"Who ne'er have loved, and loved in vain,
Can neither feel nor pity pain."
--Byron.
True to her promise, the next day Molly wraps herself up warmly and
takes her way toward the wood that adjoins but does not belong to
Brooklyn.
At first, from overmuch inactivity and spiritless brooding, a sort of
languor--a trembling of the limbs--oppresses her; but presently, as the
cold, crisp air creeps into her young blood, she quickens her steps,
and is soon walking with a brisk and healthy motion toward the desired
spot.
Often her eyes fill with unbidden tears, as many a well-remembered
place is passed, and she thinks of a kindly word or a gay jest uttered
here by lips now cold and mute.
There is a sadness in the wood itself that harmonizes with her
thoughts. The bare trees, the fast-decaying leaves beneath her feet,
all speak of death and change. Swinburne's exquisite lines rise
involuntarily to her mind:
"Lo, the summer is dead, the sun is faded,
Even like as a leaf the year is withered.
All the fruit of the day from all her branches
Gathered, neither is any left to gather.
All the flowers are dead, the tender blossoms,
All are taken away; the season wasted
Like an ember among the fallen ashes."
Seating herself upon a little grassy mound, with her head thrown back
against the trunk of a gnarled but kindly beech, she waits her lover's
coming. She is very early, almost by her own calculation half an hour
must elapse before he can join her. Satisfied that she cannot see him
until then, she is rapidly falling into a gentle doze, when footsteps
behind her cause her to start into a sitting posture.
"So soon," she says, and, rising, finds herself face to face
with--Philip Shadwell.
"You see, I have followed you," he says, slowly.
He does not offer to shake hands with her; he gives her no greeting; he
only stands before her, suffering his eyes to drink in hungrily her
saddened but always perfect beauty.
"So I see," she answers, quite slowly.
"You have been in trouble. You have grown thin," he says, presently, in
the same tone.
"Yes."
She is puzzled, dismayed, at his presence here, feeling an
unaccountable repugnance to his society, and a longing for his
departure, as she notes his unwonted agitation,--the unknown but
evident purpose in his eyes.
"When last we met," says Philip, with a visible effort at calmness, and
with his great dark, moody eyes bent upon the ground, "you told me
you--hated me."
"Did I? The last time? How long ago it seems!--years--centuries.
Ah!"--clasping her hands in a very ecstasy of regret--"how happy I was
then! and yet--I thought myself miserable! That day I spoke to you"
(gazing at him as one gazes at something outside and beyond the
question altogether), "I absolutely believed I knew what unhappiness
meant; and now----"
"Yes. You said you hated me," says the young man, still bent upon his
own wrongs to the exclusion of all others. He is sorry for her, very
sorry; but what is her honest grief for her beloved dead compared with
the desperate craving for the unattainable that is consuming him
daily,--hourly?
"I hardly remember," Molly says, running her slender fingers across her
brow. "Well,"--with a sigh,--"I have fallen into such low estate since
then that I think I have no power within me now to hate any one."
"You did not mean it, perhaps?" still painfully calm, although he knows
the moments of grace are slipping surely, swiftly, trying vainly to
encourage hope. "You said it, perhaps, in an instant of passion? One
often does. One exaggerates a small offense. Is it not so?"
"Yes,"--with her thoughts as far from him as the earth is from the
heavens,--"it may be so."
"You think so? You did _not_ mean it?" with a sudden gleam of
misplaced confidence. "Oh! if you only knew how I have suffered since
that fatal word passed your lips!--but you did not mean it. In
time--who knows?--you may even bring yourself to care for me a little.
Molly,"--seizing her hand,--"speak--speak, and say it will be so."
"No, no," exclaims she, at last, coming back to the present, and
understanding him. "Never. Why do you so deceive yourself? Do not think
it; do not try to believe it. And"--with a quick shudder--"to speak to
me so now,--at this time----"
"Perhaps, had I known you first, you might have loved me," persists he.
"I am sure not," replies she, gently but decidedly. "Your dark looks,
your vehemence,--all--frighten me."
"Once assured of your love, I could change all that," he perseveres,
unwisely, in a low tone, his passionate, gloomy eyes still fixed upon
the ground, his foot uneasily stirring the chilled blades of grass
beneath him. "In such a case, what is it I could not do? Molly, will
you not take pity on me? Will you not give me a chance?"
"I cannot. Why will you persist? I tell you, if we two were to live
forever, you are the very last man I should ever love. It is the
kindest thing I can do for you to speak thus plainly."
"Kind!"--bitterly; "_can_ you be kind? With your fair, soft face,
and your angel eyes, you are the most bitterly cruel woman I ever met
in my life. I curse the day I first saw you! You have ruined my
happiness."
"Philip, do not speak like that. You cannot mean it. In a few short
months you will forget you have ever uttered such words,--or felt them.
See, now,"--laying the tips of her fingers kindly upon his arm,--"put
away from you this miserable fancy, and I will be your friend--if you
will."
