"Mute and amazed was Alden; and listen'd and look'd at Priscilla,
Thinking he never had seen her more fair, more divine in her beauty."
--Longfellow.
It is the 2d of March--four months later (barely four months, for some
days must still elapse before that time is fully up)--and a raw
evening,--very raw, and cold even for the time of year,--when the
train, stopping at the Victoria Station, suffers a young man to alight
from it.
He is a tall young man, slight and upright, clad in one of the
comfortable long coats of the period, with an aristocratic face and
sweet, keen blue eyes. His moustache, fair and lengthy, is drooping
sadly through dampness and the general inclemency of the weather.
Pushing his way through the other passengers, with a discontented
expression upon his genial face that rather misbecomes it, he emerges
into the open air, to find that a smart drizzle, unworthy the name of
rain, is falling inhospitably upon him.
There is a fog,--not as thick as it might be, but a decided fog,--and
everything is gloomy to the last degree.
Stumbling up against another tall young man, dressed almost to a tie
the same as himself, he smothers the uncivil ejaculation that rises so
naturally to his lips, and after a second glance changes it to one of
greeting.
"Ah, Fenning, is it you?" he says. "This beastly fog prevented my
recognizing you at first. How are you? It is ages since last we met."
"Is it indeed you, Luttrell?" says the new-comer, stopping short and
altering his sour look to one of pleased astonishment. "You in the
flesh? Let us look at you?" Drawing Luttrell into the neighborhood of
an unhappy lamp that tries against its conscience to think it is
showing light and grows every minute fainter and more depressed in its
struggle against truth. "All the way from Paddyland, where he has spent
four long months," says Mr. Fenning, "and he is still alive! It is
inconceivable. Let me examine you. Sound, I protest,--sound in wind and
limb; not a defacing mark! I wouldn't have believed it if I hadn't seen
it. I am awful glad to see you, old boy. What are you going to do with
yourself this evening?"
"I wish I knew. I am absolutely thrown upon the world. You will take me
somewhere with you, if you have any charity about you."
"I'm engaged for this evening." With a groan. "Ain't I unlucky? Hang it
all, something told me to refuse old Wiggins's emblazoned card, but I
wouldn't be warned. Now, what can I do for you?"
"You can at least advise me how best to kill time to-night."
"The Alhambra has a good thing on," says young Fenning, brightening;
"and the Argyll----"
"I'm used up, morally and physically," interrupts Luttrell, rather
impatiently. "Suggest something calmer--musical, or that."
"Oh, musical! That _is_ mild. I have been educated in the belief
that a sojourn in Ireland renders one savage for the remainder of his
days. I blush for my ignorance. If it is first-class music you want, go
to hear Wynter sing. She does sing this evening, happily for you, and
anything more delicious, both in face and voice, has not aroused London
to madness for a considerable time. Go, hear her, but leave your heart
at your hotel before going. The Grosvenor, is it, or the Langham? The
Langham. Ah, I shall call to-morrow. By-bye, old man. Go and see
Wynter, and you will be richly rewarded. She is tremendously lovely."
"I will," says Luttrell; and having dined and dressed himself, he goes
and does it.
Feeling listless, and not in the slightest degree interested in the
coming performance, he enters the concert room, to find himself
decidedly late. Some one has evidently just finished singing, and the
applause that followed the effort has not yet quite died away.
With all the air of a man who wonders vaguely within himself what in
the world has brought him here, Luttrell makes his way to a vacant
chair and seats himself beside an elderly, pleasant-faced man, too
darkly-skinned and too bright-eyed to belong to this country.
"You are late,--late," says this stranger, in perfect English, and,
with all the geniality of most foreigners, making room for him. "She
has just sung."
"Has she?" Faintly amused. "Who?"
"Miss--Wynter. Ah! you have sustained a loss."
"I am unlucky," says Luttrell, feeling some slight
disappointment,--very slight. Good singers can be heard again. "I came
expressly to hear her. I have been told she sings well."
"Well--_well_!" Disdainfully. "Your informant was careful not to
overstep the truth. It is marvelous--exquisite--her voice," says the
Italian, with such unrepressed enthusiasm as makes Luttrell smile.
"These antediluvian attachments," thinks he, "are always severe."
"You make me more regretful every minute," he says, politely. "I feel
as though I had lost something."
"So you have. But be consoled. She will sing again later on."
Leaning back, Luttrell takes a survey of the room. It is crowded to
excess, and brilliant as lights and gay apparel can make it. Fans are
flashing, so are jewels, so are gems of greater value still,--black
eyes, blue and gray. Pretty dresses are melting into other pretty
dresses, and there is a great deal of beauty everywhere for those who
choose to look for it.
