"Ah, starry hope, that didst arise
But to be overcast!"
--Edgar A. Poe.
"The ring asunder broke."
--_German Song._
At breakfast Molly is very pale, and speaks little. She toys with her
toast, but cannot eat. Being questioned, she confesses herself
fatigued, not being accustomed to late hours.
She neither looks at Luttrell, nor does he seek to attract her
attention in any way.
"A good long walk will refresh you more than anything," says Talbot
Lowry, who has been spending the past few days at Herst. He addresses
Molly, but his eyes seek Cecil's as he does so, in the fond hope that
she will take his hint and come with him for a similar refresher to
that he has prescribed for Molly.
Cecil's unfortunate encouragement of the night before--displayed more
with a view to chagrining Sir Penthony than from a mere leaning toward
coquetry--has fanned his passion to a very dangerous height. He is
consumed with a desire to speak, and madly flatters himself that there
is undoubted hope for him.
To throw himself at Lady Stafford's feet, declare his love, and ask her
to leave, for him, a husband who has never been more to her than an
ordinary acquaintance, and to renounce a name that can have no charms
for her, being devoid of tender recollections or sacred memories, seems
to him, in his present over-strained condition, a very light thing
indeed. In return, he argues feverishly, he can give her the entire
devotion of a heart, and, what is perhaps a more practical offer, a
larger income than she can now command.
Then, in the present day, what so easily, or quietly, or satisfactorily
arranged, as a divorce in high life, leaving behind it neither spot nor
scar, nor anything unpleasant in the way of social ostracism? And this
might--nay, _should_--follow.
Like Molly, he has lain awake since early dawn arranging plans and
rehearsing speeches; and now, after breakfast, as he walks beside the
object of his adoration through the shrubberies and outer walks into
the gardens beyond, carried away by the innate vanity of him, and his
foolish self-esteem, and not dreaming of defeat, he decides that the
time has come to give voice to his folly.
They are out of view of the windows, when he stops abruptly, and says
rashly,--with a pale face, it is true, but a certain amount of
composure that bespeaks confidence,--"Cecil, I can keep silence no
longer. Let me speak to you, and tell you all that is in my heart."
"He has fallen in love with Molly," thinks Cecil, wondering vaguely at
the manner of his address, he having never attempted to call her by her
Christian name before.
"You are in love?" she says, kindly, but rather uncertainly, not being
able at the moment to call to mind any tender glances of his cast at
Molly or any suspicious situations that might confirm her in her fancy.
"Need you ask?" says Lowry, taking her hand, feeling still further
emboldened by the gentleness with which she has received his first
advance. "Have not all these months--nay, this year past--taught you so
much?"
"'This year past?'" Cecil repeats, honestly at sea, and too much
surprised by the heat of his manner to grasp at once the real meaning
of his words. Though I think a second later a faint inkling of it comes
to her, because she releases her hand quickly from his clasp, and her
voice takes a sharper tone. "I do not understand you," she says, "Take
care you understand--yourself."
But the warning comes too late. Lowry, bent on his own destruction,
goes on vehemently:
"I do--too well. Have I not had time to learn it?" he says,
passionately. "Have I not spent every day, every hour, in thoughts of
you? Have I not lived in anticipation of our meeting? While you, Cecil,
surely you, too, were glad when we were together. The best year I have
ever known has been this last, in which I have grown to love you."
"Pray cease," says Cecil, hurriedly, stepping back and raising her hand
imperiously. "What can you mean? You must be out of your senses to
speak to me like this."
Although angry, she is calm, and, indeed, scarcely cares to give way to
indignation before Lowry, whom she has always looked upon with great
kindness and rather in the light of a boy. She is a little sorry for
him, too, that he should have chosen to make a fool of himself with
her, who, she cannot help feeling, is his best friend. For to all the
moodiness and oddity of his nature she has been singularly lenient,
bearing with him when others would have lost all patience. And this is
her reward. For a full minute Lowry seems confounded. Then, "I must
indeed be bereft of reason," he says, in a low, intense voice, "if I am
to believe that you can receive like this the assurance of my love. It
cannot be altogether such a matter of wonder--my infatuation for
you--as you would have me think, considering how you"--in a rather
choked tone--"led me on."
