MOLLY BAWN

By

THE DUCHESS

(Margaret Wolfe Hamilton)

Author of "Phylis, " "Airy Fairy Lilian, " "Portia, " Etc, . Etc. 

NEW YORKHURST AND COMPANYPUBLISHERS

Transcriber's Note: The Table of Contents was not printed in this book. It has been created for the convenience of the reader. 

CONTENTS

CHAPTER I. CHAPTER XX. CHAPTER II. CHAPTER XXI. CHAPTER III. CHAPTER XXII. CHAPTER IV. CHAPTER XXIII. CHAPTER V. CHAPTER XXIV. CHAPTER VI. CHAPTER XXV. CHAPTER VII. CHAPTER XXVI. CHAPTER VIII. CHAPTER XXVII. CHAPTER IX. CHAPTER XXVIII. CHAPTER X. CHAPTER XXIX. CHAPTER XI. CHAPTER XXX. CHAPTER XII. CHAPTER XXXI. CHAPTER XIII. CHAPTER XXXII. CHAPTER XIV. CHAPTER XXXIII. CHAPTER XV. CHAPTER XXXIV. CHAPTER XVI. CHAPTER XXXV. CHAPTER XVII. CHAPTER XXXVI. CHAPTER XVIII. CHAPTER XXXVII. CHAPTER XIX. CHAPTER XXXVIII. 

MOLLY BAWN. 

CHAPTER I. 

"On hospitable thoughts intent. "

"Positively he is coming!" says Mr. Massereene, with an air of the mostprofound astonishment. 

"_Who?_" asks Molly, curiously, pausing with her toast in mid-air (theyare at breakfast), and with her lovely eyes twice their usual goodlysize. Her lips, too, are apart; but whether in anticipation of the newsor of the toast, it would be difficult to decide. "Is any one cominghere?"

"Even here. This letter"--regarding, with a stricken conscience, theelegant scrawl in his hand--"is from Tedcastle George Luttrell (he isevidently proud of his name), declaring himself not only ready butfatally willing to accept my invitation to spend a month with me. "

"A month!" says Molly, amazed. "And you never said a word about it, John. "

"A month!" says Letitia, dismayed. "What on earth, John, is any one todo with any one for a month down here?"

"I wish I knew, " replies Mr. Massereene, getting more and more strickenas he notices his wife's dejection, and gazing at Molly as though forinspiration. "What evil genius possessed me that I didn't say afortnight? But, to tell you the honest truth, Letty, it never occurredto me that he might come. "

"Then why did you ask him?" says Letitia, as sharply as is possible forher. "When writing, you might have anticipated so much: people generallydo. "

"Do they?" says Mr. Massereene, with an irrepressible glance at Molly. "Then you must only put me down as an exception to the general rule. Ithought it only civil to ask him, but I certainly never believed hewould be rash enough to go in for voluntary exile. I should haveremembered how unthinking he always was. "

"But who is he?" asks Molly, impatiently, full of keen and pleasurableexcitement. "I die of vulgar curiosity. What is he like? Is he young, handsome? Oh, John, _do_ say he is young and good-looking. "

"He was at school with me. "

"Oh!" groans Molly. 

"Does that groan proceed from a conviction that I am in the last stageof decay?" demands Mr. Massereene. "Anything so rude as you, Molly, hasnot as yet been rivaled. However, I am at a disadvantage: so I forgive, and will proceed. Though at school with me, he is at least nine years myjunior, and can't be more than twenty-seven. "

"Ah!" says Molly. To an Irish girl alone is given the power to expressthese two exclamations with proper effect. 

"He is a hussar, of a good family, sufficiently good looks, and, Ithink, no fortune, " says Mr. Massereene, as though reading from adoubtful guide-book. 

"How delightful!" says Molly. 

"How terrific!" sighs Letitia. "Fancy a hussar finding amusement inlambs, and cows, and fat pigs, and green fields!"

"'Green fields and pastures new, '" quotes Mr. Massereene. "He will havethem in abundance. He ought to be happy, as they say there is a charm invariety. "

"Perhaps he will find some amusement in me, " suggests Molly, modestly. "Can it be possible that he is really coming? Oh, the glory of having ayoung man to talk to, and that young man a soldier! Letitia, " to hersister-in-law, "I warn you it will be no use for you to look shocked, because I have finally made up my mind to flirt every day, and all daylong, with Tedcastle George Luttrell. "

"Shocked!" says Letitia, gravely. "I would be a great deal more shockedif you had said you wouldn't; for what I should do with him, if yourefused to take him in hand, is a thing on which I shudder to speculate. John is forever doing questionable things, and repenting when it is toolate. Unless he means to build a new wing--" with a mild attempt atsarcasm, --"I don't know where Mr. Luttrell is to sleep. "

"I fear I would not have time, " says Massereene, meekly; "the wallswould scarcely be dry, as he is coming--the day after to-morrow. "

"Not until then?" says Letitia, ominously calm. "Why did you not make itto-day? That would have utterly precluded the possibility of my gettingthings into any sort of order. "

"Letitia, if you continue to address me in your present heartless stylefor one minute longer, I shall burst into tears, " says Mr. Massereene. And then they all laugh. 

"He shall have my room, " says Molly, presently, seeing that perplexitystill adorns Letitia's brows, "and I can have Lovat's. "

"Oh, Molly, I will not have you turned out of your room for any one, "says Letitia; but she says it faintly, and is conscious of a feeling ofrelief at her heart as she speaks. 

"But indeed he shall. It is such a pretty room that he cannot fail to beimpressed. Any one coming from a hot city, and proving insensible to thecharms of the roses that are now creeping into my window, would be unfitto live. Even a hussar must have a soft spot somewhere. I foresee thoseroses will be the means of reducing him to a lamb-like meekness. "

"You are too good, Molly. It seems a shame, " says Letitia, patting hersister-in-law's hand, and still hesitating, through a sense of duty;"does it not, John?"

"It is so difficult to know what a woman really means by the word, 'shame, '" replies John, absently, being deep in the morning's paper. "You said it was a shame yesterday when the cat drank all the cream; andMolly said it was a shame when Wyndham ran away with Crofton's wife. "

"Don't take any notice of him, Letty, " says Molly, with a scornful shrugof her pretty shoulders, turning her back on her brother, and resumingthe all-important subject of the expected visitor. 

"Another railway accident, and twenty men killed, " says Mr. Massereene, in a few minutes, looking up from his _Times_, and adopting thelugubrious tone one always assumes on such occasions, whether one caresor not. 

"Wasn't it fortunate we put up those curtains clean last week?" murmursLetitia, in a slow, self-congratulatory voice. 

"More than fortunate, " says Molly. 

"_Twenty_ men killed, Letty!" repeats Mr. Massereene, solemnly. 

"I don't believe there is a spare bath in the house, " exclaims Letitia, again sinking into the lowest depth of despair. 

"You forget the old one in the nursery. It will do for the children verywell, and he can have the new one, " says Molly. 

"Twenty men _killed_, Molly!" reiterates Mr. Massereene, a faint gleamof surprised disgust creeping into his eyes. 

"So it will, dear. Molly, you are an immense comfort. What did you say, John? Twenty men killed? _Dreadful!_ I wonder, Molly, if I might suggestto him that I would not like him to smoke in bed? I hear a great manyyoung men have that habit; indeed, a brother of mine, years ago, athome, nearly set the house on fire one night with a cigar. "

"Let me do all the lecturing, " says Molly, gayly; "there is nothing Ishould like better. "

"Talk of ministering angels, indeed!" mutters Mr. Massereene, rising, and making for the door, paper and all. "I don't believe they would careif England was swamped, so long as they had clean curtains forLuttrell's bed. "

CHAPTER II. 

"A lovely lady, garmented in lightFrom her own beauty. "

 --Shelley. 

The day that is to bring them Luttrell has dawned, deepened, burst intoperfect beauty, and now holds out its arms to the restful evening. Aglorious sunny evening as yet, full of its lingering youth, with scarcea hint of the noon's decay. The little yellow sunbeams, richer perhapsin tint than they were two hours agone, still play their games ofhide-and-seek and bo-peep among the roses that climb and spreadthemselves in all their creamy, rosy, snowy loveliness over the long, low house where live the Massereenes, and breathe forth scented kissesto the wooing wind. 

