"Fare thee well! and if forever,
Still forever, fare thee well!"
--Byron.
"Oh, Cecil! now I can marry Tedcastle," says Molly, at the end of a
long and exhaustive conversation that has taken place in her own room.
She blushes a little as she says it; but it is honestly her first
thought, and she gives utterance to it. "Letitia, too, and the
children,--I can provide for them. I shall buy back dear old Brooklyn,
and give it to them, and they shall be happy once more."
"I agree with Lord Byron," says Cecil, laughing. "'Money makes the man;
the want of it, his fellow.' You ought to feel like some princess out
of the Arabian Nights' Entertainments."
"I feel much more like an intruder. What right have I to Herst? What
shall I do with so much money?"
"Spend it. There is nothing simpler. Believe me, no one was ever in
reality embarrassed by her riches, notwithstanding all they say. The
whole thing is marvelous. Who could have anticipated such an event? I
am sorry I ever said anything disparaging of that dear, delightful,
genial, kind-hearted, sociable, generous old gentleman, your
grandfather."
"Don't jest," says Molly, who is almost hysterical. "I feel more like
crying yet. But I am glad at least to know he forgave me before he
died. Poor grandpapa! Cecil, I want so much to see Letitia."
"Of course, dear. Well,"--consulting her watch,--"I believe we may as
well be getting ready if we mean to catch the next train. Will not it
be a charming surprise for Letitia? I quite envy you the telling of
it."
"I want you to tell it. I am so nervous I know I shall never get
through it without frightening her out of her wits. Do come with me,
Cecil, and break the news yourself."
"Nothing I should like better," says Cecil. "Put on your bonnet and let
us be off."
Ringing the bell, she orders round the carriage, and presently she and
Molly are wending their way down the stairs.
At the very end of the long, beautiful old hall, stands Philip
Shadwell, taking, it may be, a last look from the window, of the place
so long regarded as his own.
As they see him, both girls pause, and Molly's lips lose something of
their fresh, warm color.
"Go and speak to him now," says Cecil, and, considerately remembering a
hypothetical handkerchief, retraces her steps to the room she had just
quitted.
"Philip!" says Molly, timidly, going up to him.
He turns with a start, and colors a dark red on seeing her, but neither
moves nor offers greeting.
"Oh, Philip! let me do something for you," says Molly impulsively,
without preparation, and with tears in her eyes. "I have robbed you,
though unwittingly. Let me make amends. Out of all I have let me give
you----"
"The only thing I would take from you it is out of your power to give,"
he interrupts her, gently.
"Do not say so," she pleads, in trembling tones. "I do not want all the
money. I cannot spend it. I do not care for it. _Do_ take some of
it, Philip. Let me share----"
"Impossible, child!" with a faint smile. "You don't know what you are
saying." Then, with an effort, "You are going to marry Luttrell?"
"Yes,"--blushing, until she looks like a pale, sweet rose with a
drooping head.
"How rich to overflowing are some, whilst others starve!" he says,
bitterly, gazing at her miserably, filling his heart, his senses, for
the last time, with a view of her soft and perfect loveliness. Then, in
a kinder tone, "I hope you will be happy, and"--slowly--"he too, though
that is a foregone conclusion." He pales a little here, and stops as
though half choking. "Yes, he has my best wishes,--for your sake," he
goes on, unsteadily. "Tell him so from me, though we have not been good
friends of late."
"I will surely tell him."
"Good-bye!" he says, taking her hand. Something in his expression makes
her exclaim, anxiously:
"For the present?"
"No; forever. Herst and England have grown hateful to me. I leave them
as soon as possible. Good-bye, my beloved!" he whispers, in deep
agitation. "I only ask you not to quite forget me, though I hope--_I
hope_--I shall never look upon your sweet face again."
So he goes, leaving his heart behind him, carrying with him evermore,
by land and sea, this only,--the vision of her he loves as last he sees
her, weeping sad and bitter tears for him.
* * * * *
A quarter of an hour later, as Molly and Cecil are stepping into the
carriage meant to convey them to the station, one of the servants,
running up hurriedly, hands Miss Massereene a letter.
"Another?" says Cecil, jestingly, as the carriage starts. "Sealed
envelopes, like private bomb-shells, seem to be the order of the day. I
do hope this one does not emanate from your grandfather, desiring you
to refund everything."