"'Led you on'! My dear Mr. Lowry, how can you talk so foolishly? I
certainly thought I knew you very well, and"--docketing off each item
on her fingers--"I let you run my messages now and then; and I danced
with you; and you sent me the loveliest flowers in London or out of it;
and you were extremely kind to me on all occasions; but then so many
other men were kind also, that really beyond the flowers,"--going back
to her second finger,--"(which were incomparably finer than those I
ever received from any one else), I don't see that you were more to me
than the others."
"Will you not listen to me? Will you not even let me plead my cause?"
"Certainly not, considering what a cause it is. You must be mad."
"You are cold as ice," says he, losing his head. "No other woman but
yourself would consent to live as you do. A wife, and yet no wife!"
"Mr. Lowry," says Lady Stafford, with much dignity but perfect temper,
"you forget yourself. I must really beg you not to discuss my private
affairs. The life I lead might not suit you or any single one of your
acquaintance, but it suits me, and that is everything. You say I am
'cold,' and you are right: I am. I fancied (wrongly) my acknowledged
coldness would have prevented such a scene as I have been forced to
listen to, by you, to-day. You are the first who has ever dared to
insult me. You are, indeed, the first man who has ever been at my feet,
metaphorically speaking or otherwise; and I sincerely trust," says Lady
Stafford, with profound earnestness, "you may be the last, for anything
more unpleasant I never experienced."
"Have you no pity for me?" cries he, passionately. "Why need you scorn
my love? Every word you utter tears my heart, and you,--you care no
more than if I were a dog! Have you no feeling? Do you never wish to be
as other women are, beloved and loving, instead of being as now----"
"Again, sir, I must ask you to allow my private life to _be_
private," says Cecil, still with admirable temper, although her color
has faded a good deal, and the fingers of one hand have closed
convulsively upon a fold of her dress. "I may, perhaps, pity you, but I
can feel nothing but contempt for the love you offer, that would lower
the thing it loves!"
"Not lower it," says he, quickly, grasping eagerly at what he vainly
hopes is a last chance. "Under the circumstances a divorce could be
easily obtained. If you would trust yourself to me there should be no
delay. You might easily break this marriage-tie that can scarcely be
considered binding."
"And supposing--I do not wish to break it? How then? But enough of
this. I cannot listen any longer. I have heard too much already. I must
really ask you to leave me. Go."
"Is this how your friendships end?" asks he, bitterly. "Will you deny I
was even so much to you?"
"Certainly not. Though I must add that had I known my friendship with
you would have put me in the way of receiving so much insult as I have
received to-day, you should never have been placed upon my list. Let me
pray you to go away now, to leave Herst entirely for the present,
because it would be out of the question my seeing you again,--at least
until time has convinced you of your folly. You are an old friend,
Talbot, and I would willingly try and forget all that has happened
to-day, or at all events to remember it only as a passing madness."
"Am I a boy, a fool, that you speak to me like this?" cries he,
catching her hand to detain her as she moves away. "And why do you talk
of 'insult'? I only urge you to exchange indifference for love,--the
indifference of a husband who cares no more for you than for the gravel
at your feet."
"And pray, sir, by what rule do you measure the amount of my regard for
Lady Stafford?" exclaims Sir Penthony, walking through an open space in
the privet hedge that skirts this corner of the garden, where he has
been spell-bound for the last two minutes. A short time, no doubt,
though a great deal can be said in it.
He is positively livid, and has his eyes fixed, not on his enemy, but
on his wife.
Lowry changes color, but gives way not an inch; he also tightens his
grasp on Cecil's unwilling hand, and throws up his head defiantly.
"Let my wife's hand go directly," says Stafford, in a low but furious
tone, advancing.
By a quick movement Cecil wrenches herself free and gets between the
two men. She does not fling herself, she simply gets there, almost--as
it seems--without moving.
"Not another word, Sir Penthony," she says, quietly. "I forbid it. I
will have no scene. Mr. Lowry has behaved foolishly, but I desire that
nothing more be said about it. Go,"--turning to Lowry, who is frowning
ominously, and pointing imperiously to a distant gate,--"and do as I
asked you a few moments since,--leave Herst without delay."
So strong is her determination to avoid an _esclandre_, and so
masterly is her manner of carrying out her will, that both men
instinctively obey her. Sir Penthony lowers his eyes and shifts his
aggressive position; Lowry, with bent head, and without another word,
walks away from her down the garden-path out of the gate, and
disappears--for years.