A straggling house is Brooklyn, larger, at the first glance, than it inreality is, and distinctly comfortable, yet with its comfort, a thingvery far apart from luxury, and with none of the sleepiness of anover-rich prosperity about it. In spite of the late June sun, there is ageneral air of life, a tremulous merriment, everywhere: the voices ofthe children, a certain laugh that rings like far-off music, the cooingof the pigeons beneath the eaves, the cluck-cluck of the silly fowls inthe farm-yard, --all mingle to defy the creeping sense of laziness thatthe day generates. 

"It is late, " says Mr. Massereene to himself, examining his watch forthe fifteenth time as he saunters in a purposeless fashion up and downbefore the hall door. There is a suppressed sense of expectancy both inhis manner and in the surroundings. The gravel has been newly raked, andgleams white and untrodden. The borders of the lawn that join on to ithave been freshly clipped. A post in the railings, that for three weekspreviously has been tottering to its fall, has been securely propped, and now stands firm and uncompromising as its fellows. 

"It is almost seven, " says Letitia, showing her fresh, handsome face atthe drawing-room window. "Do you think he will be here for dinner, John?"

"I am incapable of thought, " says John. "I find that when a man who isin the habit of dining at six is left without his dinner until seven hegrows morose. It is a humiliating discovery. Surely the stomach shouldbe subservient to the mind; but it isn't. Letitia, like a good girl, dosay you have ordered up the soup. "

"But, my dear John, had we not better wait a little longer?"

"My dear Letitia, most certainly not, unless you wish to raise a stormimpossible to quell. At present I feel myself in a mood that a verylittle more waiting will render ferocious. Besides, "--seeing his wifeslightly uneasy, --"as he did not turn up about six, he cannot by anypossibility be here until half-past eight. "

"And I took such trouble with that dinner!" says Letitia, with a sigh. 

"I am more glad to hear it than I can tell you, " says her husband, briskly. "Take my word for it, Letty, your trouble won't go fornothing. "

"_Gourmand!_" says Letitia, with the smile she reserves alone for him. 

 * * * * *

Eight, --half-past eight--nine. 

"I don't believe he is coming at all, " says Molly, pettishly, coming outfrom the curtains of the window, and advancing straight into the middleof the room. 

Under the chandelier, that has been so effectively touched up for thisrecreant knight, she stands bathed in the soft light of the many candlesthat beam down with mild kindliness upon her. It seems as though theylove to rest upon her, --to add yet one more charm, if it may be, to thesweet, graceful figure, the half-angry, wholly charming attitude, thetender, lovable, fresh young face. 

Her eyes, large, dark, and blue, --true Irish eyes, that bespeak herfather's race, --shine with a steady clearness. They do not sparkle, theyare hardly brilliant; they look forth at one with an expression so soft, so earnest, yet withal so merry, as would make one stake their all onthe sure fact that the heart within her must be golden. 

Her nut-brown hair, drawn back from her low brow into a loose coilbehind, is enriched here and there with little sunny tresses, whileacross her forehead a few wavy locks--veritable love-locks, in Molly'scase--wander idly, not as of a set purpose, but rather as though theyhave there drifted of their own gay will. 

Upon her cheeks no roses lie, --unless they be the very creamiest rosesthat ever eye beheld. She is absolutely without color until suchoccasions rise as when grief or gladness touch her and dye her lovelyskin with their red glow. 

But it is her mouth--at once her betrayer and her chief charm--that oneloves. In among its many curves lies all her wickedness, --the beautifulmouth, so full of mockery, laughter, fun, a certain decision, andtenderness unspeakable. 

She smiles, and all her face is as one perfect sunbeam. Surely never hasshe looked so lovely. The smile dies, her lips close, a pensivesweetness creeps around them, and one terms one's self a fatuous fool tohave deemed her at her best a moment since; and so on through all themany changes that only serve to show how countless is her store ofhidden charms. 

She is slender, but not lean, round, yet certainly not full, and of amiddle height. For herself, she is impulsive; a little too quick attimes, fond of life and laughter, as all youth should be, while perhaps(that I should live to say it!) down deep within her, somewhere, therehides, but half suppressed and ever ready to assert itself, a wayward, turbulent vein that must be termed coquetry. 

Now, at this instant the little petulant frown, born of "hope deferred, "that puckers up her forehead has fallen into her eyes, notwithstandingthe jealous guard of the long curling lashes, and, looking out defiantlyfrom thence, gives her all the appearance of a beloved but angry childfretting at the delay of some coveted toy. 

"I don't believe he is coming _at all_, " she says, again, with increasedemphasis, having received no answer to her first assertion, Letitiabeing absorbed in a devout prayer that her words may come true, whileJohn is disgracefully drowsy. "Oh, fancy the time I have wasted over myappearance, and all for nothing! I won't be able to get up the enthusiasma second time: I feel that. How I hate young men, --young men in the armyespecially! They are so selfish and so good-for-nothing, with no thoughtfor any one on earth but Number One. Give me a respectable, middle-agedsquire, with no aspirations beyond South-downs and Early York. "

"Poor Molly Bawn!" says John, rousing himself to meet the exigencies ofthe moment. "'I deeply sympathize. ' And just when you are looking sonice, too: isn't she, Letty? I vow and protest, that young man deservesnothing less than extinction. "

"I wish I had the extinguishing of him, " says Molly, viciously. Then, laughing a little, and clasping her hands loosely behind her back, shewalks to a mirror, the better to admire the long white trailing robe, the faultless face, the red rose dying on her breast. "And just when Ihad taken such pains with my hair!" she says, making a faint grimace ather own vanity. "John, as there is no one else to admire me, do say(whether you think it or not) I am the prettiest person you ever saw. "

"I wouldn't even hesitate over such a simple lie as that, " says John;"only--Letty is in the room: consider her feelings. "

"A quarter to nine. I really think he can't be coming now, " breaks inLetitia, hopefully. 

"Coming or not coming, I shan't remain in for him an instant longer thisdelicious night, " says Molly, walking toward the open window, underwhich runs a balcony, and gazing out into the still, calm moonlight. "Heis probably not aware of my existence; so that even if he does come hewill not take my absence in bad part; and if he does, so much thebetter. Even in such a poor revenge there is a sweetness. "

"Molly, " apprehensively, "the dew is falling. "

"I hope so, " answers Molly, with a smile, stepping out into the cool, refreshing dark. 

Down the wooden steps, along the gravel path, into the land of dreamingflowers she goes. Pale moonbeams light her way as, with her gownuplifted, she wanders from bed to bed, and with a dainty greedinessdrinks in the honeyed breathings round her. Here now she stoops to liftwith gentle touch a drooping head, lest in its slumber some defilingearth come near it; and here she stands to mark a spider's net, brilliant with dews from heaven. A crafty thing to have so fair ahome!--And here she sighs. 

"Well, if he doesn't come, what matters it? A stranger cannot claimregret. And yet what fun it would have been! what fun! (Poor lily, whatevil chance came by you to break your stem and lay your white headthere?) Perhaps--who knows?--he might be the stupidest mortal that everdared to live, and then--yet not so stupid as the walls, and trees, andshrubs, while he can own a tongue to answer back. Ah! wretched slug, would you devour my tender opening leaves? Ugh! I cannot touch the slimything. Where _has_ my trowel gone? I wish my ears had never heard hisname, --Luttrell; a pretty name, too; but we all know how little is in_that_. I feel absurdly disappointed; and why? Because it is decreedthat a man I never have known I never shall know. I doubt my brain issoftening. But why has my tent been pitched in such a lonely spot? Andwhy did he say he'd come? And why did John tell me he was good to lookat, and, oh! that best of all things--_young_?"

A sound, --a step, --the vague certainty of a presence near. And Molly, turning, finds herself but a few yards distant from the expected guest. The fates have been kind!

A tall young man, slight and clean-limbed, with a well-shaped head soclosely shaven as to suggest a Newgate barber; a long fair moustache, along nose, a rather large mouth, luminous azure eyes, and a complexionthe sun has vainly tried to brown, reducing it merely to a deeperflesh-tint. On the whole, it is a very desirable face that Mr. Luttrellowns; and so Molly decides in her first swift glance of pleasedsurprise. Yes, the fates have been more than kind. 

As for Luttrell himself, he is standing quite still, in the middle ofthe garden-path, staring at this living Flora. Inside not a word hasbeen said about her, no mention of her name had fallen ever so lightlyinto the conversation. He had made his excuses, had received a heartywelcome; both he and Massereene had declared themselves convinced thatnot a day had gone over the head of either since last they parted. Hehad bidden Mrs. Massereene good-night, and had come out here to smoke acigar in quietude, all without suspicion that the house might yetcontain another lovelier inmate. Is this her favorite hour for rambling?Is she a spirit? Or a lunatic? Yes, that must be it. 

