"I fain would follow love, if that could be."
--Tennyson.
Letitia in her widowed garments looks particularly handsome. All the
"trappings and the signs" of woe suit well her tall, full figure, her
fair and placid face.
Molly looks taller, slenderer than usual in her mourning robes. She is
one of those who grow slight quickly under affliction. Her rounded
cheeks have fallen in and show sad hollows; her eyes are larger,
darker, and show beneath them great purple lines born of many tears.
She has not seen Luttrell since her return home,--although Letitia
has,--and rarely asks for him. Her absorbing grief appears to have
swallowed up all other emotions. She has not once left the house. She
works little, she does not read at all; she is fast falling into a
settled melancholy.
"Molly," says Letitia, "Tedcastle is in the drawing-room. He
particularly asks to see you. Do not refuse him again. Even though your
engagement, as you say, is at an end, still remember, dearest, how
kind, how more than thoughtful, he has been in many ways since--of
late----"
Her voice breaks.
"Yes, yes, I will see him," Molly says, wearily, and, rising, wends her
way slowly, reluctantly, to the room which contains her lover.
At sight of him some chords that have lain hushed and forgotten in her
heart for many days come to life again. Her pulses throb, albeit
languidly, her color deepens; a something that is almost gladness
awakes within her. Alas! how human are we all, how short-lived our
keenest regrets! With the living love so near her she for the first
time (though only for a moment) forgets the dead one.
In her trailing, sombre dress, with her sorrowful white cheeks, and
quivering lips, she goes up to him and places her hand in his; while
he, touched with a mighty compassion, stares at her, marking with a
lover's careful eye all the many alterations in her face. So much havoc
in so short a time!
"How changed you are! How you must have suffered!" he says, tenderly.
"I have," she answers; and then, grown nervous, because of her trouble
and the fluttering of her heart, and that tears of late are so ready to
her, she covers her face with her hands, and, with the action of a
tired and saddened child, turning, hides it still more effectually upon
his breast.
"It is all very miserable," he says, after a pause, occupied in trying
to soothe.
"Ah! is it not? What trouble can be compared with it? To find him dead,
without a word, a parting sign!" She sighs heavily. "The bitterest
sting of all lies in the fact that but for my own selfishness I might
have seen him again. Had I returned home as I promised at the end of
the month I should have met my brother living; but instead I lingered
on, enjoying myself,"--with a shudder,--"while he was slowly breaking
his heart over his growing difficulties. It must all have happened
during this last month. He had no care on his mind when I left him; you
know that. You remember how light-hearted he was, how kindly, how good
to all."
"He was indeed, poor--poor fellow!"
"And some have dared to blame him," she says, in a pained whisper. "You
do not?"
"No--_no_."
"I have been calculating," she goes on, in a distressed tone, "and the
very night I was dancing so frivolously at that horrible ball he must
have been lying awake here waiting with a sick heart for the news that
was to--kill him. I shall never go to a ball again; I shall never dance
again," says Molly, with a passionate sob, scorning, as youth will, the
power of time to cure.
"Darling, why should you blame yourself? Such thoughts are morbid,"
says Luttrell, fondly caressing the bright hair that still lies loosely
against his arm. "Which of us can see into the future? And, if we
could, do you think it would add to our happiness? Shake off such
depressing ideas. They will injure not only your mind, but your body."
"I do not think I should feel it all quite so much," says Molly, in a
low, miserable, expressionless voice, "if I could only see him now and
then. No, not in the flesh--I do not mean that,--but if I could only
bring his face before my mind I might be content. For hours together I
sit, with my hands clasped before my eyes, trying to conjure him up,
and I cannot. Almost every casual acquaintance I possess, all the
people whose living or dying matters to me not at all, rise at my
command; but he never. Is it not curious?"
"Perhaps it is because your mind dwells too much upon him. But tell me
of your affairs," says Luttrell, abruptly but kindly, leading her to a
sofa and seating himself beside her, with a view of drawing her from
her unhappy thoughts. "Are they as bad as Mrs. Massereene says?"
"Quite as bad."
"Then what do they mean to do?" In a tone of the deepest commiseration.
"'They'? We, you mean. What others, I suppose, have learned to do
before us--work for our daily bread."
An incredulous look comes into his eyes, but he wisely subdues it.
"And what do you propose doing?" he asks, calmly, meaning in his own
mind to humor her.