When he has quite gone, Sir Penthony turns to her.
"Is this the way you amuse yourself?" he asks, in a compressed voice.
"Do not reproach me," murmurs she, hurriedly; "I could not bear it
now." She speaks clearly, but her tone has lost its firmness, because
of the little tremor that runs through it, while her face is white as
one of the pale blossoms she holds within her hand. "Besides, it is not
deserved. Were you long here before you spoke?"
"Long enough." With a world of meaning in his tone.
"Then you heard my exculpation. 'Cold as ice,' he called me. And he was
right. As I am to you, Sir Penthony, so am I to all men. No one yet has
touched my heart."
"For myself I can answer," replies he, bitterly; "but for the
others----"
"Not another word," she breaks in, vehemently. "Do not say--do not even
hint at--what I might find it impossible to forgive. Not even to you
will I seek to justify myself on such a point. And you," she says,
tears of agitation arising from all she has undergone, mingled with
much pent-up wounded feeling, coming thickly into her eyes, "you should
be the last to blame me for what has happened, when you remember who it
was placed me in such a false position as makes men think they may say
to me what they choose."
"You are unjust," he answers, nearly as white as herself. "I only
followed out your wishes. It was your own arrangement; I but acceded to
it."
"You should not have done so," cries she, with subdued excitement. "You
were a man of the world, capable of judging; I was a foolish girl,
ignorant of the consequences that must follow on such an act. Our
marriage was a wretched mistake."
"Cecil, you know you can escape from your false position as soon as you
choose. No one loves you as I do."
"Impossible." Coldly. "In this world a thing once done can never be
undone. Have you lived so long without learning that lesson?"
As she speaks she turns from him, and, walking quickly away, leaves him
alone in the garden. Much as he has grown to love her, never until now
has the very tenderness of affection touched him,--now, when the
laughter-loving Cecil has changed for him into the feeling, accusing
woman; although a woman dead to him, with a heart locked carefully,
lest he should enter it.
How can he tell, as she goes so proudly along the garden-path, that her
bosom is heaving with shame and unconfessed longing, and that down her
cheeks--so prone to dimple with joyous laughter--the bitter tears are
falling?
Almost as she reaches the house she encounters Tedcastle, and turns
hastily aside, lest he should mark the traces of her recent weeping.
But so bent is he on his own dismal thoughts that he heeds her not, but
follows aimlessly the path before him that leads to the balcony from,
which the smaller drawing-room may be reached.
He is depressed and anxious, the night's vigil having induced him to
believe himself somewhat hasty in his condemnation of Molly. As he
gains the boudoir he starts, for there in the room, with the light
flashing warmly upon her, stands Molly Bawn alone.
She is dressed in a long trailing gown of black velveteen,--an
inexpensive dress, but one that suits her admirably, with its slight
adornment of little soft lace frillings at the throat and wrists.
Pausing irresolutely, Luttrell makes as though he would retrace his
steps.
"Do not go," says Molly's voice, clear and firm. "As you are here, I
wish to speak to you."
She beckons him to come a little nearer to her, and silently he obeys
the gesture. There is a small round table between them, upon which
Molly is leaning rather heavily. As he approaches, however, and waits,
gazing curiously at her for her next word, she straightens herself and
compels her eyes to meet his.
"Here is your ring," she says, drawing the glittering treasure from her
finger and placing it before him.
There is not the extremest trace of excitement or feeling of any kind
in her tone. Luttrell, on the contrary, shrinks as though touched by
fire.
"Keep it," he says, involuntarily, coloring darkly.
"No--no."
"Why?" he urges. "It will not hurt you, and"--with a quickly-suppressed
sigh--"it may perhaps compel you to think of me now and then."
"I have neither wish nor desire ever to think of you again," returns
she, still in the same cold, even tone, pushing the ring still closer
to him with her first finger. There is something of contempt in the
action. A ray from the dancing sun outside falls through the glass on
to the diamonds, making them flash and sparkle in their gold setting.
"That admits of no answer," says Luttrell, with low but passionate
bitterness; and, taking up the ring, he flings it lightly into the very
heart of the glowing fire.
With a sudden loss of self-restraint Molly makes a movement forward as
though to prevent him; but too late,--already the greedy flames have
closed upon it.
Not all the agitation, not all his angry words of the night before,
have affected her so keenly as this last act. She bursts into a very
storm of tears.