Meanwhile through the moonlight--in it--comes Molly, very slowly, aperfect creature, in trailing, snowy robes. Luttrell, forgetting theinevitable cigar, --a great concession, --stands mutely regarding her as, with warm parted lips and a smile, half amused, half wondering, shegazes back at him. 

"Even a plain woman may gain beauty from a moonbeam; what, then, must alovely woman seem when clothed in its pure rays?"

"You are welcome, --very welcome, " says Molly, at length, in her low, soft voice. 

"Thank you, " returns he, mechanically, still lost in conjecture. 

"I am not a fairy, nor a spirit, nor yet a vision, " murmurs Molly, nowopenly amused. "Have no fear. See, " holding out to him a slim cool hand;"touch me, and be convinced, I am only Molly Massereene. "

He takes the hand and holds it closely, still entranced. Already--eventhough three minutes have scarcely marked their acquaintance--he isdimly conscious that there might possibly be worse things in this worldthan a perpetual near-to "only Molly Massereene. "

"So you did come, " she goes on, withdrawing her fingers slowly butpositively, and with a faint uplifting of her straight brows, "afterall. I was so afraid you _wouldn't_, you were so long. John--we _all_thought you had thrown us over. "

To have Beauty declare herself overjoyed at the mere fact of yourpresence is, under any circumstances, intoxicating. To have such anavowal made beneath the romantic light of a summer moon is maddening. 

"You _cared_?" says Luttrell, in hopeful doubt. 

"Cared!" with a low gay laugh. "I should think I did care. I quite_longed_ for you to come. If you only knew as well as I do the terrible, never-ending dullness of this place, you would understand how one couldlong for the coming of _any one_. "

Try as he will, he cannot convince himself that the termination of thissentence is as satisfactory as its commencement. 

"When the evening wore on, " with a little depressed shake of her head, "and still you made no sign, and I began to feel sure it was all toogood to be true, and that you were about to disappoint me and plead somehateful excuse by the morning post, I almost hated you, and was never insuch a rage in my life. But, " again holding out her hand to him, with acharming smile "I forgive you now. "

"Then forgive me one thing more, --my ignorance, " says Luttrell, retainingthe fingers this time with much increased firmness. "And tell me who youare. "

"Don't you know, really? You never heard of me from John or---- What afall to my pride, and when in my secret heart I had almost flatteredmyself that----"

"What?" eagerly. 

"Oh, nothing--only---- By the bye, now you have confessed yourselfignorant of my existence, what _did_ bring you down to thisuninteresting village?" All this with the most perfect _naïveté_. 

"A desire, " says Luttrell, smiling in spite of himself, "to see againyour--what shall I say?"--hesitating--"father?"

"Nonsense, " says Molly, quickly, with a little frown. "How could youthink John my father? When he looks so young, too. I hope you are notstupid: we shall never get on if you are. How could he be my father?"

"How could he be your brother?"

"Step-brother, then, " says Molly, unwillingly. "I will acknowledge itfor this once only. But never again, mind, as he is dearer to me thanhalf a dozen real brothers. You like him very much, don't you?"examining him anxiously. "You must, to take the trouble to come all theway down here to see him. "

"I do, indeed, more than I can say, " replies the young man, with wiseheartiness that is yet unfeigned. "He has stood to me too often in theold school-days to allow of my ever forgetting him. I would go fartherthan Morley to meet him, after a lengthened absence such as mine hasbeen. "

"India?" suggests Molly, blandly. 

"Yes. " Here they both pause, and Molly's eyes fall on her imprisonedhand. She is so evidently bent on being again ungenerous that Luttrellforces himself to break silence, with the mean object of distractingher thoughts. 

"Is it at this hour you usually 'take your walks abroad?'" he asks, smoothly. 

"Oh, no, " laughing; "you must not think that. To-night there was anexcuse for me. And if there is blame in the matter, you must take it. But for your slothfulness, your tardiness, your unpardonable laziness, "spitefully, "my temper would not have driven me forth. "

"But, " reproachfully, "you do not ask the cause of my delay. How wouldyou like to be first inveigled into taking a rickety vehicle in thelast stage of dissipation and then deposited by that vehicle, withoutan instant's warning, upon your mother earth? For my part, I didn'tlike it at all. "

"I'm so sorry, " says Molly, sweetly. "Did all that really happen toyou, and just while I was abusing you with all my might and main? Ithink I shall have to be very good to you to make up for it. "

"I think so too, " says Luttrell, gravely. "My ignominious breakdown wasnothing in comparison with a harsh word thrown at me by you. I feel adeep sense of injury upon me. "

"It all comes of our being in what the papers call 'poor circumstances, '"says Molly, lightly. "Now, when I marry and you come to see me, I shallsend a carriage and a spirited pair of grays to meet you at the station. Think of that. "

"I won't, " says Luttrell; "because I don't believe I would care to seeyou at all when--you are married. " Here, with a rashness unworthy ofhim, he presses, ever so gently, the slender fingers within his own. Instantly Miss Massereene, with a marked ignoring of the suggestion inhis last speech, returns to her forgotten charge. 

"I don't want to inconvenience you, " she says, demurely, with downcastlids, "but when you have quite done with my hand I think I should likeit again. You see it is awkward being without it, as it is the rightone. "

"I'm not proud, " says Luttrell, modestly. "I will try to make myselfcontent if you will give me the left one. "

At this they both laugh merrily; and, believe me, when two people solaugh together, there is very little ice left to be broken. 

"And are you really glad I have come?" says Luttrell, bending, thebetter to see into her pretty face. "It sounds so unlikely. "

"When one is starving, even dry bread is acceptable, " returns Molly, with a swift but cruel glance. 

"I refuse to understand you. You surely do not mean----"

"I mean this, that you are not to lay too much stress on the fact of myhaving said----"

"Well, Luttrell, where are you, old fellow? I suppose you thought youwere quite forgotten. Couldn't come a moment sooner, --what withLetitia's comments on your general appearance and my own comments on mytobacco's disappearance. However, here I am at last. Have you beenlonely?"

"Not very, " says Mr. Luttrell, _sotto voce_, his eyes fixed onMolly. 

"It is John, " whispers that young lady mysteriously. "Won't I catch itif he finds me out here so late without a shawl? I must _run_. Good-night, "--she moves away from him quickly, but before many stepshave separated them turns again, and, with her fingers on her lips, breathes softly, kindly--"until to-morrow. " After which she waves him alast faint adieu and disappears. 

CHAPTER III. 

"In my lady's chamber. "

When John Massereene was seven years old his mother died. When he wasseventeen his father had the imprudence to run away with the favoritedaughter of a rich man, --which crime was never forgiven. Had there beenthe slightest excuse for her conduct it might have been otherwise, butin the eyes of her world there was none. That an Amherst of Herst Royalshould be guilty of such a plebeian trick as "falling passionately inlove" was bad enough, but to have her bestow that love upon a man atleast eighteen years her senior, an Irishman, a mere engineer, with nomoney to speak of, with nothing on earth to recommend him beyond ahandsome face, a charming manner, and a heart too warm ever to growold, was not to be tolerated for a moment. And Eleanor Amherst, fromthe hour of her elopement, was virtually shrouded and laid within hergrave so far as her own family was concerned. 

Not that they need have hurried over her requiem, as the poor soul waspractically laid there in the fourth year of her happy married life, dying of the same fever that had carried off her husband two daysbefore, and leaving her three-year-old daughter in the care of herstep-son. 

At twenty-one, therefore, John Massereene found himself alone in theworld, with about three hundred pounds a year and a small, tearful, clinging, forlorn child. Having followed his father's profession, morefrom a desire to gratify that father than from direct inclination, hefound, when too late, that he neither liked it nor did it like him. Hehad, as he believed, a talent for farming; so that when, on the deathof a distant relation, he found himself, when all was told, thepossessor of seven hundred pounds a year, he bought Brooklyn, a modestplace in one of the English shires, married his first love, and carriedher and Molly home to it. 

Once or twice in the early part of her life he had made an appeal toold Mr. Amherst, Molly's grandfather, on her behalf, --more from a senseof duty owing to her than from any desire to rid himself of the child, who had, indeed, with her pretty, coaxing ways, made a very cozy nestfor herself in the deepest recesses of his large heart. But all suchappeals had been unavailing. So that Molly had grown from baby tochild, from child to girl, without having so much as seen her nearestrelations, although Herst Royal was situated in the very county next tohers. 

