Days came and went, and Cecil Laurens was a daily visitor at Ferndale,
filled with the laudable desire to please his old friend, Mrs. Barry,
by making time pass pleasantly for her niece. At least, that was the
reason he assigned to himself when he set out every morning for a
canter with Molly over the rough mountain roads, in the golden June
weather.
If any one had told him that he was taking an unusual interest in the
madcap girl whose acquaintance he had made in such a ludicrous manner,
he would have been indignant at the imputation. He would have told you,
as his family and friends said of him, that he was not susceptible, not
a marrying man. In his thirty years of life he had met many beautiful
and charming women, had
“Knelt at many a shrine,
Yet laid the heart on none.”
So little had he cared for women that he had not, as many men have
done, created an ideal woman in his mind; but if he had done so, she
would not have resembled Molly Trueheart in the least; she would have
been full of gracious ease and dignity:
“A perfect creature, nobly planned,
To warn, to comfort, and command,
And yet a spirit still and bright,
With something of an angel’s light.”
Molly Trueheart did not come up to this ideal at all. She was a
merry, willful little maid, reminding one of April weather with her
alternations from frowns to smiles, and from laughter to tears. Cecil
Laurens never suspected her of a bit of sentiment until one day when he
came upon her unexpectedly, and found her reading Mrs. Browning with
the page open at “Lady Geraldine’s Courtship.”
“You read poetry, then? I am surprised,” he said.
Molly left her finger between the pages and looked up at him without a
trace of surprise at his sudden coming. Perhaps she had seen or heard
him.
“You are surprised--why? Did you think I could not read?” she inquired
flippantly.
“Certainly not--but poetry! I thought you had no romance about
you--only fun,” he rejoined.
“You were mistaken. I am romantic. If I had not been I should never
have come to Ferndale.”
“I fail to see the romance of your coming here, Miss Barry.”
“It is not necessary that you should see it,” with a twinkle of mirth
in her eyes.
“No,” he returned, piqued at the brusquerie of the retort. In a minute
he added: “Since you confess to being romantic, perhaps you will read
‘Lady Geraldine’s Courtship’ aloud for me. It is just the scene for
reading poetry--this grassy seat, these nodding ferns, overarching
trees, sunshine, and all the rest of it.”
“Yes, I will read it for you. That will be better than hearing you
sneer at me,” said Molly.
She let her stony, dark eyes meet his violet ones for a moment coolly,
then dropped her gaze to the book. In a minute she began to read
with a clear, pure enunciation and a faultless accuracy that amazed
him. Throwing himself down on the velvety greensward by her side, he
listened like one fascinated to the poet’s flowing numbers rendered
with faultless accuracy by Molly’s fresh, young voice.
Who does not know the story of “Lady Geraldine’s Courtship”?--the story
of the poor poet’s love for a lovely, noble lady who trampled under
her dainty feet the prejudices of pride and rank and wedded the young
genius, her lover? Molly’s eloquent voice gave full value to the story,
rose in passion, sank in pathos, thrilled and trembled alternately,
while her eyes sparkled or melted to tears in sympathy. Cecil Laurens,
the handsome, gifted man of the world, indolent, self-conceited, proud,
gazed and listened in unfeigned astonishment.
“The little witch has been teasing me all this while. She is not the
little ignoramus and madcap I believed her at first. She has been
well-educated, her voice is thoroughly trained. No wonder she laughed
when I wanted her to go to school again,” he said to himself, but
instead of being angry with her, he experienced pleasure in finding out
that she had culture he had not dreamed she possessed.
The long poem came to an end at last and Molly folded her small hands
together over the page. Her listener started up to a sitting posture.
“Thank you, for the pleasure you have given me,” he said, earnestly.
“It is indeed a grand poem.”
“I scarcely expected you to say so,” she retorted, meaningly. “I
thought you were too proud. How can you reconcile yourself to the idea
of the Lady Geraldine marrying so far beneath her in station--you who
are always taking for a text my poor father’s _mésalliance_?”