"Friend!" retorts he, roughly. "Who that had seen and loved you could
coldly look upon you as a friend? Every thought of my heart, every
action of my life, has you mixed up in it. Your face is burned into my
brain. I live but in recollection of you, and you speak to me of
friendship! I tell you," says Philip, almost reducing himself again to
calmness through intensity of emotion, "I am fighting for my very
existence. I must and will have you."
"Why will you talk so wildly?"--turning a little pale, and retreating a
step: "you know what you propose, to be impossible."
"There is nothing impossible, if you will only try to look upon me more
kindly."
"Am I to tell you again," she says, still gently, but with some natural
indignation, "that if I knew you for ever and ever, I could not feel
for you even the faintest spark of affection of the kind you mean! I
would not marry you for all the bribes you could offer. It is not your
fault that it is so, nor is it mine. You say 'try' to love you. Can
love be forced? Did ever any one grow to love another through trying?
You know better. The more one would have to try, the less likely would
one be to succeed. Love is free, and yet a very tyrant. Oh, Philip,
forget such vain thoughts. Do not waste your life hoping for what can
never be."
"It shall be," cries he, vehemently, suddenly, with an unexpected
movement catching her in his arms. "Molly, if I cannot buy your love,
let me at least buy yourself. Remember how you are now situated. You do
not yet know the horrors of poverty--real poverty; and I--at least I
have prospects. Herst will be mine beyond all doubt (who can be
preferred before me?), and that old man cannot live forever. Think of
your sister and all her children; I swear I will provide for all; not
one but shall be to me as my own, for your sake. You shall do what you
like with me. Body and soul I am yours for good or evil. Let it be for
good."
"How dare you speak to me like this?" says Molly, who has tried vainly
to escape from his detested embrace during the short time it has taken
him to pour forth his last words. "Let me go instantly. Do you hear me,
Philip?--release me."
Her blue eyes have turned almost black with a little fear and unlimited
anger, her lips are white but firm, her very indignation only making
her more fair.
"I will, when you have given me some ground for hope. Promise you will
consider my words."
"Not for a single instant. When a few moments ago I hinted how
abhorrent you are to me, I spoke truly; I only lied when I tried to
soften my words. I would rather ten thousand times be _dead_ than
your wife. Now I hope you understand. Your very touch makes me
shudder."
She ceases, more from want of breath than words, and a deep silence
falls between them. Even through the bare and melancholy trees the wind
has forgotten to shiver. Above, the clouds, rain-filled, scud
hurriedly. A storm is in the air. Upon Philip's face a deadlier storm
is gathering.
"Have you anything more to say?" he asks, an evil look coming into his
eyes. Not for a second has he relaxed his hold.
Molly's heart sinks a little lower. Oh! if Tedcastle would only come!
yet with a certain bravery she compels herself to return without
flinching the gaze of the dark passionate face bent above hers. She
knows every limb in her body is trembling, that a deadly sickness is
creeping over her, yet by a supreme effort she maintains her calmness.
"Nothing," she answers, quietly, with just a touch of scorn. "I should
have thought I had said enough to convince any _man_. Now will you
let me go home? You cannot want to keep me here after what I have
said."
"I wonder you are not afraid of me," says Shadwell, who is absolutely
beside himself with anger. "Do not put unlimited faith in my
forbearance. A worm, you know, will turn. Do you think you can goad a
man to desperation and leave him as cool as when you began? I confess I
am not made of such stuff. Do you know you are in my power? What is to
prevent my killing you here, now, this moment?"
He speaks slowly, as though his breath comes with difficulty, so much
has anger overmastered him; yet her eyes have never fallen before his,
and he knows, in spite of his words, he has not the smallest mastery
over her, he has gained no triumph.
"I wish you were dead," he goes on, in a compressed tone, "and myself
too. To be sure, that if you were not mine you would never be
another's, has in it a sweetness that tempts me. They say extremes
meet. I hardly know, now, where my love for you ends, or where my
hatred begins."
His violence terrifies Molly.
"Philip, be generous," she says, laying her hand against his chest with
a vain attempt to break from him; "and--and--try to be calm. Your eyes
have madness in them. Even if you were to kill me, what good would it
do you? And think of the afterward. Oh, what have I ever done to you
that you should seek to--to--unnerve me like this?"
"'What have you done?' Shall I tell you? You have murdered me surely as
though your knife had entered my heart. You have killed every good
thought in me, every desire that might perhaps have had some element of
nobleness in it. I was bad enough before I met you, I dare say; but you
have made me ten times worse."
"It is all false. I will not listen to you,"--covering her ears with
her hands. But he takes them down again, gently but determinedly, and
compels her to hear him.
"When you first came to Herst for your own amusement, to pass away the
hours that perhaps hung a little heavily upon your hands, or to rouse a
feeling of jealousy in the heart of Luttrell, or to prove the power you
have over all men by the right of your fatal beauty, you played off
upon me all the pretty airs and graces, all the sweet looks and tender
words, that come so easy to you, never caring what torment I might have
to endure when your dainty pastime had palled upon you. Day by day I
was led to believe that I was more to you than those others who also
waited on your words."
"That is false,--false. Your own vanity misled you."
