her grave, returned to reproach me,--to remind me of all the miserable
past. It was a senseless thought. But the likeness was awful,--appalling.
She was my favorite daughter, yet she of all creatures was the one to
thwart me most; and I did not forgive. I left her to pine for the
luxuries to which she was accustomed from her birth, and could not then
procure. She was delicate. I let her wear her heart out waiting for a
worthless pardon. And what a heart it was! _Then_ I would not
forgive; now--_now_ I crave forgiveness. Oh, that the dead could
speak!"
He covers his face with his withered hands, that shake and tremble like
October leaves, and a troubled sigh escapes him. For the moment the
stern old man has disappeared; only the penitent remains.
"Dear grandpapa, be comforted," says Molly, much affected, sinking on
her knees beside him. Never before, by either brother or grandfather,
has her dead mother been so openly alluded to. "She did forgive. So
sweet as she was, how could she retain a bitter feeling? Listen to me.
Am I not her only child? Who so meet to offer you her pardon? Let me
comfort you."
Mr. Amherst makes no reply, but he gently presses the fingers that have
found their way around his neck.
"I, too, would ask pardon," Molly goes on, in her sweet, low,
_trainante_ voice, that has a sob in it here and there. "How shall
I gain it after all that I have done--to distress you so, although
unintentionally?--And you think hardly of me, grandpapa? You think I
did it to annoy you?"
"No, no; not now."
"I have made you ill," continues Molly, still crying; "I have caused
you pain. Oh, grandpapa! do say you are not angry with me."
"I am not. You are a good child, and Marcia wronged you. Go now, and
forget all I may have said. I am weak at times, and--and---- Go, child;
I am better alone."
In the corridor outside stands Mr. Potts, with pale cheeks and very
pale eyes. Even his hair seems to have lost a shade, and looks subdued.
"Well, what did he say to you?" he asks, in what he fondly imagines to
be a whisper, but which would be distinctly audible in the hall
beneath. "Was he awfully mad? Did he cut up very rough? I wouldn't have
been in your shoes for a million. Did he--did he--say anything
about--_me_?"
"I don't believe he remembered your existence," says Molly, with a
laugh, although her eyelids are still of a shade too decided to be
becoming. "He knew nothing of your share in the transaction."
Whereupon Mr. Potts declares himself thankful for so much mercy in a
devout manner, and betakes himself to the smoking-room.
Here he is received with much applause and more congratulations.
"Another of Mr. Potts's charming entertainments," says Sir Penthony,
with a wave of the hand. "Extraordinary and enthusiastic reception!
Such success has seldom before been witnessed! Last time he blew up two
young women; to-night he has slain an offensive old gentleman! Really,
Potts, you must allow me to shake hands with you."
"Was there ever anything more unfortunate?" says Potts, in a lachrymose
tone. He has not been inattentive to the requirements of the inner man
since his entrance, and already, slowly but surely, the brandy is doing
its work. "It was all so well arranged, and I made sure the old boy was
gone to bed."
"He is upset," murmurs Sir Penthony, with touching concern, "and no
wonder. Such tremendous exertion requires the aid of stimulants to keep
it up. My dear Potts, do have a little more brandy-and-soda. You don't
take half care of yourself."
"Not a drop,--not a drop," says Mr. Potts, drawing the decanter toward
him. "It don't agree with me. Oh, Stafford! you should have seen Miss
Massereene in her Greek costume. I think she is the loveliest creature
I ever saw. She _is_," goes on Mr. Potts, with unwise zeal, "by
_far_ the loveliest, 'and the same I would rise to maintain.'"
"I wouldn't, if I were you," says Philip, who is indignant. "There is
no knowing what tricks your legs may play with you."
"She was just like Venus, or--or some of those other goddesses," says
Mr. Potts, vaguely.
"I can well believe it," returns Stafford; "but don't let emotion
master you. 'There's naught, no doubt, so much the spirit calms as rum
and true religion.' Try a little of the former."
"There's nothing in life I wouldn't do for that girl,--nothing, I
declare to you, Stafford," goes on Potts, who is quite in tears by this
time; "but she wouldn't look at me."
Luttrell and Philip are enraged; Stafford and the others are in roars.
"Wouldn't she, Potts?" says Stafford, with a fine show of sympathy.
