"Why shouldn't I love my love?
Why shouldn't he love me?
Why shouldn't I love my love,
Since love to all is free?"
Three full weeks that, so far as Molly is concerned, have been
terribly, wearisomely long, have dragged to their close. Not that they
have been spent in idleness; much business has been transacted, many
plans fulfilled; but they have been barren of news of her lover.
"In the spring a young man's fancies lightly turn to thoughts of love;"
but his thoughts seem far removed from such tender dalliance.
She knows, through Cecil, of his being in Ireland with his regiment for
the first two of those interminable weeks, and of his appearance in
London during the third, where he was seeking an exchange into some
regiment ordered on foreign service; but whether he has or has not been
successful in his search she is supremely ignorant.
Brooklyn, her dear old home, having been discovered on her
grandfather's death to be still in the market, has been bought back for
her by Mr. Buscarlet, and here Letitia--with her children and
Molly--feels happier and more contented than she could ever have
believed to be again possible.
Seated at breakfast, watched over by the faithful Sarah, without
apparent cause for uneasiness, there is, nevertheless, an air of
uncertainty and expectation about Mrs. Massereene and her sister that
makes itself known even to their attendant on this particular morning
in early April of which I write.
In vain does Sarah, with a suppressed attempt at coaxing, place the
various dishes under Miss Massereene's eyes. They are accepted,
lingeringly, daintily, but are not eaten. The children, indeed,
voracious as their kind, come nobly to the rescue, and by a kindly
barter of their plates for Molly's, which leaves them an undivided
profit, contrive to clear the table.
Presently, Molly having refused languidly some delicate steaming cakes
of Sarah's own making, that damsel leaves the room in high dudgeon, and
Molly leans back in her chair.
"Tell me again, Letty, what you wrote to him," she says, letting her
eyes wander through the window, all down the avenue, up which the
postman must come, "word for word."
"Just exactly what you desired me, dear," replies Letitia, seriously.
"I said I should like to see him once again for the old days' sake,
before he left England, which I heard he was on the point of doing. And
I also told him, to please you,"--smiling,--"what was an undeniable
lie,--that, but for the children, I was here alone."
"Quite right," says Miss Massereene, unblushingly. Then, with
considerable impatience, "Will that postman _never_ come?"
All country posts are irregular, and this one is not a pleasant
exception. To-day, to create aggravation, it is at least one good
half-hour later than usual. When at length, however, it does come, it
brings the expected letter from Luttrell.
"Open it quickly,--quickly, Letty," says her sister, and Letitia
hastens and reads it with much solemnity.
It is short and rather reckless in tone. It tells them the writer,
having effected the desired exchange, hopes to start for India in two
weeks at furthest, and that, as he had never at any time contemplated
leaving England without bidding Mrs. Massereene good-bye, he would
seize the opportunity--she being _now alone_ (heavily dashed)--to
run down to Brooklyn to see her this very day.
"Oh, Letty! to-day!" exclaims Molly, paling and flushing, and paling
again. "How I wish it was tomorrow!"
"Could there be any one more inconsistent than you, my dear Molly? You
have been praying for three whole weeks to see him, and now your prayer
is answered you look absolutely miserable."
"It is so sudden," says poor Molly. "And--he never mentioned my name.
What if he refuses to have anything to say to me even now? What shall I
do then?"
"Nonsense, my dear! When once he sees you, he will forget all his
ridiculous pride, and throw himself, like a sensible man, at your
feet."
"I wish I could think so. Letty,"--tearfully, and in a distinctly
wheedling tone,--"wouldn't _you_ speak to him?"
"Indeed I would not," says Letitia, indignantly. "What, after writing
that lie! No, you must of course see him yourself. And, indeed, my dear
child,"--laughing,--"you have only to meet him, wearing the lugubrious
expression you at present exhibit, to melt his heart, were it the
stoniest one in Europe. See,"--drawing her to a mirror,--"was there
ever such a Dolores?"
Seeing her own forlorn visage, Molly instantly laughs, thereby ruining
forever the dismal look of it that might have stood her in such good
stead.
"I suppose he will dine," says Letitia, thoughtfully. "I must go speak
to cook."
"Perhaps he will take the very first train back to London," says Molly,
still gloomy.
"Perhaps so. Still, we must be prepared for the worst," wickedly.
"Therefore, cook and I must consult. Molly,"--pausing at the door,--"you
have exactly four hours in which to make yourself beautiful, as he
cannot possibly be here before two. And if in that time you cannot
create a costume calculated to reduce him to slavery, I shall lose my
good opinion of you. By the bye, Molly,"--earnestly, and with something
akin to anxiety,--"do you think he likes meringues?"
