HOW MOLLY HEARD THE NEWS.
"Molly, Molly, listen to me. I've something to tell you, Molly."
"What is it?"
"Put that book down. What are you reading? _The History of a Good
Little Girl._ Oh, I know; and there was a naughty boy, who tied a
string across the stairs, and the grannie tumbled down and broke her
leg. That's all; at least, she got well again, and he was sorry, and
never did anything naughty again. So now you know, and you can stop.
Listen to me, Molly."
Roy jerked the book out of his twin-sister's hands. It was not a
handsome and well-illustrated volume, like those now in vogue, but it
was bound in dull boards, and the woodcuts were fantastically hideous.
To Molly Baron, who had never seen anything better, such a volume
brought delight. She loved reading, while Roy hated it, unless he found
a book about battles.
Molly had a pale little face, with large anxious black eyes, and short
dark hair, brushed smoothly back. She wore a frock of thick blue stuff,
short-waisted and low-necked, while her thin brown arms were bare.
Nobody else was in the schoolroom, which served also as a playroom for
the two children. Its furniture was scanty, including no easy-chairs
or footstools, but only straight-backed hard-seated chairs and
backless wooden stools. Mrs. Baron was a mother unusually given to the
expression of tender feeling, in a sterner age than this of ours; but
even she never dreamt of permitting her children opportunities for
lounging. They had to grow up straight-backed, whatever might befall.
In this room Roy and Molly had done all their lessons together, till
Roy reached the age of nine years; and the day on which he began
to attend a day-school had witnessed the first deep desolation of
little Molly's heart. An ever-present dread was upon her of the
coming time--she knew it must come--when he would be sent away to a
boarding-school, and she would be left alone. But as yet no date had
been named to her, and she hugged the present condition of affairs,
trying to believe that it would go on indefinitely.
Since Molly had read the book at least six times already, she made no
protest, but simply waited to hear the news.
"Guess what's going to happen. Guess, Molly."
"How can I tell? What sort of thing?"
"I'm going to France--to Paris!"
Roy turned head over heels, and came right side up again.
"Why? What for? Why are we going?"
"I didn't say you. I said I was. Papa and mamma mean to take me with
them. And Den too."
"And not--me!"
Molly held up her head resolutely, trying not to let even her lips
quiver. She gazed hard at the opposite wall.
Roy was far too much absorbed with his own prospects to notice her
distress. To leave Molly for the delights of foreign travel meant
nothing to him, though, had she been the one to go, and he the one to
stay behind, he would no doubt have felt differently. In all their
lives the twins had never yet been separated for more than one or two
nights. Naturally, however, when the first real separation came, it
would mean more to the girl than to the boy. Roy had to the full a
boy's love of novelty.
"We shall go over the sea, and then I shall know how the sailors feel.
If I wasn't going to be a soldier I should want to be a sailor; but of
course I'm going to be what papa and Den are, and I like that best,
only I've got to wait longer for it. And we shall stay in Paris, and
there will be mounseers everywhere. Won't that be funny? And I shall
write and tell you all about it"--as her silence dawned upon him. "And
you'll have Jack and Polly, you know."
"If I was going to Paris, would you think Jack and Polly enough
instead?" demanded Molly, out of her sore heart, still staring fixedly
at the wall. A great lump was struggling in her throat.
"But you're not going, and I am. And you and Jack can have fun
together."
"Jack's grown up; he isn't a boy, like you." Molly would have liked
much to add, "He isn't my twin, Roy," but at the bare idea of saying
such words her whole heart seemed to rise up in one huge billow, and
very nearly swamped her self-control. She had to clench her hands and
to bite her lips fiercely. If Roy did not care about leaving her, she
was not going to let him see that she cared about losing him.
Roy seated himself astride on a chair, with his face to the back, and
told his tale. He described his position outside the drawing-room
window, and related the stray words which had reached his ears, making
no secret of the fact that he had done his best to hear more. A glitter
appeared in Molly's eyes, as she listened, and when the story was ended
she said, with a catch of her breath--
"I think I shouldn't be so glad to go if--if you--weren't going too.
And I shouldn't like to be you, to have listened on the sly. It was
mean."