"You are like Mr. Buscarlet,--he would know everything," says Molly,
with a smile; "but this is a question you must not ask me,--just yet. I
have a hope,--perhaps I had better say an idea; and until it is
confirmed or rejected I shall tell no one of it. No, not even you."
"Well, never mind. Tell me instead when you intend leaving Brooklyn."
"In a fortnight we must leave it. Is it not a little while?--only two
short weeks in which to say good-bye forever to my home,--(how much
that word comprises!)--to the place where all my life has been
spent,--where every stone, and tree, and path is endeared to me by a
thousand memories."
"And after?"
"We go to London. There I hope to work out my idea."
"You have forgotten to tell me," says Luttrell, slowly, "my part in all
these arrangements."
"Yours? Ah, Teddy, you put an end to our engagement in good time. Now
it must have been broken, whether we liked it or not."
"Meaning that I must not throw in my lot with yours? Do you know what
folly you are talking?" says Luttrell, almost roughly. "Ours, I am
assured, is an engagement that _cannot_ be broken. Not all the
cruel words that could be spoken--that have been spoken"--in a low tone
of reproach--"have power to separate us. You are mine, Molly, as I am
yours, forever. I will never give you up. And now--now--in the hour of
your trouble----" Breaking off, he gets up from his seat and commences
to pace the room excitedly.
She has risen too, and is standing with her eyes fixed anxiously upon
him. At length, "Let us put an end now to all misconceptions and
doubts," he says, stopping before her. "Your manner that last evening
at Herst, your greeting of to-day, have led me to hope again. I would
know without further delay whether I am wrong in thinking you care more
for me than for any other man. Am I? Speak, Molly, tell me
now--here--if you love me."
"I do--I do!" cries she, bursting into tears again, and flinging
herself in an abandonment of grief into his longing arms. "And that is
what makes my task so hard. That is why I have not allowed myself to
see you all these past days. It was not coldness, Teddy, it was love. I
dared not see you, because all must be at an end between us."
"Do you think, with you in my arms like this, with the assurance of
your love fresh upon your lips, and now"--stooping--"upon mine, I can
do anything but laugh at such treason as that?"
"Nay, but you must listen, Teddy, and believe that I am earnest in all
that I say. For the future I shall neither see you nor hear from you: I
must even try to forget you, if I would succeed in what lies before me.
From henceforth I shall do my best to regard you as a stranger, to keep
you at arm's length."
"Never," says Luttrell, emphatically, tightening his arms around her,
as though to enforce the meaning of the word and show the absurdity of
her last remark. "You talk as though you meant to convince me, but
unhappily you don't. The more you say the more determined I am to marry
you at once, and put a stop to all such nonsense as your trying to
work."
"And are you going to marry Letitia also, and Lovat, and the two little
girls, and the baby?" asks she, quietly. "Who is talking nonsense now?
You seem to forget that they and I are one."
"Something must be done," says Luttrell, wretchedly.
"I quite agree with you; but who is going to do it?"
"I will"--decidedly; "I shall cut the army. My father has been a member
and a staunch Conservative for years, and surely he must have some
interest. I have heard of posts under government where one has little
or nothing to do, and gets a capital salary for doing it; why should
not I drop into one of them? Then we might all live together, and
perhaps you might be happy."
"But in the meantime"--sadly--"we poor folks must live."
"That is the worst of it," says Luttrell, with questionable taste,
biting his moustache. "Well"--angrily--"I see you are as bent on having
your own way as ever. Tell me about this mighty plan of yours."
"I cannot, indeed, and you must not ask me. If I did tell you, probably
you would scoff at it, or perhaps be angry, and I will not let myself
be discouraged. It is quite useless your pressing me about this matter.
I will not tell."
"And do you mean to tell me you purpose going alone into the great
London world to seek your fortune, without a protector? You must be
mad."
"I have Letitia."
"Letitia"--indignantly--"is a very handsome woman, not more than ten
years older than yourself. _She_ a protector!"
"I can't help that."
"Yes, you can; but your--obstinacy--won't allow you. Do you, then,
intend to let no one know of your affairs?"
"I shall confide in Cecil Stafford, because I can't avoid it. But I
know she will keep my secret until I give her leave to speak."
"It comes to this, then, that you consider every one before me. It is
nothing to you whether I eat my heart out in ignorance of whether you
are alive or dead."