"Oh! what have you done?" cries she. "You have destroyed it; you have
burned it,--my pretty ring!"
She clasps her hands together, and gazes with straining eyes into the
cruel fire. Something within her heart feels broken. Surely some string
has snapped. The ring, in spite of all, was a last link between them;
and now, too, it has gone.
"Molly!" says he, taking a step toward her, and holding out his hands,
softened, vanquished by her tears, ready to throw himself once more an
abject slave at her feet.
"Do not speak to me," returns she, still sobbing bitterly. "Have you
not done enough? I wish you would leave me to myself. Go away. There is
nothing more that you _can_ do."
Feeling abashed, he scarcely knows why, he silently quits the room.
Then down upon her knees before the fire falls Molly, and with the
poker strives with all her might to discover some traces of her lost
treasure. So diligent is her search that after a little while the ring,
blackened, disfigured, altered almost beyond recognition, lies within
her hand. Still it is her ring, however changed, and some small ray of
comfort gladdens her heart.
She is still, however, weeping bitterly, and examining sadly the
precious relic she has rescued from utter oblivion, and from which the
diamond, soiled, but still brilliant, has fallen into her palm, when
Philip enters.
"Molly, what has happened?" he asks, advancing toward her, shocked at
her appearance, which evinces all the deepest signs of woe. "What has
distressed you?"
"You have," cries she, with sudden vehement passion, all her sorrow and
anger growing into quick life as she sees him. "You are the cause of
all my misery. Why do you come near me? You might, at least, have grace
enough to spare me the pain of seeing you."
"I do not understand," he says, his face very pale. "In how have I
offended,--I, who would rather be dead than cause you any unhappiness?
Tell me how I have been so unfortunate."
"I hate you," she says, with almost childish cruelty, sobbing afresh.
"I wish you had died before I came to this place. You have come between
me and the only man I love. Yes,"--smiting her hands together in a very
agony of sorrow,--"he may doubt it if he will, but I _do_ love
him; and now we are separated forever. Even my ring"--with a sad glance
at it--"is broken, and so is--my heart."
"You are alluding to--Luttrell?" asks he,--his earliest suspicions at
last confirmed,--speaking with difficulty, so dry his lips have grown.
"I am."
"And how have I interfered between you and--him?"
"Why did you speak to me of love again last night," retorts she, "when
you must know how detestable a subject it is to me? He saw you put your
arm around me; he saw--ah! why did I not tell you then the truth (from
which through a mistaken feeling of pity I refrained), that your mere
touch _sickened_ me? Then you stooped, and he thought--you know
what he thought--and yet," cries Molly, with a gesture of aversion,
"how could he have thought it possible that I should allow _you_
of _all men_ to--kiss me?"
"Why speak of what I so well know?" interrupts he hoarsely, with bent
head and averted eyes. "You seldom spare me. You are angered, and for
what? Because you still hanker after a man who flung you away,--you,
for whose slightest wish I would risk my all. For a mere chimera, a
fancy, a fear only half developed, he renounced you."
"Say nothing more," says Molly, with pale lips and eyes large and dark
through regretful sorrow; "not another word. I think he acted rightly.
He thought I was false, and so thinking he was right to renounce. I do
not say this in his defense or because--or for any reason only----" She
pauses.
"Why not continue? Because you--love him still."
"Well, and why not?" says Molly. "Why should I deny my love for him?
Can any shame be connected with it? Yes," murmurs she, her sweet eyes
filling with tears, her small clasped hands trembling, "though he and I
can never be more to each other than we now are, I tell you I love him
as I never have and never shall love again."
"It is a pity that such love as yours should have no better return,"
says he, with an unlovely laugh. "Luttrell appears to bear his fate
with admirable equanimity."
"You are incapable of judging such a nature as his," returns she,
disdainfully. "He is all that is gentle, and true, and noble: while
you----" She stops abruptly, causing a pause that is more eloquent than
words, and, with a distant bow, hurries from the room.
Philip's star to-day is not in the ascendant. Even as he stands crushed
by Molly's bitter reproaches, Marcia, with her heart full of a settled
revenge toward him, is waiting outside her grandfather's door for
permission to enter.
That unlucky shadow of a kiss last night has done as much mischief as
half a dozen real kisses. It has convinced Marcia of the truth of that
which for weeks she has been vainly struggling to disbelieve, namely,
Philip's mad infatuation for Molly.