Even now, in spite of her having attained her eighteenth year, thisostracism is a matter of the most perfect indifference to Molly. Shehas been bred in a very sound contempt for the hard old man who socruelly neglected her mother, --the poor mother whose love she nevermissed, so faithfully has John fulfilled her dying wishes. There is nopoverty about this love, in which she has grown and strengthened: it isrich, all-sufficing. Even Letitia's coming only added another ray toits brightness. 

They are a harmonious family, the Massereenes; they blend; they seldomdisagree. Letitia, with her handsome English face, her tall, _posée_ figure, and ready smile, makes a delicious centre-piece;John a good background; Molly a bit of perfect sunlight; the childrenflecks of vivid coloring here and there. They are an easy, laughter-loving people, with a rare store of contentment. They are muchaffected by those in their immediate neighborhood. Their servants havea good time of it. They are never out of temper when dinner is aquarter of an hour late. They all very much admire Molly, and Mollyvery much agrees with them. They are fond of taking their tea in summerin the open air; they are not fond of over-early rising; they neverbore you with a description of the first faint beams of dawn; they failto see any beauty in the dew at five o'clock in the morning; they arevery reasonable people. 

Yet the morning after his arrival, Luttrell, jumping out of his bed ateight o'clock, finds, on looking out of his window that overhangs thegarden, Flora already among her flowers. Drawing back hastily, --he is amodest young man, --he grows suddenly energetic and makes good speedwith his toilet. 

When he is half dressed--that is, when his hair is brushed; but as yethis shirt is guiltless of a waistcoat--he cannot refrain from lookingforth again, to see if she may yet be there, and, looking, meets hereyes. 

He is slightly abashed; she is not. Mr. Massereene in his shirt andtrousers is a thing very frequently seen at his window during thesummer mornings. Mr. Luttrell presents much the same appearance. Itcertainly does occur to Molly that of the two men the new-comer isdecidedly the better looking of the two, whereat, without any treacherytoward John, she greatly rejoices. It does not occur to her that ablush at this moment would be a blush in the right place. On thecontrary, she nods gayly at him, and calls out:

"Hurry! You cannot think what a delicious morning it is. " And then goeson with her snipping and paring with the heartiest unconcern. Afterwhich Luttrell's method of getting into the remainder of his clothescan only be described as a scramble. 

"How did you sleep?" asks Molly, a few minutes later, when he hasjoined her, looking up from the rose-bush over which she is bending, that holds no flower so sweet as her own self. "Well, I hope?"

"Very well, thank you, " with a smile, his eyes fixed immovably upon thefresh beauty of her face. 

"You look suspicious, " says she, with a little laugh. "Are you thinkingmy question odd? I know when people are put over-night in a hauntedchamber they are always asked the next morning whether they 'sleptwell, ' in the fond hope that they didn't. But _you_ need not benervous. Nothing so inspiriting----"

"Is that a joke?" demands he, interrupting her, gravely. 

"Eh? Oh, no! how could you think me guilty of such a thing? I mean thatnothing so hopeful as an undeniable ghost has ever yet appeared atBrooklyn. "

"Are you sure? Perhaps, then, I am to be the happy discoverer, as thismorning early, about dawn, there came an unearthly tapping at my windowthat woke me, much to my disgust. I got up, but when I had opened theshutters could see nothing. Was not that a visitation? I looked at mywatch, and found it was past four o'clock. Then I crept into my bedagain, crestfallen, --'sold' with regard to an adventure. "

"That was my magpie, " cries Molly, with a merry laugh: "he always comespecking at that hour, naughty fellow. Oh, what a tame ending to yourromance! Your beautiful ghost come to visit you from unknown regions, clad in white and rustling garments, has resolved itself into a lamebird, rather poverty-stricken in the matter of feathers. "

"I take it rather hardly that your dependent should come to disturb_me_, " says Luttrell, reproachfully. "What have I done to him, orhow have I ingratiated myself, that he should forsake you for me? I didnot think even a meagre bird could have shown such _outre_ taste. What fancy has he for _my_ window?"

"_Your_ window?" says Molly, quickly; then as quicklyrecollecting, she stops short, blushing a warm and lovely crimson. "Oh, of course, --yes, it was odd, " she says, and, breaking down under theweight of her unhappy blush, busies herself eagerly with her flowers. 

"Have I taken your bedroom?" asks he, anxiously, watching with cruelpersistency the soft roses that bloom again at his words. "Yes, I see Ihave. That is too bad; and any room would have been good enough for asoldier. Are you sure you don't hate me for all the inconvenience Ihave caused you?"

"I can't be sure, " says Molly, "_yet_. Give me time. But this I doknow, that John will quarrel with us if we remain out here any longer, as breakfast must be quite ready by this. Come. "

"When you spoke of my chamber as being haunted, a little time ago, "says Luttrell, walking beside her on the gravel path, his hands claspedbehind his back, "you came very near the truth. After what you havejust told me, how shall I keep from dreaming about you?"

"Don't keep from it, " says she, sweetly; "go on dreaming about me asmuch as ever you like. _I_ don't mind. "

"But I might, " says Luttrell, "when it was too late. "

"True, " murmurs Molly, innocently: "so you might. John says all dreamsarise from indigestion. "

CHAPTER IV. 

"As through the land at eve we went. "

 --Tennyson. 

Seven long blissful summer days have surrendered themselves to thegreedy past. It is almost July. To-day is Wednesday, --to-morrow Junewill be no more. 

"Molly, " says Mr. Massereene, with the laudable intention of rousingMolly's ire, "this is the day for which we have accepted Lady Barton'sinvitation to go to the Castle, to meet Lord and Lady Rossmere. "

"'This is the cat that killed the rat, that did something or other inthe house that Jack built, '" interrupts Molly, naughtily. 

"And on this occasion you have not been invited, " goes on John, serenely, "which shows she does not think you respectable, --not quitefit for polite society; so you must stay at home, like the bold littlegirl, and meditate on your misdemeanors. "

"Lady Barton is a very intelligent person, who fully understands myabhorrence of old fogies, " says Miss Massereene, with dignity. 

"Sour grapes, " says John. "But, now that you have given such an unfairturn to Lady Barton's motives, I feel it my duty to explain the exacttruth to Luttrell. When last, my dear Tedcastle, Molly was invited tomeet the Rossmeres, she behaved so badly and flirted so outrageouslywith his withered lordship, that he became perfectly imbecile towardthe close of the entertainment, and his poor old wife was reducedalmost to the verge of tears. I blushed for her; I did indeed. "

"Oh, John! how can you say such things before Mr. Luttrell? If he isfoolish enough to believe you, think what a dreadful opinion he willhave of me!" With a lovely smile at Luttrell across the bowl of flowersthat ornaments the breakfast-table. "And with such a man, too! Aterrible old person who has forgotten his native language and can onlymumble, and who has not got one tooth in his mouth or one hair on hishead, and no flesh at all to speak of. "

"What a fetching description!" says Luttrell. "You excite my curiosity. He is not 'on view, ' is he?"

"Not yet, " says Molly, with an airy laugh. "Probably when he dies theywill embalm him, and forward him to the British Museum, as a remarkablespecies of his kind; and then we shall all get the full value of oneshilling. I myself would walk to London to see that. "

"So would I, " says Luttrell, "if you would promise to tell me the dayyou are going. "

"Letitia, I feel myself _de trop_, whatever you may, " exclaimsJohn, rising. "And see how time flies; it is almost half-past ten. Really, we grow lazier every day. I shudder to think at what hour Ishall get my breakfast by the time I am an old man. "

(Poor John!)

"Why, you are as old as the hills this moment, " says Molly, drawingdown his kind face, that bears such a strong resemblance to her own, tobestow upon it a soft sweet kiss. "You are not to grow any older, --mindthat; you are to keep on looking just as you look now forever, or Iwill not forgive you. Now go away and make yourself charming for yourLady Barton. "

"Oh, I don't spend three hours before my looking-glass, " says John, "whenever I go anywhere. " He is smoothing her beautiful hair withloving fingers as he speaks. "But I think I will utter one word ofwarning, Ted, before I leave you to her tender mercies for the day. Don't give in to her. If you do, she will lead you an awful life. Atfirst she bullied me until I hardly dared to call my soul my own; butwhen I found Letitia I plucked up spirit (you know a worm will turn), and ventured to defy her, and since that existence has been bearable. "

"Letitia, come to my defense, " says Molly, in a tragic tone, stretchingout her arms to her sister-in-law, who has been busy pacifying heryoungest hope. As he has at last, however, declared himself contentwith five lumps of sugar and eight sweet biscuits, she finds time tolook up and smile brightly at Molly. 