"Cecil"--hastily--"may tell you so much."
"Thank you; this is a wonderful concession."
"Why should I concede at all, when, as I have said, you are no longer
bound to me?"
"But I am,--more strongly so than ever; and I insist, I desire you,
Molly, to let me know what it is you intend doing."
He looks sterner than one would have conceived possible for him; Miss
Massereene evidently thinks him inhumanly so.
"Don't speak to me like that," she says, with quivering lips. "You
should not. I have made a vow not to disclose my secret to you of all
people, and would you have me break it?"
"But why?" impatiently.
"Because--have I not told you already?--because"--with a little dry
sob--"I love you so dearly that to encourage thoughts of you would
unfit me for my work. And it is partly for your own sake I do it, for
something tells me we shall never marry each other; and why should you
spend your life dreaming of a shadow?"
"It is the cruelest resolution a woman ever formed," replies he,
ignoring as beneath notice the latter part of her speech, and, putting
away her hands, takes once more to his irritable promenade up and down
the room.
Molly is crying, silently, exhaustedly. "My burden is too heavy for
me," she murmurs, faintly.
"Then why not let me help you to bear it?"
"If it will comfort you, Teddy"--brokenly--"I will give in so far as to
promise to write to you in six months. I ask you to wait till then. Is
it too long? If so, remember you are free--believe me it will be better
so--and I perhaps shall be happier in the thought----" And here
incontinently she breaks down.
"Don't," says Luttrell, hurriedly, whose heart grows faint within him
at the sight of her distress. "Molly, I give in. I am satisfied with
your last promise. I shall wait forever, if that will please you. Who
am I, that I should add one tear to the many you have already shed?
Forgive me, my own love."
"Yes, but do not say anything more to me to-day; I am tired," says
Molly, submitting to his caresses, though still a little sore at heart.
"Only one thing more," says this insatiable young man, who evidently
holds in high esteem the maxim to "strike while the iron is hot." "You
agree to a renewal of our engagement?"
"I suppose so. Although I know it is an act of selfishness on my part.
Nothing can possibly come of it."
"And if it is selfishness in you, what is it in me?" asks he, humbly.
"You know as well as I do I am no match for you, who, with your face,
your voice" (Molly winces perceptibly), "your manner, might marry whom
you choose. Yet I do ask you to wait"--eagerly--"until something comes
to our aid, to be true to me, no matter what happens, until I can claim
you."
"I will wait; I _will_ be true to you," she answers, with dewy
eyes uplifted to his, and a serene, earnest face. As she gives her
promise a little sigh escapes her, more full of content, I think, than
any regret.
After coming to this conclusion they talk more rationally for an hour
or so (a lover's hour, dear reader, is not as other hours; it never
drags; it is not full of yawns; it does not make us curse the day we
were born); and then Luttrell, by some unlucky chance, discovers he
must tear himself away.
As Molly rises to bid him good-bye, she catches her breath, and presses
her hand to her side.
"I have such a pain here," she says.
"You don't go out," says her lover, severely; "you want air. I shall
speak to Letitia if you won't take more care of yourself."
"I have not been out of the house for so long, I quite dread going."
"Then go to-morrow. If you will walk to the wood nearest you,--where
you will see no one,--I will meet you there."
"Very well," says Molly, obediently; and when they have said good-bye
for the fifth time, he really takes his departure.
How to reveal her weighty secret to Letitia troubles Molly much,--an
intimate acquaintance with her sister-in-law's character causing her to
know its disclosure will be received not only with discouragement, but
with actual disapproval. And yet--disclose it she must.
But how to break it happily. Having thought of many ways and means, and
rejected them all, she decides, with a sigh, that plain speaking will
be best.
"Letitia," she says, this very evening,--Luttrell having been gone some
hours,--"do you know Signor Marigny's address?"
She is leaning her elbows on the writing-table, and has let her rounded
chin sink into her palms' embrace; while her eyes fix themselves
steadily upon the pen, the paper, anything but Letitia.
"Signor Marigny! Your old singing-master? No. Why do you ask, dear?"
"Because I want to write to him."
"Do you? And what----? No, I have not got his address; I don't believe
I ever had it. How shall you manage?"
"I dare say I have it somewhere myself; don't trouble," says Molly,
knowing guiltily it lies just beneath her hand within the table-drawer.
She is glad of a respite, Letitia having forborne to press the
question.