Roy sat motionless. That view of the matter had not yet occurred to
him. He dismissed Molly's first words as unimportant, being merely
a girl's unreasonable view of things, with which he as a boy could
not be expected to agree. But that he--Roy Baron, son of a Colonel
in His Majesty's Guards--should be accused of "meanness!" The word
stung sharply. Roy always pictured his own future in connection with a
scarlet coat, a three-cornered cocked hat, a beautiful pigtail, and the
stiffest of military stocks to hold up his chin. He knew something of
a soldier's sense of honour, and even now he felt ready to fight his
country's battles. And that he should be accused of meanness--and by a
girl!
"I do think so," Molly added. "It was horridly mean. Prying into what
you weren't meant to hear! And then coming and telling me! If I had
done such a thing, you'd have been the first to call it mean."
Roy stood bolt upright.
"You needn't have said it to me like that!" he said. "You might
have told me, Molly--different, somehow. But I wouldn't be mean for
anything, and I'm going to tell papa, straight off."
Roy did not ask Molly to go with him, and she was keenly sensible of
the omission. He marched off alone, carrying his head as high as if the
military stock had already encircled his throat. When he went into the
drawing-room there was a pause in the conversation; and this seemed to
show that Molly was in the right. She might be cross, but perhaps she
had judged correctly.
"Run away, Roy," the Colonel said. "We did not send for you, and we are
busy."
"Please, sir, may I say something first?" Roy advanced unfalteringly,
and stood in front of the Colonel.
"Well, be quick, my boy. You are interrupting us."
Roy's honest grey eyes met his father's. "I was out there," he said,
pointing to the verandah. "And I heard something. I didn't think about
its being a secret, and I listened. I heard about going to Paris,
and I--I went and told Molly. And she said it was mean of me. And
I--couldn't be mean, sir!"
"No, Roy, you couldn't," the Colonel answered with gravity, while
delighted at the boy's openness.
"I didn't mean any harm; but I suppose I oughtn't to have listened. I
won't ever again, sir."
"Well, yes; of course that was wrong," the Colonel said, with a careful
choice of words. "You should have told us that you were there. And you
must not look upon the plan as--ahem--as quite settled. We are merely
discussing it; and we might change our intentions----"
"I am sure, my dear sir, I heartily wish you would," chimed in Mrs.
Bryce.
The Colonel made her a stately bow.
"And if I had found you out, Roy, overhearing us, I should certainly
have blamed you. But as you have voluntarily confessed it, I"--the
Colonel hesitated, conscious of his wife's pleading gaze--"well, we
need say no more about the matter. You have acted rightly in coming at
once to me; and I am convinced that you will not do such a thing again.
Now you may run away."
Roy bounded off in the best of spirits, and Mrs. Bryce remarked, "There
is an opportunity to give up your scheme. Best possible punishment for
the boy. Were he my boy he should suffer for his behaviour."
"But Roy is _my_ son," the Colonel said, and there was an accent of
pride in his voice.
The pretty girl, with tall feathers in her bonnet, glided softly out of
the room after Roy. She did not follow him far. She saw him vanish in
the direction of the garden, flourishing his heels like a young colt,
and she went the other way, towards the school-room. For Roy had told
Molly about the Paris plan, and Polly guessed what that would mean to
Molly.
Mary Keene and her brother John, commonly known as "Polly" and "Jack,"
were not really cousins to Roy and Molly, though treated as such by
the family. Their widowed grandmother, Mrs. Keene, had, some fourteen
years earlier, married a second time--rather late in life--and her new
husband, Mr. Fairbank, had one daughter, Harriette, then just married
to Captain Baron. Two or three years later her own grandchildren, Jack
and Polly, were left orphans, and were taken in permanently by Mr.
and Mrs. Fairbank. When Mr. Fairbank died, some four or five years
before this date, his twice-widowed wife took up her abode, with her
grandchildren, in Bath, then a fashionable place of residence for "the
quality." Jack, who was a year and more older than Polly had, at the
beginning of this story, just been gazetted to a regiment of the line,
which was quartered in Bath.
Molly was very fond of Polly, and she had also a warm admiration
for Jack; but no one in the world could be to her like her own
twin-brother, Roy; and Roy's indifference to this first serious
separation had cut her to the quick. When Polly entered the schoolroom,
she at first thought that Molly had fled; but she detected a little
heap in the farthest and darkest corner, and soon she heard the sound
of a smothered sob, followed quickly by a second and a third.
Polly waited a moment, to draw off her gloves, and then she made her
way to the corner, sat down on the ground, and put a pair of gentle
arms round the child.