Now all doubt is at an end, and in its place has fallen a despair more
terrible than any uncertainty.
All the anguish of a heart rejected, that is still compelled to live on
loving its rejector, has been hers for the past two months, and it has
told upon her slowly but surely. She is strangely altered. Dark hollows
lay beneath her eyes, that have grown almost unearthly in expression,
so large are they, and so sombre is the fire that burns within them.
There is a compression about the lips that has grown habitual; small
lines mar the whiteness of her forehead, while among her raven tresses,
did any one mark them closely enough, fine threads of silver may be
traced.
Pacing up and down her room the night before, with widely-opened eyes,
gazing upon the solemn blackness that surrounds her, all the wrongs and
slights she has endured come to her with startling distinctness. No
sense of weariness, no thought of a necessity for sleep, disturbs her
reverie or breaks in upon the monotonous misery of her musings. She is
past all that. Already her death has come to her,--a death to her hope,
and joy, and peace,--even to that poor calm that goes so far to deceive
the outer world.
Oh, the cold, quiet night, when speech is not and sleep has forgotten
us! when all the doubts and fears and jealousies that in the blessed
daylight slumber, rise up to torture us when even the half-suspected
sneer, the covert neglect, that some hours ago were but as faintest
pin-pricks, now gall and madden as a poisoned thrust!
A wild thirst for revenge grows within her breast as one by one she
calls to mind all the many injuries she has received. Strangely
enough,--and unlike a woman,--her anger is concentrated on Philip,
rather than on the one he loves, instinct telling her he is not beloved
in return.
She broods upon her wrongs until, as the first bright streak of yellow
day illumes the room, flinging its glories profusely upon the wall and
ceiling, pretty knickknacks that return its greeting, and angry,
unthankful creature alike, a thought comes to her that promises to
amply satisfy her vengeful craving. As she ponders on it a curious
light breaks upon her face, a smile half triumph, half despair.
* * * * *
Now, standing before her grandfather's room, with a folded letter
crushed within her palm, and a heart that beats almost to suffocation,
she hears him bid her enter.
Fatigued by the unusual exertions of a ball, Mr. Amherst is seated at
his table in a lounging-chair, clad in his dressing-gown, and looking
older, feebler, than is his wont.
He merely glances at his visitor as she approaches, without comment of
any description.
"I have had something on my mind for some time, grandpapa," begins
Marcia, who is pale and worn, through agitation and the effects of a
long and hopeless vigil. "I think it only right to let you know. I have
suppressed it all this time, because I feared distressing you; but
now--now--will you read this?"
She hands him, as she speaks, the letter received by Philip two months
before relative to his unlucky dealings with some London Jews.
In silence Mr. Amherst reads it, in silence re-reads it, and finally,
folding it up again, places it within his desk.
"You and Philip have quarreled?" he says, presently, in a quiet tone.
"No, there has been no quarrel."
"Your engagement is at an end?"
"Yes."
"And is this the result of last night's vaunted pleasures?" asks he,
keenly. "Have you snatched only pain and a sense of failure from its
fleeting hours? And Eleanor, too,--she was pale at luncheon, and for
once silent,--has she too found her coveted fruit rotten at its core?
It is the universal law," says the old man, grimly, consoling himself
with a pinch of snuff, taken with much deliberation from an exquisite
Louis Quinze box that rests at his elbow, and leaning back languidly in
his chair. "Life is made up of hopes false as the _ignis-fatuus_.
When with the greatest sense of security and promise of enjoyment we
raise and seek to drain the cup of pleasure, while yet we gaze with
longing eyes upon its sparkling bubbles, and, stooping thirstily,
suffer our expectant lips at length to touch it, lo! it is then, just
as we have attained to the summit of our bliss, we find our sweetest
draught has turned to ashes in our mouth."
He stops and drums softly on the table for a moment or two, while
Marcia stands before him silently pondering.
"So Philip is already counting on my death," he goes on, meditatively,
still softly tapping the table. "How securely he rests in the belief of
his succession! His father's son could scarcely fail to be a
spendthrift, and I will have--no--prodigal at Herst--to hew--and
cut--and scatter. A goodly heritage, truly, as Buscarlet called it. Be
satisfied, Marcia: your revenge is complete. Philip shall not inherit
Herst."