“This case was different--the poet’s genius leveled the barrier between
him and the earl’s daughter--raised him to her rank,” he replied.
“My--step-mother--had genius. She was a star of the dramatic stage. She
gave up a brilliant career to marry the man she loved, yet you condemn
her as unworthy,” Molly said, excitedly, with flashing eyes.
He frowned.
“Why will you always drag _that_ into the conversation? You have
owned of your own accord that that woman’s daughter was sly and
disagreeable--a real tiger-cat!” he exclaimed.
“Ah, I see that poetic license is not to be carried into real life,”
she replied, falling from seriousness into levity. Then, gayly: “And
are you sure, quite sure, that you should not fall in love with golden
hair and golden eyes, and _l’air noble_?”
“Quite sure,” he replied, with disdain.
She laughed, and there was something hidden in the laugh that vexed
him; but she said, politely enough, the next moment:
“Now you will read to me, will you not?”
“Pardon me; I would rather talk to you. When are you going to the
White?”
But he had taken the book from her hands, and was turning the leaves
while he spoke. Molly answered, reluctantly:
“I--don’t know. Aunt Thalia said something about--about waiting until
you got ready.”
“How kind! I shall be delighted. I can go in about three days, I
should say. But you don’t look very glad at the thought of my company.”
“I would as soon excuse you,” she replied, with her usual frankness.
He frowned, but would not answer, and in a minute began to read aloud,
as it seemed, at random:
“‘She was not as pretty as women I know,
And yet all your best made of sunshine and snow
Drop to shade, melt to naught in the long-trodden ways,
While she’s still remembered on warm and cold days,
My Kate.’
“There,” he said, looking down at her with a half smile, “those words
seem to have been written of you, you provoking child! Do you know
that when I’m away from you my thoughts always return to you, and that
the hard things you say to me hurt me worse than when first uttered?
I resolve firmly not to go near you again, but ‘a spirit in my feet’
brings me back to Ferndale the next day. What have you done to me, Miss
Willy Whisk, as old Betsy calls you, to make me your abject slave? I
certainly,” laughing, “do not approve of you, so I can not have lost my
heart to you.”
“Heaven forbid!” Molly Trueheart exclaimed, starting to her feet in
such dismay that he said, hastily:
“Pray do not be alarmed. You could not suppose I really meant it!”
“Of course not. It would be the worst possible taste,” she returned
sarcastically, and Cecil Laurens, angered out of his usual good
breeding, cried out, sharply:
“I agree with you, Miss Barry!”
That was enough. Molly’s eyes blazed upon him in such wrath that they
almost withered him. She snatched her book rudely from his hand, and
stalked away with the pace of a tragedy queen.
Left alone thus suddenly under the big tree, Mr. Laurens watched
Molly’s white garments flutter into the big porch, then he muttered
something under his breath not very complimentary to his tormentor,
remounted his horse, which was waiting under a tree, and rode home.
The next day he stayed away from Ferndale, and the next day he sent
his old friend a short note saying that he had been so busy he had no
time to call, and found that unexpected business would take him into
Lewisburg for several days. He hoped she would not wait for him any
longer, as it might not be possible for him to go to the White at all.
With a very sober face Mrs. Barry read this aloud to her niece,
watching the guilty young face with covert eyes.
“Louise Barry, you have done something to Cecil,” she said, with
conviction.
But Molly protested loudly that she hadn’t said a word to Mr. Laurens.
Then she went off to one of her wildest haunts by a secluded little
mountain stream and flung herself down on the green bank to rest and
think.
She caught a glimpse of her pale face and heavy eyes in the clear
stream, and started in surprise.
“Molly Trueheart, is that you looking so pale and big-eyed? What is
the matter with you, silly? It is the best thing that ever happened.
You ought to thank your lucky stars that you got rid of him so soon,
the hateful wretch!”
And then very inconsistently she burst into a storm of angry tears.