"How can you be so foolish?" says Miss Massereene, reprovingly. "Of
course if he dines he will be in the humor to like anything I like, and
I _love_ meringues. But if not,--if not,"--with a heavy sigh,--"you
can eat all the meringues yourself."
"Dear, dear!" says Letitia. "She is really very bad."
Almost as the clock strikes two, Molly enters the orchard, having given
strict orders to Sarah to send Mr. Luttrell there when he arrives, in
search of Mrs. Massereene.
She has dressed herself with great care, and very becomingly, being one
of those people who know instantly, by instinct, the exact shade and
style that suits them. Besides which, she has too much good taste and
too much good sense to be a slave to that tyrant, Fashion.
Here and there the fruit-trees are throwing out tender buds, that
glance half shrinkingly upon the world, and show a desire to nestle
again amidst their leaves, full of a regret that they have left so soon
their wiser sisters.
There is a wonderful sweetness in the air,--a freshness
indescribable,--a rare spring perfume. Myriad violets gleam up at her,
white and purple, from the roots of apple-trees, inviting her to gather
them. But she heeds them not: they might as well be stinging-nettles,
for all the notice she bestows upon them. Or is it that the unutterable
hope in her own heart overpowers their sweetness?
All her thoughts are centred on the impending interview. How if she
shall fail after all? What then? Her heart sinks within her, her hands
grow cold with fear. On the instant the blackness of her life in such a
case spreads itself out before her like a map,--the lonely
pilgrimage,--the unlovely journey, without companionship, or warmth, or
pleasant sunshine.
Then she hears the click of the garden gate, and the firm, quick step
of him who comes to her up the hilly path between the strawberry-beds.
Drawing a deep breath, she shrinks within the shelter of a friendly
laurel until he is close to her; then, stepping from her hiding-place,
she advances toward him.
As she does so, as she meets him face to face, all her nervousness, all
her inward trembling, vanishes, and she declares to herself that
victory shall lie with her.
He has grown decidedly thinner. Around his beautiful mouth a line of
sadness has fallen, not to be concealed even by his drooping moustache.
He looks five years older. His blue eyes, too, have lost their
laughter, and are full of a settled melancholy. Altogether, he presents
such an appearance as should make the woman who loves him rejoice,
provided she knows the cause.
When he sees her he stops short and grows extremely pale.
"You here!" he says, in tones of displeased surprise. "I understood
from Mrs. Massereene you were at Herst. Had I known the truth, I should
not have come."
"I knew that; and the lie was mine,--not Letitia's. I made her write it
because I was determined to see you again. How do you do, Teddy?" says
Miss Massereene, coming up to him, smiling saucily, although a little
tremulously. "Will you not even shake hands with me?"
He takes her hand, presses it coldly, and drops it again almost
instantly.
"I am glad to see you looking so well," he says, gravely, perhaps
reproachfully.
"I am sorry to see you looking so ill," replies she, softly, and then
begins to wonder what on earth she shall say next.
Mr. Luttrell, with his cane, takes the heads off two unoffending
crocuses that, most unwisely, have started up within his reach. He is
the gentlest-natured fellow alive, but he feels a vicious pleasure in
the decapitation of those yellow, harmless flowers. His eyes are on the
ground. He is evidently bent on silence. On such occasions what is
there that can be matched in stupidity with a man?
"I got your letter," Molly says, awkwardly, when the silence has gone
past bearing.
"I know."
"I did not answer it."
"I know that too," with some faint bitterness.
"It was too foolish a letter to answer," returns she, hastily, detecting
the drop of acid in his tone. "And, even if I had written then, I should
only have said some harsh things that might have hurt you. I think I was
wise in keeping silence."
"You were. But I cannot see how you have followed up your wisdom by
having me here to-day."
There is a little pause, and, then:
"I wanted so much to see you," murmurs she, in the softest, sweetest of
voices.
He winces, and shifts his position uneasily, but steadily refuses to
meet her beseeching eyes. He visits two more unhappy crocuses with
capital punishment, and something that is almost a sigh escapes him;
but he will not look up, and he will not trust himself to answer her.
"Have you grown cruel, Teddy?" goes on Molly, in a carefully modulated
tone. "You are killing those poor crocuses that have done you no harm.
And you are killing me too, and what harm have _I_ done you? Just
as I began to see some chance of happiness before us, you ran away (you
a soldier, to show the white feather!), and thereby ruined all the
enjoyment I might have known in my good fortune. Was that kind?"
"I meant to be kind, Molly; I am kind," replies he huskily.
"Very cruel kindness, it seems to me."
"Later on you will not think so."