After a while his gaze, slowly traveling, falls on Cecil Stafford. She
is showing even more than usually bonny and winsome in some _chef-d'oeuvre_
of Worth's, and is making herself very agreeable to a tall, lanky,
eighteenth century sort of man who sits beside her, and is kindly
allowing himself to be amused.
An intense desire to go to her and put the fifty questions that in an
instant rise to his lips seizes Luttrell; but she is unhappily so
situated that he cannot get at her. Unless he were to summon up
fortitude to crush past three grim dowagers, two elaborately-attired
girls, and one sour old spinster, it cannot be done; and Tedcastle, at
least, has not the sort of pluck necessary to carry him through with
it.
Cecil, seeing him, starts and colors, and then nods and smiles gayly at
him in pleased surprise. A moment afterward her expression changes, and
something so like dismay as to cause Luttrell astonishment covers her
face.
Then the business of the evening proceeds, and she turns her attention
to the singers, and he has no more time to wonder at her sudden change
of countenance.
A very small young lady, hidden away in countless yards of pink silk,
delights them with one of the ballads of the day. Her voice is far the
biggest part of her, and awakens in one's mind a curious craving to
know where it comes from.
Then a wonderfully ugly man, with a delightful face, plays on the
violin something that reminds one of all the sweetest birds that sing,
and is sufficiently ravishing to call forth at intervals the
exclamation, "Good, good!" from Luttrell's neighbor.
Then a very large woman warbles a French _chansonnette_ in the
tiniest, most flute-like of voices; and then----
_Who_ is it that comes with such grave and simple dignity across
the boards, with her small head proudly but gracefully upheld, her
large eyes calm and sweet and steady?
For a moment Luttrell disbelieves his senses. Then a mist rises before
him, a choking sensation comes into his throat. Laying his hand upon
the back of the chair nearest him, he fortunately manages to retain his
composure, while heart, and mind, and eyes, are centred on Molly Bawn.
An instantaneous hush falls upon the assembly; the very fans drop
silently into their owners' laps; not a whisper can be heard. The
opening chords are played by some one, and then Molly begins to sing.
It is some new, exquisite rendering of Kingsley's exquisite words she
has chosen:
"Oh, that we two were maying!--"
and she sings it with all the pathos, the genius, of which she is
capable.
She has no thought for all the gay crowd that stays entranced upon her
tones. She looks far above them, her serene face--pale, but full of
gentle self-possession--more sweet than any poem. She is singing with
all her heart for her beloved,--for Letitia, and Lovat, and the
children, and John in heaven.
A passionate longing to be near her--to touch her--to speak--to be
answered back again--seizes Luttrell. He takes in hungrily all the
minutiae of her clothing, her manner, her expression. He sees the soft,
gleaming bunches of snow-drops at her bosom and in her hair. Her hands,
lightly crossed before her, are innocent of rings. Her simple black
gown of some clinging, transparent material--barely opened at the
neck--makes even more fair the milk-white of her throat (that is
scarcely less white than the snowy flowers).
Her hair is drawn back into its old loose knot behind, in the simple
style that suits her. She has a tiny band of black velvet round her
neck. How fair she is,--how sweet, yet full of a tender melancholy! He
is glad in his heart for that little pensive shade, and thinks, though
more fragile, she never looked so lovely in her life.
She has commenced the last verse:
"Oh, that we two lay sleeping
In our nest in the church-yard sod,
With our limbs at rest
On the quiet earth's breast,
And our souls at home with God!"
She is almost safely through it. There is such a deadly silence as ever
presages a storm, when by some luckless chance her eyes, that seldom
wander, fall full on Luttrell's upturned, agitated face.
His fascinated, burning gaze compels her to return it. Oh, that he
should see her here, singing before all these people! For the first
time a terrible sense of shame overpowers her; a longing to escape the
eyes that from all parts of the hall appear to stare at her and
criticise her voice--herself!
She turns a little faint, wavers slightly, and then breaks down.
Covering her face with her hands, and with a gesture of passion and
regret, she falls hurriedly into the background and is gone.
Immediately kindly applause bursts forth. What has happened to the
favorite? Is she ill, or faint, or has some lost dead chord of her life
suddenly sounded again? Every one is at a loss, and every one is
curious. It is interesting,--perhaps the most interesting part of the
whole performance,--and to-morrow will tell them all about it.
Tedcastle starts to his feet, half mad with agitation, his face ashen
white. There is no knowing what he might not have done in this moment
of excitement had not his foreign neighbor, laying hands upon him,
gently forced him back again into his seat.