"I do not seek revenge," says Marcia, unsteadily, now her wish is
fulfilled and Philip hopelessly crushed, a cold, troubled faintness
creeping round her heart. An awful sense of despair, a fruitless
longing to recall her action, makes her tremble. "Only I could not bear
to see you longer deceived,--you, after all the care--the trouble--you
bestowed upon him. My conscience compelled me to tell you all."
"And you, Marcia,"--with an odd smile she is puzzled to
explain,--"_you_ have never deceived me, have you? All your pretty
speeches and tender cares have been quite sincere?"
"Dear grandpapa, yes."
"You have not wished me dead, or spoken or thought evilly of the old
tyrant at Herst, who has so often crossed and thwarted you?"
"Never, dear: how could I--when I remember----"
"Ay, quite so. When one remembers! And gratitude is so common a thing.
Will you oblige me by sending a line to Mr. Buscarlet, asking him to
come to me without delay?"
"You are going to alter your will?" she asks, faintly, shocked at the
speedy success of her scheme.
"Yes," coolly. "I am going to cut Philip out of it."
"Grandpapa, do not be too hard on him," she says, putting her hand
across her throat, and almost gasping. "He is young. Young men
sometimes----"
"I was once a young man myself, you seem to forget, and I know all
about it. Why did you give me that letter?" he asks, grimly. "Are you
chicken-hearted, now you have done the deed, like all women? It is too
late for remorse to be of use: you _have_ done it. Let it be your
portion to remember how you have willfully ruined his prospects."
A choking sigh escapes her as she quits the room. Truly she has bought
her revenge dearly. Not the poorest trace of sweetness lingers in it.
* * * * *
By this time it will be perceived that the house is in a secret
turmoil. Every one is at daggers drawn with every one else. Molly and
Lady Stafford have as yet exchanged no confidences, though keenly
desirous of doing so, each having noticed with the liveliest surmisings
the depression of the other.
Mr. Potts alone, who is above suspicion (being one of those cheerful
people who never see anything--no matter how closely under their
noses--until it is brought before them in the broadest language),
continues blissfully unconscious of the confusion that reigns around,
and savors his conversation throughout the evening with as many
embarrassing remarks as he can conveniently put in.
"Eaten bread is soon forgotten," says he, sententiously, during a
pause. "You all seem strangely oblivious of the fact that last night
there was a ball in this house. Why shirk the subject? I like talking,"
says Mr. Potts, superfluously, "and surely you must all have something
to communicate concerning it. Thanks to our own exertions, I think it
was as good a one as ever I was at; and the old boy"--(I need scarcely
say Mr. Amherst has retired to rest)--was uncommon decent about giving
us the best champagne."
"You took very good care to show him how you appreciated his
hospitality," says Sir Penthony, mildly.
"Well, why shouldn't I do honor to the occasion? A ball at Herst don't
come every day. As a rule, an affair of the kind at a country house is
a failure, as the guests quarrel dreadfully among themselves next day;
but ours has been a brilliant exception."
"Brilliant indeed," says Lady Stafford, demurely.
"But what became of Lowry?" demands this wretched young man, who has
never yet learned that silence is golden. "He told me this morning he
intended staying on until the end of the week, and off he goes to
London by the midday train without a word of warning. Must have heard
some unpleasant news, I shouldn't wonder, he looked so awfully cut up.
Did he tell you anything about it?" To Lady Stafford.
"No." In a freezing tone. "I see no reason why I, in particular, should
be bored by Mr. Lowry's private woes."
"Well, you were such a friend, you know, for one thing," says Potts,
surprised, but obtuse as ever.
"So I am of yours; but I sincerely trust the fact of my being so will
not induce you to come weeping to me whenever you chance to lose your
heart or place all your money on the wrong horse."
"Did he lose his money, then?"
"Plantagenet, dancing has muddled your brain. How should I know whether
he lost his money or not? I am merely supposing. You are dull to-night.
Come and play a game at ecarte with me, to see if it may rouse you."
They part for the night rather earlier than usual, pleading
fatigue,--all except Mr. Potts, who declares himself fresh as a daisy,
and proposes an impromptu dance in the ball-room. He is instantly
snubbed, and retires gracefully, consoling himself with the reflection
that he has evidently more "go" in his little finger than they can
boast in their entire bodies.
