Mrs. Barry and her niece had been at the White two weeks, when Cecil
Laurens made his appearance quite unexpectedly one evening, and
explained to Mrs. Barry that as he was going away soon he had come over
to bid her good-bye.
To Molly he was very stiff and formal indeed, although he could almost
have sworn that a sudden light of joy leaped into her eyes at his
abrupt approach--a light instantly veiled beneath the fringe of her
dark lashes, and her voice was distinctly careless as she gave him a
brief greeting and went away from her aunt’s side with her partner in
the dance.
For Molly had become in the weeks of her sojourn here one of the belles
of the place, and was enjoying her prestige with all the ardor of youth
and a light heart. No one was more sought in the dance than she, no
one had more bouquets and invitations, and she would not have owned to
herself that pique lay at the bottom of her gayety.
Her girlish pride had been cruelly wounded by Cecil Laurens’ sarcastic
words, and a strange longing came over her to know if they were really
true.
“Would it indeed be such poor taste for any one to love _me_?” she
asked herself, soberly; and the gravity of the thought turned the child
into a woman.
She threw aside the carelessness that had distinguished her, and put on
what she called grown-up ways. As she had a good education, and a high
order of intellect, she succeeded in making the change very striking
and charming, and in less than two weeks disproved the truth of the
ungallant Cecil’s assertion.
On his part, he was astonished when, after two weeks of sulky exile,
he saw her again, the cynosure of all eyes at this famous resort of
fashion, bright, beautiful, and admired, as he had not believed it
possible for any one to admire the will-o’-the-wisp creature, as she
had always seemed to him, even while she drew him to her side by a
charm which he would not understand.
“But she is beautiful, certainly, and very brilliant here--most unlike
the forlorn creature that Hero threw over his head that night at my
feet,” he said to himself with a smile, followed by a frown--the smile
for the ludicrousness of the adventure, and the frown for the secret
that lay behind that night’s “lark,” as she called it--the escapade so
carefully hidden from her aunt.
“I had no right to keep it hidden from my old friend. I wish I had not
promised to do so,” he thought, vexed at the sight of Molly gliding
like a fairy down the long ball-room in the arms of as handsome a
partner as ever made maiden’s heart throb faster in the gay waltz.
Mrs. Barry saw his eyes following the light form, and said with a touch
of pride:
“Louise is a graceful waltzer?”
“Yes,” he answered, then a little testily: “But I do not approve of
indiscriminate waltzing for young ladies.”
“No?” said Mrs. Barry, turning her inquisitive glasses on his rather
moody face.
After a minute’s study of its grave lines, she added:
“I can not say that I think it matters except in the case of engaged
girls. Of course a betrothed lover would have a right to object, but
then you know Louise is free.”
Did he fancy it, or was there really a pointed significance in her
tone? He rejoined half-resentfully:
“Are you sure she is free, and that she did not leave a lover behind
her in Staunton?”
She started, and looked at him keenly, then she laughed:
“Cecil, you actually frightened me for a moment; but now you make me
laugh,” she said, gayly, with a laugh that would have been merry, only
that it was so cracked with age. “My dear boy, there is no lover in
Staunton in the case. The child never thought of a lover until she saw
you. But she has offended you. I believed it all the while, now I am
sure of it. You are jealous.”
“You are mistaken,” Cecil cried, furiously.
Then he shut his lips tightly. He did not like to contradict his old
friend, but it was ridiculous, this fancy she entertained. Jealous! He
would have to be in love first, and the idea of loving Louise Barry
was--absurd.
“Yes, it is absurd! A spoiled baby in spite of her twenty-five years,
with the audacious frankness of youth so freely indulged that it
degenerates into lack of manners. Mrs. Barry must be losing her mind,
indeed!” he exclaimed to himself, deciding that he would certainly go
in the morning.
But he did not do so. Something held him back, something kept him
always in the vicinity of the girl he fancied he disliked more than
ever now, for she seemed bent on keeping up their feud. She was so
cool, so reserved, so dignified, taking as she said to herself grimly
“a leaf out of his own book.” So apparently indifferent was she that
many times when he lingered near her she remained in ignorance of his
proximity, so that day when she thought herself alone for a minute with
a charming novel, Cecil was quite close to her swinging in a luxurious
hammock hung between two trees, his lazy, sleepy glance resting on the
lovely, spirited face as it bent over the book.
“Poor Madelon!” she sighed, referring to the heroine, and then there
came a sudden interruption.
A man had come straight across the greensward toward her--a young man
with a grave, sad face, handsome but rather weak, while his attire,
partaking wholly of the shabby genteel, proclaimed that he was
certainly not a favorite of fortune.
Cecil Laurens saw this man going toward Molly with a bright, eager
light in his eyes, and he was filled with indignant wonder.
“Does Miss Barry know that shabby man? Surely not,” he thought, and
leaned forward to watch with jealous eyes.
Molly was so intent on her reading that she heard and saw nothing until
a shadow fell on her book as the man stopped by her side. She glanced
up, and the face that Cecil was watching grew radiant with surprise and
pleasure.
“Johnny!” she exclaimed, and held out her little hand.
He took it, clasped it tightly a moment, and Cecil heard him murmur,
hoarsely:
“How good you are! You never fail one! But I had no right to expect a
welcome. It is the old story--no work yet, and no money to make a home
for my darling! But I heard you all were here, and I could not keep
from coming for just one sight of my cruel darling’s face, although I
feared her reproaches. Where is--”
“Hush-h-h!” Molly whispered, pinching his arm severely; “some one may
hear us from the cottage yonder. Come this way, Johnny, toward the
trees.”
They moved away, and Cecil Laurens’ face grew dark and gloomy.
“The impecunious lover has come upon the scene!” he muttered, with
angry sarcasm.