"It strikes me, Teddy," says Miss Massereene, reprovingly, "you are
angry because poor grandpapa chose to leave me Herst."
"Angry? Why should I be angry?"
"Well, then, why don't you say you are glad?"
"Because I am not glad."
"And why? For months and months we were almost crying for money, and
when, by some most fortunate and unlooked-for chance, it fell to my
lot, you behaved as though some overpowering calamity had befallen you.
Why should not you be as glad of it as I am?"
"Don't speak like that, Molly," says Luttrell, with a groan. "You know
all is over between us. The last time we met in London you yourself
broke our engagement, and now do you think I shall suffer you to renew
it? I am not so selfish as you imagine. I am no match for you now. You
must forget me (it will not be difficult, I dare say), and it would be
a downright shame to keep you to--to----"
"Then you condemn me to die an old maid, the one thing I most detest;
while you, if you refuse to have me, Teddy, I shall insist on your
dying an old bachelor, if only to keep me in countenance."
"Think of what the world would say."
"Who cares what it says? And, besides, it knows we were engaged once."
"And also that we quarreled and parted."
"And that we were once more united in London, where you did not despise
the poor concert-singer. Were you not devoted to me then, when I had
but few friends? Were you ashamed of me then?"
"Ashamed of you!"
"Once you threw me over," says Molly, with a smile that suits the
month, being half tears, half sunshine. "Once I did the same by you.
That makes us quits. Now we can begin all over again."
"Think of what all your friends will say," says he, desperately,
knowing he is losing ground, but still persisting.
"Indeed I will, because all my friends are yours, and they will think
as I do."
Two little tears steal from under her heavily-fringed lids, and run
down her cheeks. Going nearer to him, she hesitates, glances at him
shyly, hesitates still, and finally lays her head upon his shoulder.
Of course, when the girl you love lays her head upon your shoulder,
there is only one thing to be done. Luttrell does that one thing. He
instantly encircles her with his arms.
"See, I am asking you to marry me," says Molly, raising dewy eyes to
his, and blushing one of her rare, sweet blushes. "I _beg_ you to
take me. If, after that, you refuse me, I shall die of shame. Why don't
you speak, Teddy? Say, 'Molly, I will marry you.'"
"Oh, Molly!" returns the young man, gazing down on her despairingly,
while his strong arms hold her fast, "if you were only poor. If this
cursed money----"
"Never mind the money. What do I care whether I am rich or poor? I care
only for you. If you go away, I shall be the poorest wretch on earth!"
"My angel! My own darling girl!"
"No!" with a little sob. "Say, 'My own darling wife!'"
"My own darling wife!" replies he, conquered.
"Then why don't you kiss me?" says Miss Massereene, softly, her face
dangerously close to his; and Tedcastle, stooping, forges the last link
that binds him to her forever.
"Ah!" says Molly, presently, laughing gayly, although the tears still
lie wet upon her cheeks, "did you imagine for one instant you could
escape _me_? At first I was so angry I almost determined to let
you go,--as punishment; but afterward"--mischievously--"I began to
think how unhappy you would be, and I relented."
"Then I suppose I must now buy you another ring for this dear little
finger," says he, smiling, and pressing it to his lips.
"No,"--running her hand into her pocket, "at least, not an engagement
ring. You may get me any other kind you like, because I am fond of
rings; but I shall have no betrothal ring but the first you gave me.
Look,"--drawing out a little case, and opening it until he sees within
the original diamonds--his first gift to her--lying gleaming in their
rich new setting. "These are yours; I saved them from the fire that day
you behaved so rudely to them, and have had them reset."
"You rescued them?" he asks, amazed.
"At the risk of burning my fingers: so you may guess how I valued them.
Now they are purified, and you must never get into such a naughty
temper again. Promise."
"I promise faithfully."
"Now I shall wear it again," says Molly, regarding her ring lovingly,
"under happier--oh, how much happier--circumstances. Put it on, Teddy,
and say after me, 'Darling Molly, pardon me for having compelled you to
ask my hand in marriage!'"
"I will not,"--laughing.
"You must. You are my property now, and must do as I bid you. So you
may as well begin at once. Say it, sir, directly!"
He says it.
"Now you know what a horrible hen-pecking there will be for you in the
future. I shall rule you with a rod of iron."
"And I shall hug my chains."
"Think what a life I am condemning you to. Are you not frightened? And
all because--I cannot do without you. Oh, Teddy," cries Molly Bawn,
suddenly, and without a word of warning, bursting into a passion of
tears, and flinging herself into his willing arms, "are you not
glad--_glad_--that we belong to each other again?"
"Time will show you how glad," replies he, softly. "I know now I could
not have lived without you, my sweet,--my _darling_!"
THE END.