"It is from Tedcastle," says Molly, surprised. Then she opens it, and
reads as follows:
"Taking into consideration the enormous change that has occurred in
your fortunes since this morning, I feel it only just to you and
myself to write and absolve you from all ties by which you may fancy
yourself still connected with me. You will remember that in our last
conversation together in London you yourself voluntarily decided on
severing our engagement. Let your decision now stand. Begin your new
life without hampering regrets, without remorseful thoughts of me.
To you I hope this money may bring happiness; to me, through you, it
has brought lasting pain; and when, a few minutes ago, I said I
congratulated you from my heart, I spoke falsely. I say this only to
justify my last act in your eyes. I will not tell you what it costs
me to write you this; you know me well enough to understand. I shall
exchange with a friend of mine, and sail for India in a week or two,
or at least as soon as I can; but wherever I am, or whatever further
misfortunes may be in store for me, be assured your memory will
always be my greatest--possibly my only--treasure."
"What can he mean?" says Molly, looking up. She does not appear
grieved; she is simply indignant. An angry crimson flames on her fair
cheeks.
"Quixotism!" says Cecil, when she, too, has read the letter. "Was there
ever such a silly boy?"
"Oh! it is worse than anything,--so cold, so terse, so stupid. And not
an affectionate word all through, or a single regret."
"My dear child, that is its only redeeming point. He is evidently
sincere in his desire for martyrdom. Had he gone into heroics I should
myself have gone to Ireland (where I suppose he soon must be) to
chastise him. But as it is---- Poor Tedcastle! He looks upon it as a
point of honor."
"It is unbearable," says Molly, angrily. "Does he think such a paltry
thing as money could interfere with my affection for him?"
"Molly, beware! You are bordering on the heroics now. Money is not a
paltry thing; it is about the best thing going. _I_ can sympathize
with Tedcastle if you cannot. He felt he had no right to claim the
promise of such a transcendently beautiful being as you, now you have
added to your other charms twenty thousand a year. He thinks of your
future; he acknowledges you a bride worthy any duke in the land (men in
love"--maliciously--"_will_ dote, you know); he thinks of the
world and its opinion, and how fond they are of applying the word
'fortune-hunter' when they get the chance, and it is not a pretty
sobriquet."
"He should have thought of nothing but me. Had he come into a fortune,"
says Molly, severely, "I should have been delighted, and I should have
married him instantly."
"Quite so. But who ever heard the opprobrious term 'fortune-hunter'
given to a woman? It is the legitimate thing for us to sell ourselves
as dearly as we can."
"But, Cecil,"--forlornly,--"what am I to do now?"
"If you will take my advice, nothing,--for two or three weeks. He
cannot sail for India before then, and do his best. Preserve an
offended silence. Then obtain an interview with him by fair means, or,
if not, by foul."
"You unscrupulous creature!" Molly says, smiling; but after a little
reflection she determines to abide by her friend's counsel. "Horrible,
hateful letter," she says, tearing it up and throwing it out of the
window. "I wish I had never read you. I am happier now you are gone."
"So am I. It was villainously worded and very badly written."
"I don't know that," begins Molly, warmly; and then she stops short,
and they both laugh. "And you, Cecil--what of you? Am I mistaken in
thinking you and Sir Penthony are--are----"
"Yes, we are," says Cecil, smiling and coloring brilliantly. "As you so
graphically express it, we actually--_are_. At present, like you,
we are formally engaged."
"Really?"--delighted. "I always knew you loved him. And so you have
given in at last?"
"Through sheer exhaustion, and merely with a view to stop further
persecution. When a man comes to you day after day, asking you whether
you love him yet, ten to one you say yes in the end, whether it be the
truth or not. We all know what patience and perseverance can do. But I
desire you, Molly, never to lose sight of the fact that I am consenting
to be his only to escape his importunities."
"I quite understand. But, dear Cecil, I am so rejoiced."
"Are you, dear?"--provokingly. "And why?--I thought to have a second
marriage, if only for the appearance of the thing; but it seems I
cannot. So we are going to Kamtschatka, or Bath, or Timbuctoo, or
Hong-Kong, or Halifax, for our wedding tour, I really don't know which,
and I would not presume to dictate. That is, if I do not change my mind
between that and this."
"And when is that?"
"The seventeenth of next month. He wanted to make it the first of
April; but I said I was committing folly enough without reminding all
the world of it. So he succumbed. I wish, Molly, you could be married
on the same day."
"What am I to do with a lover who refuses to take me?" says Molly, with
a rueful laugh. "I dare say I shall be an old maid after all."