"Letitia, my dear, don't perjure yourself, " says John. "You know Ispeak the truth. A last word, Luttrell. " He is standing behind hissister as he speaks, and taking her arms he puts her in a chair, andplacing her elbows on the table, so that her pretty face sinks into herhands, goes on: "The moment you see her take this attitude, run! don'tpause to think, or speculate; run! Because it always means mischief;you may know then that she has quite made up her mind. I speak fromexperience. Good-bye, children. I hope you will enjoy each other'ssociety. I shall be busy until I leave, so you probably won't see meagain. "

As Letitia follows him from the room, Molly turns her eyes on Luttrell. 

"Are you afraid of me?" asks she, with a glance half questioning, halfcoquettish. 

"I am, " replies he, slowly. 

 * * * * *

"Now you are all my own property, " says Molly, gayly, three hours later, after they have bidden good-bye to Mr. And Mrs. Massereene, and eatentheir own luncheon _tête-à-tête_. "You cannot escape me. And what shallwe do with ourselves this glorious afternoon? Walk?--talk?--or----"

"Talk, " says Luttrell, lazily. 

"No, walk, " says Molly, emphatically. 

"If you have made up your mind to it, of course there is little use inmy suggesting anything. "

"Very little. Not that you ever do suggest anything, " maliciously. "Nowstay there, and resign yourself to your fate, while I go and put on myhat. "

Along the grass, over the lawn, down to the water's edge, over thewater, and into the green fields beyond, the young man follows hisguide. Above, the blazing sun is shining with all its might upon thegoodly earth; beneath, the grass is browning, withering beneath itsrays; and in the man's heart has bloomed that tenderest, cruelest, sweetest of all delights, first love. 

He has almost ceased to deny this fact to himself. Already he knows, bythe miserable doubts that pursue him, how foolishly he lies to himselfwhen he thinks otherwise. The sweet carelessness, the all-satisfyingjoy in the present that once was his, has now in his hour of needproved false, and, flying, leaves but a dull unrest in its place. Hehas fallen madly, gladly, idiotically in love with beautiful MollyMassereene. 

Every curve of her pliant body is to him an untold poem; every touch ofher hands is a new delight; every tone of her voice is as a song risingfrom out of the gloom of the lonely night. 

"Here you are to stand and admire our potatoes, " says Molly, standingstill, and indicating with a little sweep of her hand the field inquestion. "Did you ever see so fine a crop? And did you notice how dryand floury they were at dinner yesterday?"

"I did, " says Luttrell, lying very commendably. 

"Good boy. We take very great pride out of our potatoes (an Irish dish, you will remember), more especially as every year we find ours aresuperior to Lord Barton's. There is a certain solace in that, considering how far short we fall in other matters when compared withhim. Here is the oat-field. Am I to understand you feel admiration?"

"Of the most intense, " gravely. 

"Good again. We rather feared"--speaking in the affected, stilted styleof a farming report she has adopted throughout--"last month was sodeplorably wet, that the oats would be a failure; but we lived in hope, and you may mark the result here again: we are second to none. Thewheat-field----" With another slight comprehensive gesture. "By thebye, " pausing to examine his face, "am I fulfilling my duties as ahostess? Am I entertaining you?"

"Very much indeed. The more particularly that I was never soentertained before. "

"I am fortunate. Well, that is the wheat. I don't know that I canexpect you to go into ecstasies over it, as I confess to me it appearsmore or less weak about the head. _Could_ one say that wheat wasimbecile?"

"In these days, " politely, "one may say anything one likes. "

"Yes? You see that rain did some damage; but after all it might havebeen worse. "

"You will excuse my asking the question, " says Luttrell, gravely, "butdid you ever write for the _Farmer's Gazette_?"

"Never, as yet. But, " with an irrepressible smile, "your words suggestto me brilliant possibilities. Perhaps were I to sit down and tellevery one in trisyllables what they already know only too well aboutthe crops, and the weather, and the Colorado beetle, and so forth, Imight perchance wake up some morning to find myself famous. "

"I haven't the faintest doubt of it, " says Tedcastle, with suchflattering warmth that they both break into a merry laugh. Not thatthere is anything at all in the joke worthy of such a joyous outburst, but because they are both so young and both so happy. 

"Do you think I have done enough duty for one day?" asks Molly. "Have Ibeen prosy enough to allow of my leaving off now? Because I don't thinkI have got anything more to say about the coming harvest, and Iwouldn't care to say it if I had. "

"Do you expect me to say that I found you 'prosy'?"

"If you will be so very kind. And you are quite sure no one couldaccuse me of taking advantage of John's and Letty's absence to befrivolous in my conversation?"

"Utterly positive. "

"And you will tell John what a sedate and gentle companion I was?"

"I will indeed, and more, --much more. "

"On the contrary, not a word more: if you do you will spoil all. Andnow, " says Molly, with a little soft, lingering smile, "as a reward foryour promises, come with me to the top of yonder hill, and I will showyou a lovely view. "

"Is it not delicious here?" suggests Mr. Luttrell, who can scarcely becalled energetic, and who finds it a difficult matter to growenthusiastic over landscapes when oppressed by a broiling sun. 

"What! tired already?" says Molly, with fine disregard of subterfuge. 

"No, oh, no, " weakly. 

"But you _are_, " reproachfully. "You are quite _done up_. Why, what would you do if you were ordered on a long day's march?"

"I dare say I should survive it, " says Tedcastle, shortly, who israther offended at her putting it in this light. 

"Well, perhaps you might; but you certainly would have nothing to boastof. Now, look at me: I am as fresh as when we started. " And in truth, as she stands before him, in her sky-blue gown, he sees she is as cooland bright and unruffled as when they left the house three-quarters ofan hour ago. "Well, " with a resigned sigh that speaks ofdisappointment, "stay here until I run up, --I love the place, --and Iwill join you afterward. "

"Not I!" indignantly. "I'm good yet for so much exertion, and I don'tbelieve I could exist without you for so long. 'Call, and I follow--Ifollow, ' even _though_ 'I die, '" he adds to himself, in a tone ofmelancholy. 

Up the short but steep hill they toil in silence. Halfway MissMassereene pauses, either to recover breath or to give encouragement. 

"On the top there is always a breeze, " she says, in the voice oneadopts when determined to impress upon the listener what one's ownheart knows to be doubtful. 

"Is there?" says Luttrell, gloomily, and with much disbelief. 

At length they gain the wished-for top. They stand together, Molly withher usually pale cheeks a little flushed by the exercise, but otherwisecalm and collected; Luttrell decidedly the worse for wear. And, yes, there actually _is_ a breeze, --a sighing, rustling, unmistakablebreeze, that rushes through their hair and through their fingers, andis as a draught from Olympus. 

"There, didn't I tell you?" cries Molly, with all the suspicious hasteand joy that betrays how weak has been her former hope. "Now, _do_say you are glad I brought you up. "

"What need? My only happiness is being with you, " says the young man, softly. 

"See how beautiful the land is, --as far as one can discern all greenand gold, " says she, unheeding his subdued tenderness. "Honestly, I dofeel a deep interest in farming; and of all the grain that grows Idearly love the barley. First comes the nice plowed brown earth; thenthe ragged bare suspicion of green; then the strengthening andperfecting of that green until the whole earth is hidden away; then thesoft, juicy look of the young blades nodding and waving at each otherin the wind, that seems almost tender of them, and at last the fleecy, downy ears all whispering together. "

"When you speak in that tone you make me wish myself a barleycorn, "says Tedcastle, smiling. "Sit down here beside me, will you, and tellme why your brother calls you 'Molly Bawn'?"