Sir Penthony having refused to acknowledge his wife's parting
salutation,--meant to conciliate,--Cecil retires to her room in a state
of indignation and sorrow that reduces her presently to tears.
Her maid, entering just as she has reached the very highest pinnacle of
her wrongs, meets with anything but a warm reception.
"How now, Trimmins? Did I ring?" asks she, with unwonted sharpness,
being unpleasantly mindful of the redness of her eyes.
"No, my lady; but I thought----"
"Never think," says Cecil, interrupting her with unreasoning
irritation.
"No, my lady. I only thought perhaps you would see Miss Massereene,"
persists Trimmins, meekly. "She wishes to know, with her love, if you
can receive her now."
"Miss Massereene? Of course I can. Why did you not say so before?"
"Your ladyship scarcely gave me time," says Trimmins, demurely, taking
an exhaustive survey of her cambric apron.
"True; I was hasty," Cecil acknowledges, in her impulsive, honest,
haughty way. "Tell Miss Massereene I shall be delighted to see her at
once."
Presently Molly enters, her eyelids pink, the corners of her mouth
forlornly curved, a general despondency in her whole demeanor.
Cecil, scarcely more composed, advances to meet her.
"Why, Molly!" she says, pathetically.
"You have been crying," says Molly, in the same breath, throwing
herself into her arms.
"I have indeed, my dear," confesses Cecil, in a lachrymose tone, and
then she begins to cry again, and Molly follows suit, and for the next
five minutes they have a very comfortable time of it together.
Then they open their hearts to each other and relate fluently, as only
a woman can, all the intolerable wrongs and misjudgment they have
undergone at the hands of their lovers.
"To accuse me of anything so horrible!" says Molly, indignantly. "Oh,
Cecil! I don't believe he could care for me one bit and suspect me of
it."
"'Care for you!' Nonsense, my dear! he adores you. That is precisely
why he has made such a fool of himself. You know--
"Trifles light as air,
Are to the jealous confirmations strong
As proofs of holy writ.
"I like a man to be jealous,--in reason. Though when Sir Penthony walked
out from behind that hedge, looking as if he could, with pleasure,
devour me and Talbot at a bite, I confess I could gladly have dispensed
with the quality in him. You should have seen his face: for once I was
honestly frightened."
"Poor Cecil! it must have been a shock. And all because that tiresome
young man wouldn't go away."
"Just so. All might have been well had he only seen things in a
reasonable light. Oh, I was so angry! The most charming of your charms,
Molly," says Cecil, warmly, "is your ability to sympathize with one.
You can feel so thoroughly with and for me; and you never season your
remarks with unpalatable truths. You never say, 'I told you so,' or 'I
knew how it would be,' or 'didn't I warn you?' or anything else equally
objectionable. I really would rather a person boxed my ears outright
than give way to such phrases as those, pretending they know all about
a catastrophe, after it has happened. And," says her ladyship, with a
pensive sigh, "you _might_ perhaps (had you so chosen) have
accused me of flirting a leetle bit with that stupid Talbot."
"Well, indeed, perhaps I might, dear," says Molly, innocently.
"What, are you going to play the traitor after all that flattery? and
if so, what am I to say to you about your disgraceful encouragement of
Captain Shadwell?"
"I wonder if I did encourage him?" says Molly, contritely. "At first,
perhaps unconsciously, but lately I am sure I didn't. Do you know,
Cecil, I positively dislike him? he is so dark and silent, and still
persistent. But when a man keeps on saying he is miserable for love of
you, and that you are the cause of all his distress, and that he would
as soon be dead as alive, because you cannot return his affection, how
can one help feeling a little sorry for him?"
"I don't feel in the least sorry for Talbot. I thought him extremely
unpleasant and impertinent, and I hope with all my heart he is very
unhappy to-night, because it will do him good."
"Cecil, how cruel you are!"
"Well, by what right does he go about making fierce love to married
women, compelling them to listen to his nonsense whether they like it
or not, and getting them into scrapes? I don't break my heart over Sir
Penthony, but I certainly do not wish him to think badly of me."
"At least," says Molly, relapsing again into the blues, "you have this
consolation: you cannot lose Sir Penthony."
"That might also be looked on as a disadvantage. Still, I suppose there
is some benefit to be gained from my position," says Cecil,
meditatively. "_My_ lover (if indeed he is my lover) cannot play
the false knight with _me_; I defy him to love--and to ride away.
