"I'm not sorry; I'm _glad_!" cried Mollie, while a rain of tears rolled
down her cheeks. "He was old and was tired, and everyone he loved had
gone before him. It will be like going home to meet them again. He was
grim and cross and suspicious, but I loved him all the same, and in his
queer way I am sure that he liked me too. I'm thankful he is at rest!
... `Will write details.' Thursday!--that means that she will write on
Thursday evening. Mrs Thornton is nothing if not businesslike. We
shall hear from her by the second post on Friday. By Friday at ten
o'clock we shall know our fate. To be, or not to be--that is the
question. Oh, I hope--I hope he has remembered us a little! There is
no chance of inheriting the Court, as we once dreamt of doing; but
still, there is a hope, and it will be a shock to bury it for ever. I
used to feel comparatively indifferent; but the strain of these last six
months has made me greedy; while you, you dear goose, who used to be all
ambition, are in such a ludicrous condition of bliss that you can hardly
rouse yourself to take any interest in the question! What it is to be
engaged!"
Ruth tried to look contrite, but succeeded only in smiling seraphically.
"When you are perfectly happy it is impossible to be happier, and I
honestly don't care very much. I should like Uncle Bernard to leave me
a nice message, and I shouldn't at all object to a legacy, which would
provide my trousseau; but the Court itself would be a white elephant to
me now. Donald adores his work, and would not give it up for any
consideration, so we could never live there ourselves."
"You might lend it to a poor but deserving family! Astonishing as it
may appear, there are a few other people in the world beside yourself
and Donald, and they are not all going to be married and live happily
ever after!"
This time Ruth did, indeed, look contrite, and that without an effort.
"Oh, Mollie, I am horribly selfish! Forgive me, darling! I honestly do
forget everybody but ourselves sometimes; and it is hateful of me, for
when I am so happy I ought to be more sympathetic, instead of less. I
am, when I remember! I am so bubbling over with happiness and good-will
that I feel inclined to kiss everyone I meet. But there is so much to
be thought about, and every time we meet there seems to be more, and I
get lost in dreams."
"Bless your heart, don't apologise to me. I like it!" cried Mollie
heartily. "I know your heart is right; and it's a poor thing if lovers
can't live in a world of their own for a few weeks of their life. I'm
thankful beyond words that your future is settled. But oh, what a help
a few hundreds would be to the rest of us just now! I feel as if I
could hardly live until Friday morning, I am so anxious to hear the
news! And the mysterious condition, Ruth! Do you realise that we shall
know all about it in three more days?"
"I wonder!" sighed Ruth dreamily. Then, with sudden animation, "If it
is good news,--if either of us came in for something really big, Mrs
Thornton would wire! She simply could not wait. She is far too
impulsive!"
It was an unfortunate suggestion, as it added tenfold to the strain of
waiting. The minutes seemed to drag on Thursday afternoon and evening;
but no telegram appeared, and Mollie's heart sank heavily. She knew
better than her sister how difficult it was to make both ends meet, and
what a long and arduous task it would be to pay off the loans which had
tided the family through their time of need, and she was tired--as any
natural, high-spirited young thing would be--of all work and no play,
and eagerly longing for a respite. Mr Farrell had expressly stated
that he would not divide his property; but that did not prohibit small
legacies, and when he knew that his nearest relations were in straits,
surely--surely...
Mollie was up and dressed even before her usual early hour the next
morning, for sleep was impossible in such a whirl of nervous anxiety.
Ruth kissed her before departing to her work, and said--
"Rush down to me, dear, if there is anything good to tell. I shall look
out for you about eleven."
Mollie set about her household duties with great fervour, so as to make
the long hour pass by more quickly. At last ten o'clock struck, and
almost at the same time came the sound of the postman's rat-tat. She
flew to the door, arriving at the very moment that three letters fell
into the box.