"Who knows? Cheer up, old boy, and remember women never know their own
minds at first. She may yet become alive to your many perfections, and
know her heart to be all yours. Think of that. And why should she not?"
says Sir Penthony, with free encouragement. "Where could she get a
better fellow? 'Faint heart,' you know, Potts. Take my advice and pluck
up spirit, and go in for her boldly. Throw yourself at her feet."
"I will," says Mr. Potts, ardently.
"To-morrow," advises Sir Penthony, with growing excitement.
"Now," declares Potts, with wild enthusiasm, making a rush for the
door.
"Not to-night; wait until to-morrow," Sir Penthony says, who has not
anticipated so ready an acceptance of his advice, getting between him
and the door. "In my opinion she has retired to her room by this; and
it really would be rather sketchy, you know,--eh?"
"What do you say, Luttrell?" asks Potts, uncertainly. "What would you
advise?"
"Bed," returns Luttrell, curtly, turning on his heel.
And finally the gallant Potts is conveyed to his room, without being
allowed to lay his hand and fortune at Miss Massereene's feet.
* * * * *
About four o'clock the next day,--being that of the ball,--Sir Penthony,
strolling along the west corridor, comes to a standstill before Cecil's
door, which happens to lie wide open.
Cecil herself is inside, and is standing so as to be seen, clad in the
memorable white dressing-gown of the evening before, making a careful
choice between two bracelets she holds in her hands.
"Is that the garment in which you so much distinguished yourself last
night?" Sir Penthony cannot help asking; and, with a little start and
blush, she raises her eyes.
"Is it you?" she says, smiling. "Yes, this is the identical robe.
Won't you come in, Sir Penthony? You are quite welcome. If you have
nothing better to do you can stay with and talk to me for a little."
"I have plenty to do,"--coming in and closing the door,--"but nothing I
would not gladly throw over to accept an invitation from you."
"Dear me! What a charming speech! What a courtier you would have made!
Consider yourself doubly welcome. I adore pretty speeches, when
addressed to myself. Now, sit there, while I decide on what jewelry I
shall wear to-night."
"So this is her sanctum," thinks her husband, glancing around. What a
dainty nest it is, with its innumerable feminine fineries, its piano,
its easel, its pretty pink-and-blue _cretonnne_, its wealth of
flowers, although the season is of the coldest and bleakest.
A cozy fire burns brightly. In the wall opposite is an open door,
through which one catches a glimpse of the bedroom beyond, decked out
in all its pink-and-white glory. There is a very sociable little clock,
a table strewn with wools and colored silks, and mirrors everywhere.
As for Cecil herself, with honest admiration her husband carefully
regards her. What a pretty woman she is! full of all the tender graces,
the lovable caprices, that wake the heart to fondness.
How charming a person to come to in grief or trouble, or even in one's
gladness! How full of gayety, yet immeasurable tenderness, is her
speaking face! Verily, there is a depth of sympathy to be found in a
pretty woman that a plain one surely lacks.
Her white gown becomes her _a merveille_, and fits her to
perfection. She cannot be called fat, but as certainly she cannot be
called thin. When people speak of her with praise, they never fail to
mention the "pretty roundness" of her figure.
Her hair has partly come undone, and hangs in a fair, loose coil,
rather lower than usual, upon her neck. This suits her, making still
softer her soft though _piquante_ face.
Her white and jeweled fingers are busy in the case before her as, with
puckered brows, she sighs over the difficulty of making a wise and
becoming choice in precious stones for the evening's triumphs.
At last--a set of sapphires having gained the day--she lays the casket
aside and turns to her husband, while wondering with demure amusement
on the subject of his thoughts during these past few minutes.
He has been thinking of her, no doubt. Her snowy wrapper, with all its
dainty frills and bows, is eminently becoming. Yes, beyond all question
he has been indulging in sentimental regrets.
Sir Penthony's first remark rather dispels the illusion.
"The old boy puts you up very comfortably down here, don't he?" he
says, in a terribly prosaic tone.
Is this all? Has he been admiring the furniture during all these
eloquent moments of silence, instead of her and her innumerable charms?
Insufferable!
"He do," responds she, dryly, with a careful adaptation of his English.
Sir Penthony raises his eyebrows in affected astonishment, and then
they both laugh.
"I do hope you are not going to say rude things to me about last
night," she says, still smiling.