"I was the one singled out to escort you here, to bear your messages
there. Now and again you threw me flowers, not half so honeyed as your
smiles. And when you had rendered me half mad--nay, I think wholly
so--for love of you, and I asked you to be my wife, you asked me in
return 'what I meant,' pretending an innocent ignorance of having done
anything to encourage me."
"I do not think I have done all this," says Molly, with a little
gasping sigh; "but if I have I regret it. I repent it. I pray your
forgiveness."
"And I will grant it on one condition. Swear you will be my wife."
She does not answer. He is so vehement that she fears to provoke him
further; yet nothing but a decided refusal can be given. She raises her
head and regards him with a carefully-concealed shudder, and as she
does so Luttrell's fair, beautiful face--even more true than beautiful,
his eyes so blue and earnest, his firm but tender mouth--rises before
her. She thinks of his devotion, his deep, honest love, and without
thinking any further she says, "No," with much more decided emphasis
than prudence would have permitted.
"'No!'" repeats he, furiously. "Do you still defy me? Are you then so
faithful to the memory of the man who cast you off? Have you, perhaps,
renewed your engagement with him? If I thought that,--if I was sure of
that---- Speak, and say if it be so."
The strain is too great. Molly's brave heart fails her. She gives a
little gasping cry, and with it her courage disappears. Raising her
face in mute appeal to the bare trees, to the rushing, comfortless
wind, to the murky sky, she bursts into a storm of tears.
"Oh, if my brother were but alive," cries she, in passionate protest,
"you would not dare treat me like this! Oh, John, John, where are you?
It is I, your Molly Bawn. _Why_ are you silent?"
Her sobs fall upon the chilly air. Her tears drop through her fingers
down upon the brown-tinged grass, upon a foolish frozen daisy that has
outlived its fellows,--upon her companion's heart!
With a groan he comes to his senses, releases her, and, moving away,
covers his face with his hands.
"Don't do that," he says. "Stop crying. What a brute I am! Molly,
Molly, be silent, I desire you. I am punished enough already."
Hardly daring to believe herself free, and dreading a relapse on
Philip's part, and being still a good deal over-strung and frightened,
Miss Massereene sobs on very successfully, while even at this moment
secretly reproaching herself in that she did not pocket her pride half
an hour ago, and give way to the tears that have had such a fortunate
effect.
Just at this juncture, Luttrell, clearing a stile that separates him
from them, appears upon the scene. His dismay on seeing Molly in tears
almost obliterates the displeased amazement with which he regards
Philip's unexpected appearance.
"Molly," he calls out to her, even from the distance, some undefined
instinct telling him she will be glad of his presence. And Molly,
hearing him, raises her head, and without a word or cry runs to him,
and flings herself into the fond shelter of his arms.
As he holds her closely in his young, strong, ardent embrace, a great
peace--a joy that is almost pain--comes to her. Had she still any
lingering doubts of her love for him, this moment, in which he stands
by her as a guardian, a protector, a true lover, would forever dispel
them.
"You here," says Luttrell, addressing Philip with a frown, while his
face flames, and then grows white as Shadwell's own, "and Miss
Massereene in tears! Explain----"
"Better leave explanation to another time," interrupts Philip, with
insolent _hauteur_, his repentant mood having vanished with
Luttrell's arrival, "and take Miss Massereene home. She is tired."
So saying, he turns coolly on his heel, and walks away.
Luttrell makes an angry movement as though to follow him; but Molly
with her arms restrains him.
"Do not leave me," she says, preparing to cry again directly if he
shows any determination to have it out with Shadwell. "Stay with me. I
feel so nervous and--and faint."
"Do you, darling?" Regarding her anxiously. "You do look pale. What was
Shadwell saying to you? Why were you crying? If I thought he----"
"No, no,"--laying five hasty, convincing little fingers on his
arm,--"nothing of the kind. Won't you believe me? He only reminded me
of past days, and I was foolish, and--that was all."
"But what brought him at all?"
"To see me," says Molly, longing yet fearing to tell him of Philip's
unpardonable behavior. "But do not let us talk of him. I cannot bear
him. He makes me positively nervous. He is so dark, so vehement,
so--uncanny!"
"The fellow isn't much of a fellow, certainly," says Luttrell, with
charming explicitness.
For the mile that lies between them and home, they scarcely
speak,--walking together, as children might, hand in hand, but in a
silence unknown to our household pests.
"How quiet you are!" Molly says, at length awakening to the fact of her
lover's dumbness. "What are you thinking about?"
"You, of course," he answers, with a rather joyless smile. "I have
received my marching orders. I must join my regiment in Dublin next
Saturday."
"And this is Tuesday!" Aghast at the terrible news. "Oh, Teddy! Could
they not have left us together for the few last days that remain to
us?"
"It appears they could not," replies he, with a prolonged and audible
sigh.
"I always said your colonel was a bear," says Miss Massereene,
vindictively.
"Well, but you see, he doesn't know how matters stand; he never heard
of _you_," replies Luttrell, apologetically.
"Well, he ought to know; and even if he did, he would do it all the
more. Oh, Teddy! dear Teddy!"--with a sudden change of tone, thoroughly
appreciated by one individual at least,--"what shall I do without you?"