One was of that long, narrow shape, which inevitably foretells a bill; a
second was unmistakably a circular; the third-- Mollie stared at it,
turned it over, looked at the postmark, stared at the writing again, in
a whirl of bewildered dismay. It could not be an ordinary, unimportant
letter from the children's aunt at Brighton! It could not! The thing
was impossible! Yet why, then, the address to Trix, the well-known
writing--most of all, the horrible postmark?
She put her hand to her head, wondering if it were true, or only a
horrible nightmare that Mrs Thornton had not written, after all!
The little mother came creeping out of the dining-room, and, seeing her
child's blanched face, was persistently optimistic. Absurd to give up
hope because a letter did not come by the first possible post! A
hundred things might have happened to cause a delay; and, even if it had
been posted in time, the post-office was not always infallible.
Mrs Farrell recalled stories of belated letters from her own
experience, and related them at length, while Mollie went numbly about
her work. The disappointment was severe, and seemed like a foretaste of
worse to come. Nevertheless, as time went on, her naturally buoyant
nature asserted itself, and, as each delivery drew near, excitement grew
to fever-pitch.
One o'clock, and a letter for the maid; three o'clock, and the postman
walked past the door. Poor Mollie! The sound of his departing
footsteps rang like a knell in her ears, and two hot rebellious tears
rose to her eyes. It did not seem possible that anything would have
prevented the kindly Mrs Thornton from keeping her promise except sheer
inability to communicate bad news; and bad news meant that her own name
and Ruth's were not mentioned in the will, and that everything went to
Victor Druce. Oh, it was hard to give up so much to so unworthy a
supplanter!
The children came home from school and settled down to their "prep."
Mrs Connor retired to her room for a rest, and Mollie took her way to
her stepfather's little den to set a match to the fire, and hold a
newspaper before it to make it blaze cheerily in preparation for his
return. It was one of the pleasures of the day to make the sanctum look
cheery and home-like for the tired man, and to-day there was an
additional impetus in the knowledge that he would share in her own
disappointment.
Mollie knelt by the grate, holding the newspaper in place--a tired,
disheartened little Cinderella, who would have liked to lay her head on
the table and indulge in a good cry. But such luxuries are not for the
brave-hearted; so she resolutely blinked away the rising tears, and,
rising to her feet, lighted the crimson-shaded lamp on the writing-
table. Its rosy light had a wonderfully beautifying effect on the
little room, giving an air of luxury to the commonplace furnishings; and
when the curtains were drawn, and the easy-chair drawn up to the fire,
it was as bright and cheerful a little interior as one need wish to see.
Mollie looked round with a glance of satisfaction, then suddenly rushed
into the hall at the sound of a loud knock at the door. So soon! She
had not expected the next delivery for another half-hour at least. No
letter appeared in the box; so, with wild visions of a legal missive,
registered for greater safety, she threw open the door and peered out
into the night.
A man's tall figure stood on the step; but it was not the figure of a
postman. Mollie leant forward--the light from above shining on cheeks
flushed from contact with the fire, and ruffled golden head--leant
forward, and stared into his face with incredulous eyes.
"Mollie!" cried a well-remembered voice, which broke into an eloquent
tremor over the name.
"You!" cried Mollie! "Mr Melland! It can't be! What does it mean?
You can't really be here!"
He laughed at that, and took a step forward, like the masterful Jack of
old.
"I am here; it is myself, and nobody else! I'll tell you all about it
if you will let me in. It's rather cold to-night, you know."
She held the door wide open at that, and hurried him across the hall
into the little, pink-lighted room, which she had just prepared for
another's reception. There they stood face to face, staring at each
other for a breathless moment.
"I thought you were in Raby--"
"So I was yesterday. I left this morning, and came down by the first
train."
"Mrs Thornton promised to write. I thought you were the postman just
now; and, of course, one cannot help being curious.--Have you come to
tell us anything nice? Did Uncle Bernard remember us at all?"
"He has left your sister his wife's rubies. They are very beautiful, I
am told, and of considerable value."