"No. You may remember once before on a very similar occasion I told you
I should never again scold you, for the simple reason that I considered
it language thrown away. I was right, as the sequel proved. Besides,
the extreme becomingness of your toilet altogether disarmed me. By the
bye, when do you return to town?"
"Next week. And you?"
"I shall go--when you go. May I call on you there?"
"Indeed you may. I like you quite well enough," says her ladyship, with
unsentimental and therefore most objectionable frankness, "to wish you
for my friend."
"Why should we not be more than friends, Cecil?" says Stafford, going
up to her and taking both her hands in a warm, affectionate clasp.
"Just consider how we two are situated: you are bound to me forever,
until death shall kindly step in to relieve you of me, and I am bound
to you as closely. Why, then, should we not accept our position, and
make our lives one?"
"You should have thought of all this before."
"How could I? Think what a deception you practiced on me when sending
that miserable picture. I confess I abhor ugliness. And then, your own
conditions,--what could I do but abide by them?"
"There are certain times when a woman does not altogether care about
being taken so completely at her word."
"But that was not one of them." Hastily. "I do not believe you would
have wished to live with a man you neither knew nor cared for."
"Perhaps not." Laughing. "Sometimes I hardly know myself what it is I
do want. But are we not very well as we are? I dare say, had we been
living together for the past three years, we should now dislike each
other as cordially as--as do Maud Darley and her husband."
"Impossible! Maud Darley is one person, you are quite another; while
I--well"--with a smile--"I honestly confess I fancy myself rather more
than poor Henry Darley."
"He certainly _is_ plain," says Cecil, pensively, "and--he
snores,--two great points against him, Yes, on consideration, you are
an improvement on Henry Darley." Then, with a sudden change of tone,
she says, "Does all this mean that you love me?"
"Yes I confess it, Cecil," answers he, gravely, earnestly. "I love you
as I never believed it possible I should love a woman. I am
twenty-nine, and--think me cold if you will--but up to this I never yet
saw the woman I wanted for my wife except you."
"Then you ought to consider yourself the happiest man alive, because
you have the thing you crave. As you reminded me just now, I am yours
until death us do part."
"Not all I crave, not the best part of you, your heart," replies he,
tenderly. "No man loving as I do, could be contented with a part."
"Oh, it is too absurd," says Cecil, with a little aggravating shake of
the head. "In love with your own wife in this prosaic nineteenth
century! It savors of the ridiculous. Such mistaken feeling has been
tabooed long ago. Conquer it; conquer it."
"Too late. Besides, I have no desire to conquer it. On the contrary, I
encourage it, in hope of some return. No, do not dishearten me. I know
what you are going to say; but at least you like me, Cecil?"
"Well, yes; but what of that? I like so many people."
"Then go a little further, and say you--love me."
"That would be going a _great_ deal further, because I love so
few."
"Never mind. Say 'Penthony, I love you.'"
He has placed his hands upon her shoulders, and is regarding her with
anxious fondness.
"Would you have me tell you an untruth?"
"I would have you say you love me."
"But supposing I cannot in honesty?"
"Try."
"Of course I can try. Words without meaning are easy things to say. But
then--a lie; that is a serious matter.
"It may cease to be a lie, once uttered."
"Well,--just to please you, then, and as an experiment--and---- You are
_sure_ you will not despise me for saying it?"
"No."
"Nor accuse me afterward of deceit?"
"Of course not."
"Nor think me weak-minded?"
"No, no. How could I?"
"Well, then--Penthony--I--_don't love you the least bit in the
world_!" declares Cecil, with a provoking, irresistible laugh,
stepping backward out of his reach.
Sir Penthony does not speak for a moment or two; then "'Sweet is
revenge, especially to women,'" he says, quietly, although at heart he
is bitterly chagrined. To be unloved is one thing--to be laughed at is
another. "After all, you are right. There is nothing in this world so
rare or so admirable as honesty. I am glad you told me no untruth, even
in jest."
Just at this instant the door opens, and Molly enters. She looks
surprised at such an unexpected spectacle as Cecil's husband sitting in
his wife's boudoir, _tete-a-tete_ with her.
"Don't be shy, dear," says Cecil, mischievously, with a little wicked
laugh; "you may come in; it is only my husband."
The easy nonchalance of this speech, the only half-suppressed amusement
in her tone, angers Sir Penthony more than all that has gone before.
With a hasty word or two to Molly, he suddenly remembers a pressing
engagement, and, with a slight bow to his wife, takes his departure.