Not for long, however; human nature can stand a good many things, but
curiosity conquers most.
"Why are you writing to Signor Marigny?" Letitia asks, in a gentle tone
of indifference, after a full five minutes' pause, during which she has
been devoured with a desire to know.
"Because I believe he will help me," says Molly, slowly. "I have been
thinking, Letty,--thinking very seriously,--and I have decided upon
making my fortune--_our_ fortune--out of my voice."
"Molly!"
"Well, dear, and why not? Do not dishearten me, Letty; you know we must
live, and what other plan can you suggest?"
"In London I thought perhaps we might get something to
do,"--mournfully,--"and there no one would hear of us. I have rather a
fancy for millinery, and one of those large establishments might take
me, while you could go as a daily governess," regarding her sister
doubtfully.
"Governess! oh, no! The insipidity, the drudgery of it, would kill me.
I should lose sight of the fact that I was my own mistress in such
genteel slavery. Besides, as a concert singer (and I _can_ sing),
I should earn as much in one night, probably, as I should otherwise in
a year."
"Oh, Molly!"--clasping her hands--"I cannot bear to think of it. It is
horrible; the publicity,--the dreadful ordeal. And you of all
others,--my pretty Molly----"
"It is well I am pretty," says Molly, with a supreme effort at
calmness; "they say a pretty woman with a voice takes better."
"Every word you say only convinces me more and more how cruel a task it
would be. And Molly, darling, I know he would not wish it."
"I think he would wish me to do my duty," says Molly, gazing with great
tearless eyes through the window into space, while her slender fingers
meet and twine together nervously. "Letitia, why cannot you be
thankful, as I am, that I have a voice,--a sure and certain
provision?--because I know I can sing as very few can. (I say this
gratefully, and without any vanity.) Why, without it we might starve."
"And what will Tedcastle say? For, in spite of all your arguments,
Molly, I am sure he is devoted to you still."
"That must not matter. Our engagement, to all intents and purposes, is
at an end, because"--sighing--"we shall never marry. He is too poor,
and I am too poor, and, besides"--telling her lie bravely,--"I do not
wish to marry him."
"I find it hard to believe you," says Letitia, examining the girl's
face critically. "Do you mean to tell me you have ceased to care for
him?"
"How do I know?"--pettishly, her very restlessness betraying the truth.
"At times I am not sure myself. At all events, everything is at an end
between us, which is the principal thing, as he cannot now interfere
with my decision."
"Do not think you can deceive me," says Letitia, in a trembling tone.
"Ah, how cruel it all is! Death when it visits most homes, leaves at
least hope behind, but here there is none. Other women lose fortune, or
perhaps position, or it may be love; but I have lost all; while
you--with all your young life before you--would sacrifice yourself for
us. I am not wholly selfish, Molly; I refuse to accept your offer. I
refuse to take your happiness at your hands."
"My happiness is yours," returns Molly, tenderly; "refuse to let me
help you, and the little shred of comfort that still remains to me
vanishes with the rest. Letitia, you are my home now: do not reject
me."
Two sad little tears run down her pale cheeks unchecked. Letitia,
unable to bear the sight, turns away; and presently two kindred drops
steal down her face, and fall with a faint splashing sound upon her
heavy crape.
"It would be such a hateful life for you," she says, with a sigh.
"I don't think so. I like singing; and the knowledge that by it I was
actually helping you--who all my life have been my true and loving
sister--would make my task sweet. What shall I say to Signor Marigny,
Letty?" with a sudden air of business. "He has a great deal to do with
concerts and that; and I know he will assist me in every way."
"Tell him you are about to sacrifice your love, your happiness,
everything that makes life good, for your family," says Letitia, who
has begun to cry bitterly, "and ask him what will compensate you for
it; ask him if gold, or fame, or praise, will fill the void that
already you have begun to feel."
"Nonsense, my dear! he would justly consider me a lunatic, were I to
write to him in such a strain. I shall simply tell him that I wish to
make use of the talent that has been given me, and ask him for his
advice how best to proceed. Don't you think something like that would
answer? Come now, Letty," cheerfully and coaxingly, kneeling down
before Mrs. Massereene, "say you are pleased with my plan, and all will
be well."
"What would become of me without you?" says Letitia, irrelevantly,
kissing her; and Molly, taking this for consent, enters into a long and
animated discussion of the subject of her intended _debut_ as a
public singer.