"Oh, I am glad! Ruth will be pleased; and she will be able to wear them
when she is married. How beautiful she will look! And--and me?"
Jack shook his head.
"Nothing? Not even a word to say he forgave me for coming away?"
"There is a letter. You will see it later on. What I meant was that
your name was not mentioned in the will. He left you no legacy."
Mollie sat down in the easy-chair, and leant her head against the
cushions. In spite of all that had passed, in spite of every
determination to be prepared for the worst, the blow fell with crushing
weight. She was conscious of a feeling of physical weakness, as if the
body shared with the mind in grieving over the vanished dream; but she
tried bravely to smile and look unconcerned.
"Then I suppose he--Victor Druce--inherits all?"
Jack looked at her with anxious eyes.
"You expected it, didn't you? You are not surprised? It seems to have
been generally taken for granted for the last six months."
"Yes; so Mrs Thornton said. If it had been anyone else I should not
grudge it so much. And you are left out too! I wish--oh, I wish it had
been different!"
Jack Melland took a step forward, and bent over her chair.
"Mollie," he said softly, "shall we console each other? I have been
waiting until this question was settled before coming to see you. It
seemed an endless time to wait, but I couldn't come till I knew the
truth. How could a poor fellow, with a few beggarly hundreds a year,
approach a girl who might be one of the biggest heiresses in the
kingdom? But I didn't forget you--I couldn't forget. I have been
thinking of you night and day. It was all the harder to be silent when
you were in trouble; but it was the straight thing to do. You can't
tell what it means to me to see you again! When you opened the door
just now, and the lamp-light showed me your little golden head--"
He broke off, with the same strange quiver in his voice which had marked
his first utterance of her name; but Mollie shrank back still further in
her chair, staring at him with troubled eyes.
"What do you mean? I don't understand!"
"It's simple enough--only that I love you, and want you to love me in
return!"
"But--don't you remember?--you told me about her--the girl you met, and
loved at first sight. Suppose you met her again, and felt the same;
then you would be sorry if I--"
"Oh, Mollie, do you mean to say you have remembered all this time, and
never guessed! It was yourself, darling; there never was anyone else!
I think I must have cared for you from the first, though I did not
realise it, for I was irritated that I could never get you to be
serious. You were like a child out for a holiday--full of fun and
mischief--and I wanted to talk of deeper things. Then one day for a
moment you showed me a glimpse of your real self--the sweet, womanly
heart that lay beneath the gaiety; and as I looked at your face I
recognised it, Mollie. It was something I had dreamed of when I did not
know I was dreaming, and wanted, without knowing what I wanted! I saw
that look again five minutes after I had told you of my lost love, as
you looked at me and wished me happiness. Why did you look sad, Mollie?
Were you--were you sorry at all?"
Mollie put her hand to her side with a gesture as natural as it was
charming.
"It hurt," she said simply. "I never, never dreamt that you meant me,
and I have tried hard not to think of you ever since; but I didn't
succeed very well... Why did you always write to Ruth instead of to
me?"
Jack laughed happily, and with a lover's privilege seated himself on the
arm of the easy-chair, and took Mollie's hands in his.
"Because, as I told you before, you darling, I was waiting. And do you
really think you could make up your mind to marry me on next to nothing,
and live in a tiny house, and wrestle with the household bills? Do you
think I am worth the sacrifice?"
Mollie smiled at him, shyly confident.
"I'm so improvident that I'm afraid I'd marry you on nothing. I haven't
a copper of my own, remember. You will have a penniless bride. Oh, I
wish more than ever that Uncle Bernard had left me something, so that I
might help you! It does seem hard, doesn't it, that Victor Druce should
get it all?"
Jack hesitated a moment, tugging at his moustache with his unoccupied
hand.
"I didn't say that, you know. I never told you that he did."
"Jack!"
The name slipped out so naturally on the surprise of the moment that
there was a prolonged interval in the conversation, while Jack
acknowledged the compliment. Then Mollie returned to the attack,
laughing and rosy.