"O fie, little Molly, fie! This won't do at all, you know. Crying to
have to go home with me! That is altogether wrong and silly. And so
unkind too. It makes me feel half inclined to cry also, because I
wanted to have dear little Molly, and now I know that Molly does not
care to come. Molly, you dear little goose, don't you know that people
can't be always and for ever together the whole of their lives? It
isn't the way of the world, dear; and you and I can't alter the world
to please ourselves. Roy is glad to go to Paris, of course; and so
would you be, and so should I be, in his place. But everybody can't go
to Paris at the same time. Fie, fie, little Molly, to mind so much what
isn't worth making your eyes red about! Fie, dear! Wake up, and don't
be doleful. Always laugh, if you can; because if you are unhappy, it
makes other people unhappy as well. And that is such a pity. You don't
wish to set me off crying too, do you?"
The elder girl's eyes had a suspicious look in them of tears not far
off, as she bent over the child.
"Other people have troubles, as well as you, little Moll. Try to
believe that, and try to be brave. We don't all--I mean, they don't
all talk about their troubles always. It is of no use. Things have to
be borne, and crying does no good. So stop the tears, Molly, and hold
up your head, and think how nice it will be to see my grandmother and
Jack, and the Bath Pump-room, and all the fine ladies and gentlemen
walking about in their smart clothes."
A squeeze of Molly's arms came in reply.
"There will be Admiral and Mrs. Peirce to see, for the Admiral is now
at home, and they are in Bath--and little Will Peirce, who soon is to
be a middy in His Majesty's Navy. And Jack shall show himself to you in
his new scarlet coat. You would not think how well he looks in it. I am
proud of him, and so must you be; for Jack is everything in the world
to me. No, not quite everything, but a great deal, as Roy is to you.
Yet, I do not expect always to keep Jack by my side. He will have to
go some day, and he will have to fight for old England. And when that
day comes, I shall bid him farewell with a smile; for I would not be a
drag upon him, nor wish to hold him back. And Roy will go also; and you
will bear it bravely, little Moll. I am sure you will--like a soldier's
daughter."
The soft caressing voice, the cool rose-leaf cheek against her own,
the lovely dark eyes smiling upon her, all comforted poor Molly's sore
heart; and she clung to Polly, and cried away more than half her pain.
"Don't tell Roy," she petitioned presently. "He doesn't mind, and he
must not think that I do."
"Why not? That is naughty pride, Molly. It is always the women who
care, not the men." Polly held up her head, and a far-away look crept
into the soft eyes. "Dear, you must expect it to be so. Men have so
much to do and to think about. But we have time to grieve, when they go
away to fight; and they are always so glad to go."
"Are they?" a deep and quiet voice asked, close to her side, and
Polly started strangely. For a moment her tiny shell-pink ears became
crimson, and then she looked up, smiling.
"How do you do, Captain Ivor?"
Denham Ivor in his uniform--large-skirted military coat, black
gaiters, white breeches, pig-tail, and gold-laced cocked hat in
hand--looked even taller than out of it, and at all times he was wont
to overtop the average man. He had a fine face, well browned, with
regular features and dark eyes, ordinarily calm, and he bore his
head in a stately fashion, while his manners were marked by a grave
courtesy, which might seem strange beside modern freedom. As he looked
down upon Polly, a subdued glow awoke in those earnest eyes.
Polly had not sprung up. She was still kneeling on the floor beside
Molly, and her slim figure in its white frock looked very child-like.
The flush had died as fast as it had arisen. Molly was clinging to her,
with hidden face, and for an instant the fresh voice failed to reach
the younger girl's understanding. Then Molly became aware of another
spectator, and quitting her hold, she fled from the room. Polly rose
gracefully.
"We will now go to the drawing-room," she suggested.
"Nay, wait a moment, I entreat. One instant"--and the bronzed face had
grown positively pale. "I beseech of you to listen to me. For indeed, I
have somewhat to say which I can no longer resolve to keep to myself.
No, not even for one more day. Somewhat that you alone can answer,
thereby making me the most happy or the most miserable of men."
A tiny gleam came to Polly's downcast eyes.
"If you have aught that is weighty to say, it may be that I could but
refer you to my grandmother," she suggested demurely.
"But perhaps you can divine what that weighty thing is. And what if
already I have written to your grandmother; and if she has consented to
my suit?"