There are no breakers ahead for me. He is mine irrevocably, no matter
how horribly he may desire to escape. But you need not envy me; it is
sweeter to be as you are,--to know him yours without the shadow of a
tie. He is not lost to you."
"Effectually. What! do you think I would submit to be again engaged to
a man who could fling me off for a chimera, a mere trick of the
imagination? If he were to beg my pardon on his knees,--if he were to
acknowledge every word he said to me a lie,--I would not look at him
again."
"I always said your pride would be your bane," says Cecil, reprovingly.
"Now, just think how far happier you would be if you were friends with
him again, and think of nothing else. What is pride in comparison with
comfort?"
"Have you forgiven Sir Penthony?"
"Freely. But he won't forgive me."
"Have you forgiven him the first great crime of all,--his indifference
toward his bride?"
"N--o," confesses her ladyship, smiling; "not yet."
"Ah! then don't blame me. I could have killed myself when I cried,"
says Molly, referring again to the past, with a little angry shiver;
"but I felt so sorry for my poor, pretty, innocent ring. And he looked
so handsome, so determined, when he flung it in the fire, with his eyes
quite dark and his figure drawn up; and--and--I could not help
wondering," says Molly, with a little tremble in her tone, "who next
would love him--and who--he--would love."
"I never thought you were so fond of him, dearest," says Cecil, laying
her hand softly on her friend's.
"Nor I,--until I lost him," murmurs poor Molly, with a vain attempt at
composure. Two tears fall heavily into her lap; a sob escapes her.
"Now you are going to cry again," interposes Cecil, with hasty but
kindly warning. "Don't. He is not going to fall in love with any one so
long as you are single, take my word for it. Nonsense, my dear! cheer
yourself with the certainty that he is at this very moment eating his
heart out, because he knows better than I do that, though there may be
many women, there is only one Molly Bawn in the world."
This reflection, although consolatory, has not the desired effect.
Instead of drying her eyes and declaring herself glad that Luttrell is
unhappy, Molly grows more and more afflicted every moment.
"My dear girl," exclaims Lady Stafford, as a last resource, "do pray
think of your complexion. I have finished crying; I shall give way to
crying no more, because I wish to look my best to-morrow, to let him
see what a charming person he has chosen to quarrel with. And my tears
are not so destructive as yours, because mine arise from vexation,
yours from feeling."
"I hardly know," says Molly, with an attempt at _nonchalance_ she
is far from feeling, "I really think I cried more for my diamond than
for--my lover. However, I shall take your advice; I shall think no more
about it. To-morrow"--rising and running to the glass, and pushing back
her disordered hair from her face, that is lovely in spite of marring
tears--"to-morrow I shall be gayer, brighter than he has ever yet seen
me. What! shall I let him think I fret because of him! He saw me once
in tears; he shall not see me so again."
"What a pity it is that grief should be so unbecoming!" says Cecil,
laughing. "I always think what a guy Niobe must have been if she was
indeed all tears."
"The worst thing about crying, I think," says Molly, "is the fatal
desire one feels to blow one's nose: that is the horrid part of it. I
knew I was looking odious all the time I was weeping over my ring, and
that added to my discomfort. By the bye, Cecil, what were you doing at
the table with a pencil just before we broke up to-night? Sir Penthony
was staring at you fixedly all through,--wondering, I am sure, at your
occupation, as, to tell the truth, was I."
"Nothing very remarkable. I was inditing a 'sonnet to your eyebrow,' or
rather to your lids, they were so delicately tinted, and so much in
unison with the extreme dejection of your entire bearing. I confess,
unkind as it may sound, they moved me to laughter. Ah! that reminds
me," says Cecil, her expression changing to one of comical terror, as
she starts to her feet, "Plantagenet came up at the moment, and lest he
should see my composition I hid it within the leaves of the
blotting-book. There it is still, no doubt. What shall I do if any one
finds it in the morning? I shall be read out of meeting, as I have an
indistinct idea that, with a view to making you laugh, I rather
caricatured every one in the room, more or less."
"Shall I run down for it?" says Molly. "I won't be a moment, and you
are quite undressed. In the blotting-book, you said? I shan't be any
time."
"Unless the ghosts detain you."
"Or, what would be much worse, any of our friends."