"You asked if I were surprised. You said everyone had taken it for
granted!"
"Exactly; so I did. But for once everyone was mistaken. Druce has not
come in for the property."
"Then, who--who--"
"Someone equally unworthy--an ungracious rascal of a fellow called
Melland. It is all mine, Mollie--all that there is to leave!"
And then Jack did a pretty thing--a thing that he would have sneered at
as high-flown and sentimental a few months before; but no man really
knows himself or his capabilities till he loves and is beloved. He
slipped off his seat, and knelt on the floor at Mollie's feet.
"And I have come to you," he said gravely, "to ask you to share it with
me, for it's worth nothing, and worse than nothing, if I have not you by
my side!"
He held out his hand as he spoke, and Mollie laid hers in it, while her
face confronted him, white and tense with excitement.
"I can't--I can't believe it!" she gasped. "It is too wonderful! You
and me! That lovely, lovely place; and we the masters of it, able to do
as we like--just as we like, all the summer days, and the winter days,
and the beautiful spring, and no more anxiety and trouble! Jack--Jack!"
Her head went down on his shoulder, and he held her fast while she shed
a few natural tears of joy and thankfulness.
"My poor girl--my dear girl! Yes, it is all over, and the money is as
much yours as mine. I feel sure Mr Farrell meant it to be so, and that
you will find something to that effect in this letter he has left you.
He discovered my secret before I left Raby, and said plainly how much he
wished it success. There, darling, read your letter! I hope you may
find some kind words to comfort your heart."
Mollie broke open the envelope, which he handed to her. It was a solemn
business, reading a message from the dead, and her big eyes looked quite
awestruck as they scanned the page. There were only a few words,
written in a small, tremulous hand:--
"My dear Mollie,--I leave you nothing, hoping that you may share all.
That is my strong wish, and I believe I am helping on your happiness
by an apparent neglect. Try to forgive me for refusing your last
request. It would have been easier to consent, but I considered that
a short period of anxiety would be a blessing in disguise, if it
showed you who were your true friends. If a man comes forward and
offers you his love in the days of obscurity and poverty, that man's
love is worth having. I hope and believe it will come to you. I
thank you for your kindness to an old man. Forgive him for all his
offences, foremost among them an unfounded suspicion.--Your friend and
kinsman, Bernard Farrell."
"There! You see how right I was?" cried Jack in triumph. "In effect,
we are joint heirs, and have equally free hands in the disposal of the
money. You must settle an income on your mother which will ensure her
against anxiety, and then you can come away with an easy mind, and help
me to turn into a country squire and learn my duties to the tenants.
You told me once that he would be hard-worked if he were conscientious,
and I want to do the thing well while I am about it. This is December.
I mean to be married in January, at latest!"
Mollie laughed, but with a somewhat tremulous sound. The change of
scene which had taken place within the last quarter of an hour was so
complete, so extraordinary, that she felt dazed by the shock. Not only
had undreamed-of happiness come to herself, but with it such relief and
ease for all belonging to her, that they would rejoice equally with
herself. It did indeed seem more like a dream than a reality, as, with
Jack's arm round her waist and her head resting contentedly upon Jack's
shoulder, they drifted off into one of those delightful conversations
which follow all happy betrothals.
"Do you remember?" queried Jack. "Do you remember?" echoed Mollie.
"What did you mean when you said?"
"How did you feel when you heard?"
"When did you first begin?"
"And are you quite sure you will never, never--" It is all as old as the
hills, and as new as to-morrow morning, though each separate pair of
lovers imagine in their innocence that they own the exclusive monopoly.
"Jack!" cried Mollie at last, sitting suddenly upright and clasping her
hands in amaze. "Jack, imagine it! All this time I have forgotten the
most thrilling part of all. The condition--the mysterious condition!
What was it? What did you do, or leave undone, which made you different
from the rest of us?"