"I hardly know, " sinking down near him on the short, cool grass: "itwas a name he gave me when I was a little one. John has ever been myfather, my mother, my all, " says the girl, a soft and lovely dew ofearnest affection coming into her eyes. "Were I to love him all my lifewith twice the love I now bear him, I would scarcely be gratefulenough. "

"Happy John! Molly! What a pretty name it is. "

"But not mine really. No. I was christened Eleanor, after my poormother, whose history you know. 'Bawn' means fair. 'Fair Molly, '" saysshe, with a smile, turning to him her face, that resembles nothing somuch as a newly-opened flower. "I had hair quite golden when a child. See, " tilting her hat so that it falls backward from her head and lieson the greensward behind. "It is hardly dark yet. "

"It is the most beautiful hair in the world, " says he, touching withgentle, reverential fingers the silken coils that glint and shimmer inthe sunlight. "And it is a name that suits you, --and you only. "

"Did I never sing you the old Irish song I claim as my own?"

"You never sang for me at all. "

"What! you have been here a whole week, and I have never sung for you?"With widely-opened eyes of pure surprise. "What could I have beenthinking about? Do you know, I sing very nicely. " This without thefaintest atom of conceit. "Listen, then, and I will sing to you now. "

With her hands clasped around her knees, her head bare, her tresses alittle loosened by the wind, and her large eyes fixed upon the distanthills, she thus sweetly sings:

 "Oh, Molly Bawn! why leave me pining, All lonely waiting here for you, While the stars above are brightly shining, Because they've nothing else to do? Oh, Molly Bawn! Molly Bawn!

 "The flowers late were open keeping, To try a rival blush with you, But their mother, Nature, set them sleeping With their rosy faces washed in dew. Oh, Molly Bawn! Molly Bawn!

 "The village watch-dog here is snarling; He takes me for a thief, you see; For he knows I'd steal you, Molly darling, And then transported I should be! Oh, Molly Bawn! Molly Bawn!"

"An odd old song, isn't it?" she says, presently, glancing at himcuriously, when she has finished singing, and waited, and yet heard nosmallest sound of praise. "You do not speak. Of what are you thinking?"

"Of the injustice of it, " says he, in a low, thoughtful tone. "Had younot a bounteous store already when this last great charm was added on?Some poor wretches have nothing, some but a meagre share, while youhave wrested from Fortune all her best gifts, --beauty----"

"No, no! stop!" cries Molly, gayly; "before you enumerate the goodthings that belong to me, remember that I still lack the chiefest: Ihave no money. I am without doubt the most poverty-stricken of youracquaintances. Can any confession be more humiliating? Good sir, myface is indeed my fortune. Or is it my voice?" pausing suddenly, asthough a cold breath from the dim hereafter had blown across her cheek. "I hardly know. "

"A rich fortune either way. "

"And here I am recklessly imperiling one, " hastily putting on her hatonce more, "by exposing my precious skin to that savage sun. Come, --itis almost cool now, --let us have a good race down the hill. " She slipsher slender fingers within his, --a lovable trick of hers, innocent ofcoquetry, --and, Luttrell conquering with a sigh a wild desire to claspand kiss the owner of those little clinging fingers on the spot, together they run down the slope into the longer grass below, and so, slowly and more decorously, journey homeward. 

 * * * * *

On their return they find the house still barren of inmates; no sign ofthe master or mistress anywhere. Even the servants are invisible. "Itmight almost be the enchanted palace, " says Molly. 

Two of the children, seeing her on the lawn, break from their nurse, who is sleeping the sleep of the just, with her broad back against anelm, and running to Molly, fling their arms around her. She rewardsthem with a kiss apiece, one of which Luttrell surreptitiously purloinsfrom the prettiest. 

"Oh, you have come back, Molly. And where have you been?"

"Over the hills and far away. "

"_Very_ far away? But you brought her back again, " nodding agolden head gravely at Luttrell; "and nurse said you wouldn't. She saidall soldiers were wicked, and that some day you would steal our Molly. But you won't, " coaxingly: "will you, now?"

Luttrell and Molly laugh and redden a little. 

"I doubt if I would be able, " he says, without raising his eyes fromthe child's face. 

"I don't think you are a soldier at all, " declares the darker maiden, coming more boldly to the front, as though fortified by this assertion. "You have no sword; and there never was a soldier without a sword, wasthere?"

"I begin to feel distinctly ashamed of myself, " says Luttrell. "I_have_ a sword, Daisy, somewhere. But not here. The next time Icome I will bring it with me for your special delectation. "

"Did you ever cut off any one's head?" asks the timid, fair-hairedRenee, in the background, moving a few steps nearer to him, with risinghope in her voice. 

"Miss Massereene, if you allow this searching examination to go on, Ishall sink into the ground, " says Luttrell. "I feel as if the eyes ofEurope were upon me. Why cannot I boast that I have sent a thousandblacks to glory? No, Renee, with shame I confess it, I am innocent ofbloodshed. "

"I am so glad!" says the darker Daisy, while the gentler looking childturns from him with open disappointment. 

"Do you think you can manage to amuse yourself for a little while?"says Molly. "Because I must leave you; I promised Letty to see aftersome of her housekeeping for her: I won't be too long, " with a view tosaving him from despair. 

"I will see what a cigar can do for me, " replies he, mournfully. "Butremember how heavily time drags--sometimes. "

Kissing her hand to him gayly, she trips away over the grass, leavinghim to the tender mercies of the children. They, with all the frightfulenergy of youth, devote themselves to his service, and, seizing on him, carry him off to their especial sanctum, where they detain him indurance vile until the welcome though stentorian lungs of the nursemake themselves heard. 

"There, you may go now, " says Daisy, giving him a last ungrateful push;and as in a body they abscond, he finds himself depressed, but free. Not only free, but alone. This brings him back to thoughts of Molly. How long she is! Women never do know what time means. He will walkround to the yard and amuse himself with the dogs until she hasfinished her tiresome business. 

Now, the kitchen window looks out upon the path he means to tread;--notonly the kitchen window, but Molly. And as Luttrell comes by, with hishead bent and a general air of moodiness about him, she is so farflattered by his evident dullness that she cannot refrain from tappingat the glass to call his attention. 

"Have you been enjoying yourself?" asks she, innocently. "You_look_ as if you had. "

He starts as her voice so unexpectedly meets his ear, and turns uponher a face from which all _ennui_ has fled. 

"Do I?" he says. "Then my looks lie. _Enjoying_ myself, with apack of small demons! For what do you take me? No, I have beenwretched. What on earth are you doing down there? You have been_hours_ about it already. Surely, whatever it is, it must be donenow. If you don't come out shortly you will have murder on your soul, as I feel suicidal. "

"I can't come yet. "

"Then would you let me--might I----"

"Oh, come here if you like, " says Molly. "_I_ don't mind, if youdon't. "

Without waiting further invitation, Luttrell goes rapidly round, descends the kitchen steps, and presently finds himself in Molly'spresence. 

It is a pretty old-fashioned, low-ceilinged kitchen, full of quaintcorners and impossible cupboards so high up in the wall as at firstsight to be pronounced useless. 

A magnificent fire burns redly, yet barely causes discomfort. (Why isit that a fire in the kitchen fails to afflict one as it would, if litin summer, in the drawing-room or parlor?) Long, low benches, white assnow, run by the walls. The dresser--is there anything prettier than awell-kept dresser?--shines out conceitedly from its own place, full ofits choicest bravery. In the middle of the gleaming tiles stands thetable, and beside it stands Molly. 

Such a lovely Molly!--a very goddess of a Molly!

Her white arms, bare to the elbow, are covered with flour; a littlepatch of it has found a resting-place on the right side of her hair, where undoubtedly one hand must have gone to punish some amorous lockthat would wander near her lips. Her eyes are full of light; her verylips are smiling. Jane, the cook, at a respectful distance, is halfashamed at the situation of her young lady; the young lady is not atall ashamed. 

"Do you like me?" cries she, holding her floury arms aloft. "Are youlost in admiration? Ah! you have yet to learn how universal are mygifts. I can _cook_!"

"Can you?" says Luttrell, with a grimace. "What are you making now? Iam anxious to know. "

"Positively, " bending a little forward, the better to see him; "youlook it. Why?"

"That I may avoid it by and by. " Here, with a last faint glimmer ofprudence, he retires to the other end of the table. 

"Have you come here to insult me in my own domain?" cries Mollywrathfully. "Rash youth, you rush upon your fate; or, to speak moretruthfully, your fate intends to rush on you. Now take theconsequences. "

With both her hands extended she advances on him, fell determination inher eye. Alas for his coat when those ten snowy fingers shall havemarked it for their own!

"Mercy!" cries Luttrell, falling on his knees at her feet. "Anythingbut that. I apologize, I retract; I will do penance; I will even eatit, every bit; I will----"

"Will you go away?"