"My friend, consider _her_," he whispers, in a firm but soft
voice. Then, after a moment's pause, "Come with me," he says, and,
leading the way, beckons to Luttrell, who rises mechanically and
follows him.
Into a small private apartment that opens off the hall the Italian
takes him, and, pushing toward him a chair, sinks into another himself.
"She is the woman you love?" he asks, presently, in such a kindly tone
as carries away all suspicion of impertinence.
"Yes," answers Luttrell, simply.
"Well, and I love her too,--as a pupil,--a beloved pupil," says the
elder man, with a smile, removing his spectacles. "My name is Marigny."
Tedcastle bows involuntarily to the great teacher and master of music.
"How often she has spoken of you!" he says warmly, feeling already a
friendship for this gentle preceptor.
"Yes, yes; mine was the happiness to give to the world this glorious
voice," he says, enthusiastically. "And what a gift it is!
Rare,--wonderful. But you, sir,--you are engaged to her?"
"We were--we are engaged," says Luttrell, his eyes dark with emotion.
"But it is months since we have met. I came to London to seek her; but
did not dream that here--here---- Misfortune has separated us; but if I
lived for a hundred years I should never cease--to----"
He stops, and, getting up abruptly, paces the room in silent
impatience.
"You have spoiled her song," says the Italian, regretfully. "And she
was in such voice to-night! Hark!" Raising his hand as the clapping and
applause still reach him through the door. "Hark! how they appreciate
even her failures!"
"Can I see her?"
"I doubt it. She is so prudent. She will speak to no one. And then
madame her sister is always with her. I trust you, sir,--your face is
not to be disbelieved; but I cannot give you her address. I have sworn
to her not to reveal it to any one, and I must not release myself from
my word without her consent."
"The fates are against me," says Luttrell, drearily.
Then he bids good-night to the Signor, and, going out into the night,
paces up and down in a fever of longing and disappointment.
At length the concert is over, and every one is departing. Tedcastle,
making his way to the private entrance, watches anxiously, though with
little hope for what may come.
But others are watching also to catch a glimpse of the admired singer,
and the crowd round the door is immense.
Insensibly, in spite of his efforts, he finds himself less near the
entrance than when first he took up his stand there; and just as he is
trying, with small regard to courtesy, to retrieve his position, there
is a slight murmur among those assembled, and a second later some one,
slender, black-robed, emerges, heavily cloaked, and with some light,
fleecy thing thrown over her head, so as even to conceal her face, and
quickly enters the cab that awaits her.
As she places her foot upon the step of the vehicle a portion of the
white woolen shawl that hides her features falls back, and for one
instant Luttrell catches sight of the pale, beautiful face that, waking
and sleeping, has haunted him all these past months, and will haunt him
till he dies.
She is followed by a tall woman, with a full _posee_ figure also
draped in black, whom even at that distance he recognizes as Mrs.
Massereene.
He makes one more vigorous effort to reach them, but too late. Almost
as his hand touches the cab the driver receives his orders, whips up
his emaciated charger, and disappears down the street.
They are gone. With a muttered exclamation, that savors not of
thanksgiving, Luttrell turns aside, and, calling a hansom, drives
straight to Cecil Stafford's.
Whether Molly slept or did not sleep that night remains a mystery. The
following morning tells no tales. There are fresh, faint roses in her
cheeks, a brightness in her eyes that for months has been absent from
them. If a little quiet and preoccupied in manner, she is gayer and
happier in voice and speech once her attention is gained.
Sitting in her small drawing-room, with her whole being in a very
tumult of expectation, she listens feverishly to every knock.
It is not yet quite four months since she and Luttrell parted. The
prescribed period has not altogether expired; and during their
separation she has indeed verified her own predictions,--she has proved
an undeniable success. Under the assumed name of Wynter she has sought
and obtained the universal applause of the London world.
She has also kept her word. Not once during all these trying months has
she written to her lover; only once has she received a line from him.
Last Valentine's morning Cecil Stafford, dropping in, brought her a
small packet closely sealed and directed simply to "Molly Bawn." The
mere writing made poor Molly's heart beat and her pulses throb to pain,
as in one second it recalled to mind all her past joys, all the good
days she had dreamed through, unknowing of the bitter wakening.
Opening the little packet, she found inside it a gold bracelet,
embracing a tiny bunch of dead forget-me-nots, with this inscription
folded round them:
"There shall not be one minute in an hour
Wherein I will not kiss my sweet love's flower."
Except this one token of remembrance, she has had nothing to make her
know whether indeed she still lives in his memory or has been
forgotten,--perhaps superseded, until last night. Then, as she met his
eyes, that told a story more convincing than any words, and marking the
passionate delight and longing on his face, she dared to assure herself
of his constancy.