Young ladies did not give themselves away too cheaply in those days.
Polly was barely eighteen; but, for all that, she had a very dainty
air of dignity. And if, during past weeks, she had gone through some
troublous hours, recognising how much she cared for Captain Ivor,
and wondering, despite his marked attentions, whether he seriously
cared for her, she was not going to admit as much in any haste to the
individual in question. So she dropped an elegant little curtsey, and
asked, with the most innocent air imaginable--
"Then, pray, sir, what may be your will?"
"Sweet Polly, may I speak?"
A solid square stool--well adapted for present purposes--was close
at hand, and promptly down upon this with both knees went the tall
grenadier, in the most approved fashion of his day. Sweet Polly could
not long stand out against his earnest pleading. So, with a show of coy
reserve, she gradually yielded, intimating that she did like him just
a little; that some day or other she thought she could be his wife;
that meantime she would somehow manage to keep him in her memory.
"And next week you are away to Paris!" she said, perhaps secretly
wondering why he did not prefer to spend his leave in Bath. "For a
whole long fortnight!"
"I could wish that I were not going. But all is arranged and the
Colonel desires it. I must not fail him now at the last. If I can see
my way to return at the end of a se'night, I will assuredly do so. If
not--I shall still have a fortnight after my return. I shall know what
to do with that time, sweetheart."
It is to be feared that Polly found small leisure thereafter for
meditating on the childish woes of little Molly, so full was her head
of the brave young Grenadier Captain, who had vowed to devote his life
to her.
Just one or two weeks of separation, and then she would have him with
her again; and hers would be the ineffable delight of showing off this
gallant lover among all her Bath friends. How they would one and all
envy Polly!
A small touch of feminine vanity no doubt crept in here, though Polly's
whole girlish heart was given to Denham. But in his deeper love for her
there was no thought of what others might say. He would, of course, be
proud of the fair creature whom he had won; yet in his love there was
no room found for the puerile element. It pervaded the man's entire
being.
He stood very much alone in the world as regarded kinship, having been
left an orphan at an early age, under the guardianship of Colonel
Baron, his father's cousin, and having no brothers, sisters or other
near relatives. The Barons' house had been, ever since Colonel Baron's
marriage, a home to him; and while Colonel Baron was in some sense
almost as his father, Mrs. Baron occupied rather the position of an
elder sister. To Roy and Molly, Denham had always been like a brother.
He had seen a good deal of both Polly and Jack in their childhood, but
during later years he had been much on service abroad; and his first
view of Polly Keene, his quondam playmate, transformed into a grown-up
young lady, had been but a few weeks before this date. Denham had lost
his heart to her in the first half-hour of their renewed acquaintance;
and Polly soon discovered that he was the one man in the world who had
her happiness in his keeping.
Despite the warm affection of his Baron cousins, Denham had possessed
hitherto none as absolutely his own. Now that he had won "Sweet Polly,"
life would wear for him a new aspect.
And when, three or four days later, good-byes were said, no voice
whispered to him or to Polly, how long-drawn-out a separation lay ahead.
(_To be continued._)
[Illustration]
[Illustration: TWILIGHT MUSIC.]
MARY'S PART.
BY WILLIAM T. SAWARD.
Not only in that village home
To minister to many needs;
Fulfil the tasks that hourly come,
Or meditate along the meads;
Bring sunshine to a darkened life;
Make home the sweetest place on earth;
Fresh smiles to smooth away the strife,
Or gather for the time of dearth.
She trained her ear to catch the strains
Of all the harps on Sion's Hill;
Where Jordan's sacred valley drains
The tiny streamlets as they fill.
The Homeland, cumbered round with care--
Trees, flowers and rivers--useless things--
No voices on the evening air,
No twilight and the peace it brings--
A clump of trees, a scarp of rock,
A long, low valley, colourless;
Clouds in a heavy sky, that mock
Thoughts tinged with their own bitterness.
But, passion-hushed, the quiet mind,
Attuned to Wisdom's sweeter way,
Hears, even in the sobbing wind,
The promise of a better day.
Thus higher wisdom teaches still
A lowliness of mind and heart;
The sweet subservience of the Will,
The gladness of that better part.
[Illustration]
CHRONICLES OF AN ANGLO-CALIFORNIAN RANCH.
BY MARGARET INNES.