"No, " heroically, rising to his full height, "I will _not_. Iwould rather be white from head to heel than leave this adorablekitchen. "

There is a slight pause. Mercy and vengeance are in the balance, andMolly holds the scales. After a brief struggle mercy triumphs. 

"I forgive you, " says Molly, withdrawing; "but as punishment you reallymust help me, as I am rather late this evening. Here, stone these, "pushing toward him a plateful of raisins. "

"Law, miss, I'll do 'em, " says Jane, who feels matters are going toofar. To have a strange gentleman, one of the "high-up" gentry, a "reelmillingtary swell, " stoning raisins in her kitchen is more than she canreconcile herself to in silence; she therefore opens the floodgates ofspeech. "He'll soil hisself, " she says, in a deep, reproachful whisper, fixing an imploring eye on Molly. 

"I hope so, " murmurs that delinquent, cheerfully. "He heartily deservesit. You may go and occupy yourself elsewhere, Jane; Mr. Luttrell and Iwill make this pudding. Now go on, Mr. Luttrell; don't be shirking yourduty. It is either do or die. "

"I think it is odds on the dying, " says he. 

Silence for at least three minutes, --in this case a long, long time. 

"I can't find anything in them, " ventures he, at last, in a slightlydejected tone; "and they're so horrid sticky. "

"_Nothing in them?_ Nonsense! you don't know how to go about it. Look. I'll show you. Open them with your first finger and thumb--so;and now do you see them?" triumphantly producing a round brown articleon the tip of her finger. 

"Where?" asks Luttrell, bending forward. 

"There, " says Molly, bending too. Their heads are very close together. The discreet Jane has retired into her pantry. "It is the real thing. Can't you see it?"

"Scarcely. It is very small, isn't it?"

"Well, it _is_ small, " Miss Massereene confesses, with reluctance;"it certainly is the smallest I ever saw. Still----"

By this time they are looking, not at the seed of the raisin, but intoeach other's eyes, and again there is an eloquent pause. 

"May I examine it a little closer?" Luttrell asks, as though athirstfor information, possessing himself quietly of the hand, raisin-stone, flour, and all, and bringing it suspiciously near to his lips. "Doesit--would it--I mean does flour come off things easily?"

"I don't know, " returns Molly, with an innocent gravity that puts himto shame. "Off some things it washes readily enough; but--mind you, Ican't say for certain, as I have had no experience; but I don'tthink----"

"Yes?" seeing her hesitate. 

"Well, I don't think, " emphasizing each word with a most solemn nod, "it would come off your moustache in a hurry. "

"I'll risk it, anyhow, " says Luttrell, stooping suddenly to impress afervent kiss upon the little powdered fingers he is holding. 

"Oh! how wrong, how extremely wrong of you!" exclaims Miss Massereene, as successfully shocked as though the thought that he might be temptedto such a deed has never occurred to her. Yet, true to her nature, shemakes no faintest pretense at withdrawing from him her hand until afull minute has elapsed. Then, unable longer to restrain herself, shebursts into a merry laugh, --a laugh all sweetest, clearest music. 

"If you could only see how funny you look!" cries she. "You are fairwith a vengeance now. Ah! do go and see for yourself. " Giving him agentle push toward an ancient glass that hangs disconsolately near theclock, and thereby leaving another betraying mark upon the shoulder ofhis coat. 

Luttrell, having duly admired himself and given it as his opinion thatthough flour on the arms may be effective, flour on the face is not, has barely time to wipe his moustache free of it when Mrs. Massereeneenters. 

"You here, " exclaims she, staring at Tedcastle, "of all places in theworld! I own I am amazed. Oh, if your brother officers could only seeyou now, and your coat all over flour! I need hardly inquire if this isMolly's doing. Poor boy!" with a laugh. "It is a shame. Molly, you arenever happy unless you are tormenting some one. "

"But I always make it up to them afterward: don't I, now, Letty?"murmurs Molly, sweetly, speaking to Letitia, but directing aside-glance at Luttrell from under her long, dark lashes: thisside-glance is almost a promise. 

"Well, so you have come at last, Letty. And how did you enjoy your'nice, long, happy day in the country, ' as the children say?"

"Very much, indeed, --far more than I expected. The Mitchells werethere, which added a little to our liveliness. "

"And my poor old mummy, was he there? And is he still holdingtogether?"

"Lord Rossmere? He is indeed, and was asking most tenderly for you. Inever saw him look so well. "

"Oh! it grows absurd, " says Molly, in disgust. "How much longer does heintend keeping up the farce? He _must_ fall to pieces soon. "

"He hasn't a notion of it, " says Letitia, warming to her description;"he has taken a new lease of his life. He looked only toowell, --positively ten years younger. I think myself he was 'done up. ' Icould see his coat was padded; and he has adorned his head with a verysleek brown wig. "

"Jane, " says Molly, weakly, "be so good as to stand close behind me. Ifeel as if I were going to faint directly. "

"Law, miss!" says Jane, giving way to her usual expletive. She is aclean and worthy soul where pots and pans are concerned, but apart fromthem can scarcely be termed eloquent. 

"You are busy, Jane, " says Mr. Luttrell, obligingly, "and I am not. (Isee you are winding up that long-suffering pudding. ) Let me take alittle trouble off your hands. _I_ will stand close behind MissMassereene. "

"He had quite a color too, " goes on Letitia, mysteriously, "a veryextraordinary color. Not that of an old man, nor yet of a young one, and I am utterly certain it was paint. It was a vivid, uncompromisingred; so red that I think the poor old thing's valet must have overdonehis work, for fun. Wasn't it cruel?"

"Are you ready, Jane?" murmurs Molly, with increasing weakness. 

"Quite ready, miss, " returns Luttrell, with hopeful promptness. 

"I asked John on the way home what he thought, " goes on Letitia, withan evident interest in her tale, "and he quite agrees with me that itwas rouge, or, at all events, something artificial. "

"One more word, Letitia, "--faintly, --"a last one. Has he had that soleremaining tooth in the front of his mouth made steady?"

"No, " cries Mrs. Massereene, triumphantly, "he has not. Do you tooremember that awful tooth? It is literally the only thing left undone, and I can't imagine why. It still waggles uncomfortably when he talks, and his upper lip has the same old trick of catching on it and refusingto come down again until compelled. Sir John was there, and took me into luncheon; and as I sat just opposite Lord Rossmere I could seedistinctly. I particularly noticed that. "

"You have saved me, " cries Molly, briskly. "Had your answer been otherthan it was, I would not have hesitated for a moment: I would have goneoff into a death-like swoon. Thank you, Jane, "--with a backward nod atLuttrell, whom she has refused to recognize: "I need not detain you anylonger. "

"Mrs. Massereene, I shall never forgive you, " says Luttrell. 

"And is this the way you entertain your guests, Molly?" asks Letitia. "Have you spent your day in the kitchen?"

"The society of the 'upper ten' is not good for you, Letitia, " saysMolly, severely. "There is a faint flavor of would-be sarcasm aboutyou, and it doesn't suit you in the least: your lips have not got thecorrect curve. No, my dear: although unnoticed by the nobility of ourland, we, too, have had our 'nice, long, happy day in the country. 'Haven't we, Mr. Luttrell?"

"Do you think he would dare say 'No' with _your_ eyes upon him?"says Letitia, laughing. "By and by I shall hear the truth. Come withme"--to Tedcastle--"and have a glass of sherry before your dinner: I amsure you must want it, after all you have gone through. "

CHAPTER V. 

"Gather the roses while ye may; Old time is still a-flying;And the same flower that smiles to-day To-morrow will be dying. "

 --Herrick. 

It is four o'clock, and a hush, a great stillness, born of oppressiveheat, is over all the land. Again the sun is smiting with hot wrath theunoffending earth; the flowers nod drowsily or lie half dead oflanguor, their gay leaves touching the ground. 

 "The sky was blue as the summer sea, The depths were cloudless overhead; The air was calm as it could be; There was no sight or sound of dread, "

quotes Luttrell, dreamily, as he strays idly along the garden path, through scented shrubs and all the many-hued children of light and dew. His reverie is lengthened yet not diffuse. One little word explains itall. It seems to him that word is everywhere: the birds sing it, thewind whistles it as it rushes faintly past, the innumerable voices ofthe summer cry ceaselessly for "Molly. "

"Mr. Luttrell, Mr. Luttrell, " cries some one, "look up. " And he doeslook up. 