Now, as she sits restlessly awaiting what time may bring her, she
thinks, with a smile, that, sad as her life may be and is, she is
surely blessed as few are in a possession of which none can rob her,
the tender, faithful affection of one heart.
She is still smiling, and breathing a little glad sigh over this
thought, when the door opens and Lady Stafford comes in. She is
radiant, a very sunbeam, in spite of the fact that Sir Penthony is
again an absentee from his native land, having bidden adieu to English
shores three months ago in a fit of pique, brought on by Cecil's
perversity.
Some small dissension, some trivial disagreement, anger on his part,
seeming indifference on hers, and the deed was done. He left her
indignant, enraged, but probably more in love with her than ever; while
she---- But who shall fathom a woman's heart?
"You saw him last night?" asks Molly, rising, with a brilliant blush,
to receive her visitor. "Cecil, did you know he was coming? You might
have told me." For her there is but one "he."
"So I should, my dear, directly; but the fact is, I _didn't_ know.
The stupid boy never wrote me a line on the subject. It appears he got
a fortnight's leave, and came posthaste to London to find you. Such a
lover as he makes. And where should he go by the merest chance, the
very first evening, but into your actual presence? It is a romance,"
says her ladyship, much delighted; "positively it is a shame to let it
sink into oblivion. Some one should recommend it to the Laureate as a
theme for his next production."
"Well?" says Molly, who at this moment is guilty of irreverence in her
thoughts toward the great poet.
"Well, now, of course he wants to know when he may see you."
"You didn't give him my address?" With an amount of disappointment in
her tone impossible to suppress.
"I always notice," says Cecil, in despair, "that whenever (which is
seldom) I do the right thing it turns out afterward to be the wrong
thing. You swore me in to keep your secret four months ago, and I have
done so religiously. To-day, sorely against my will, I honestly
confess, I still remained faithful to my promise, and see the result.
You could almost beat me,--don't deny it, Molly; I see it in your eyes.
If we were both South Sea Islanders I should be black and blue this
instant. It is the fear of scandal alone restrains you."
"You were quite right." Warmly. "I admire you for it; only----"
"Yes, just so. It was all I could do to refuse the poor dear fellow, he
pressed me so hard; but for the first (and now I shall make it the
last) time in my life, I was firm. I'm sure I wish I hadn't been. I
earned both your displeasure and his."
"Not mine, dearest."
"Besides, another motive for my determination was this: both he and I
doubted if you would receive him until the four months were verily
up,--you are such a Roman matron in the way of sternness."
"My sternness, as you call it, is a thing of the past. Yes, I will see
him whenever he may choose to come."
"Which will be in about two hours precisely; that is, the moment he
sees me and learns his fate. I told him to call again about one
o'clock, when I supposed I should have news for him. It is almost that
now." With a hasty glance at her watch. "I must fly. But first, give me
a line for him, Molly, to convince him of your fallibility."
"Have you heard anything of Sir Penthony?" asks Molly, when she has
scribbled a tiny note and given it to her friend.
"Yes; I hear he either is in London or was yesterday, or will be
to-morrow,--I am not clear which." With affected indifference. "I told
you he was sure to turn up again all right, like a bad halfpenny; so I
was not uneasy about him. I only hope he will reappear in better temper
than when he left."
"Now, confess you are delighted at the idea of so soon seeing him
again," says Molly, laughing.
"Well, I'm not in such radiant spirits as somebody I could mention."
Mischievously. "And as to confessing, I never do that. I should make a
bad Catholic. I should be in perpetual hot water with my spiritual
adviser. But if he comes back penitent, and shows himself less
exigeant, I shan't refuse his overtures of peace. Now, don't make me
keep your Teddy waiting any longer. He is shut up in my boudoir
enduring grinding torments all this time, and without a companion or
the chance of one, as I left word that I should be at home to no one
but him this morning. Good-bye, darling. Give my love to Letitia and
the wee scraps. And--these bonbons--I had almost forgotten them."
"Oh, by the bye, did you hear what Daisy said the other day
_apropos_ of your china?"
"No."
"When we had left your house and walked for some time in a silence most
unusual where _she_ is, she said, in her small, solemn way,
'Molly, why does Lady Stafford have her kitchen in her drawing-room?'
Now, was it not a capital bit of china-mania? I thought it very severe
on the times."
"It was cruel. I shall instantly send my plates and jugs, and that
delicious old Worcester tureen down-stairs to their proper place," says
Cecil, laughing. "There is no criticism so cutting as a child's."