Above him, on the balcony, stands Molly, "a thing of beauty, " fairerthan any flower that grows beneath. Her eyes like twin stars aregleaming, deepening; her happy lips are parted; her hair drawn looselyback, shines like threads of living gold. Every feature is awake andfull of life; every movement of her sweet body, clad in its white gown, proclaims a very joyousness of living. 

With hands held high above her head, filled with parti-colored roses, she stands laughing down upon him; while he stares back at her, with aheart filled too full of love for happiness. With a slight momentaryclosing of her lids she opens both her hands and flings the scentedshower into his uplifted face. 

"Take your punishment, " she whispers, saucily, bending over him, "andlearn your lesson. Don't look at me another time. "

"It was by your own desire I did so, " exclaims he, bewildered, shakingthe crimson and yellow and white leaves from off his head andshoulders. "How am I to understand you?"

"How do I know, when I don't even understand myself? But when I calledout to you 'Look up, ' of course I meant 'look down. ' Don't you rememberthe old game with the handkerchief?--when I say 'Let go, ' 'hold fast;'and when I say 'Hold fast, ' 'let go?' You must recollect it. "

"I have a dim idea of something idiotic, like what you say. "

"It is not idiotic, but it suits only some people; it suits me. Thereis a certain perverseness about it, a determination to do just what oneis told not to do, that affects me most agreeably. Did I"--glancing atthe rosy shower at his feet--"did I hurt you _much_?" With asmile. 

There is a little plank projecting from the wood-work of the pillarsthat supports the balcony: resting his foot on this, and holding on bythe railings above, Luttrell draws himself up until his face is almoston a level with hers, --almost, but not quite: she can still overshadowhim. 

"If that was all the injury I had received at your hands, how easy itwould be to forgive!" says he, in a low tone. 

"Poor hands, " says Molly, gazing at her shapely fingers, "how have theysinned? Am I to understand, then, that I am not forgiven?"

"Yes. "

"You are unkind to me. "

"Oh, Molly!"

"_Dreadfully_ unkind to me. Can you deny it? Now, tell me whatthis crime is that I have committed and you cannot pardon. "

"I will not, " says the young man, turning a little pale, while thesmile dies out of his eyes and from round his lips. "I dread to put myinjuries into words. Should they anger you, you might with one lookseal my death-warrant. "

"Am I so blood-thirsty? How badly you think of me!"

"Do I?" Reading with the wistful sadness of uncertainty her lovelyface. "You know better than that. You know too--do you not?--what it isI would say, --if I dared. Oh, Molly, what have you done to me, whatwitchery have you used, that, after escaping for twenty-seven longyears, I should now fall so hopelessly in----"

"Hush!" says Molly, quickly, and, letting her hand fall lightly on hisforehead, brings it slowly, slowly, over his eyes and down his face, until at length it rests upon his lips rebukingly. "Not another word. You have known me but a few days, --but a little short three weeks, --andyou would----"

"Yes, I would, " eagerly, devouring with fond kisses the snow-flake thatwould stay his words. "Three weeks, --a year, --ten years, --what does itmatter? I think the very first night I saw you here in this garden themischief was done. My heart left me. You stole the very best of me; andwill you give nothing in exchange?"

"I will not listen, " says Molly, covering her ears with her hands, butnot so closely that she must be deaf. "Do you hear? You are to besilent. "

"Do you forbid me to speak?"

"Yes; I am in a hurry; I cannot listen, --_now_, " says this borncoquette, unable to release her slave so soon. 

"Some other time, --when you know me better, --you will listen then: isthat what you mean?" Still detaining her with passionate entreaty bothin tone and manner. "Molly, give me one word of hope. "

"I don't know what I mean, " she says, effecting her escape, and movingback to the security of the drawing-room window, which stands open. "Inever do know. And I have not got the least bit of memory in the world. Do you know I came out here to tell you tea was to be brought out forus under the trees on the lawn; and when I saw you I forgot everything. Is that a hopeful sign?" With a playful smile. 

"I will try to think so; and--don't go yet, Molly. " Seeing her about toenter the drawing-room. "Surely, if tea is to be on the lawn, it isthere we ought to go. "

"I am half afraid of you. If I consent to bestow upon you a little moreof my society, will you promise not to talk in--in--that way again tome?"

"But----"

"I will have no 'buts. ' Promise what I ask, or I will hide myself fromyou for the rest of the day. "

"I swear, then, " says he; and, so protected, Miss Massereene venturesdown the balcony steps and accompanies him to the shaded end of thelawn. 

By this time it is nearly five o'clock, and as yet oppressively warm. The evening is coming with a determination to rival in dull heat theearly part of the day. The sheep in great white snowy patches liepanting in the distant corners of the adjoining fields; the cows, tiredof whisking their foolish tails in an unsuccessful war with theinsatiable flies, are all huddled together, and give way to mournfullows that reproach the tarrying milkmaid. 

Above in the branches a tiny bird essays to sing, but stops halfstifled, and, forgetting the tuneful note, contents itself with a lazy"cluck-cluck" that presently degenerates still further into a dying"coo" that is hardly musical, because so full of sleep. 

Molly has seated herself upon the soft young grass, beneath the shadeof a mighty beech, against the friendly trunk of which she leans herback. Even this short walk from the house to the six stately beechesthat are the pride and glory of Brooklyn has told upon her. Her usuallymerry eyes have subsided into a gentle languor; over them the whitelids droop heavily. No little faintest tinge of color adorns her palecheeks; upon her lap her hands lie idle, their very listlessnessbetokening the want of energy they feel. 

At about two yards' distance from her reclines her guest, full length, his fingers interlaced behind his head, looking longer, slighter thanusual, as with eyes upturned he gazes in silence upon the far-off, never-changing blue showing through the net-work of the leaves abovehim. 

"Are you quite used up?" asks Molly, in the slow, indifferent tone thatbelongs to heat, as the crisp, gay voice belongs to cold. "I neverheard you silent for so long before. Do you think you are likely to_die_? Because--don't do it here, please: it would give me such ashock. "

"I am far more afraid I shall live, " replies her companion. "Oh, how Iloathe the summer!"

"You are not so far gone as I feared: you can still use bad language. Now, tell me what sweet thought has held you in thrall so long. "

"If I must confess it, I have been thinking of how untold a luxury atthis moment would be an iced bath. "

"'An iced bath'!" With as much contempt as she can summon. "Howprosaic! And I quite flattered myself you were thinking of me. " Shesays this as calmly as though she had supposed him thinking of hisdinner. 

Tedcastle's lips part in a faint smile, a mere glimmer, --a _laugh_is beyond him, --and he turns his head just so far round as will permithis eyes to fall full upon her face. 

"I fancied such thoughts on my part tabooed, " he says. "And besides, would they be of any advantage to you?"

"No material advantage, but they would have been only fair. _I_was thinking of _you_. "

"Were you? Really!" With such overpowering interest as induces him toraise himself on his elbow, the better to see her. "You werethinking--that----"

"Don't excite yourself. I was wondering whether, when you were a baby, your nose--in proportion, of course--was as lengthy and solemn as it isnow. "

"Pshaw!" mutters Mr. Luttrell, angrily, and goes back to his originalposition. 

"If it was, " pursues Molly, with a ruthless and amused laugh, "you musthave been an awfully funny baby to look at. " She appears to findinfinite amusement in this idea for a full minute, after which followsa disgusted silence that might have lasted until dinner-hour but forthe sound of approaching footsteps. 

Looking up simultaneously, they perceive Letitia coming toward them, with Sarah behind, carrying a tray, on which are cups, and small roundcakes, and plates of strawberries. 

"I have brought you your tea at last, " cries Letitia, looking like somegreat fair goddess, with her large figure and stately walk and benignexpression, as she bears down upon them. She is still a long way off, yet her voice comes to them clear and distinct, without any suspicionof shouting. She is smiling benevolently, and has a delicious pinkcolor in her cheeks. 

"We thought you had forgotten us, " says Molly, springing to her feetwith a sudden return of animation. "But you have come in excellenttime, as we were on the very brink of a quarrel that would havedisgraced the Kilkenny cats. And what have you brought us? Tea, andstrawberries, and dear little hot cakes! Oh, Letty, how I love you!"

"So do I, " says Luttrell. "Mrs. Massereene, may I sit beside you?"

"For protection?" asks she, with a laugh. 

In the meantime Molly has arranged the tray before herself, and isbusily engaged placing all the worst strawberries and the smallest cakeon one plate. 

"Before you go any further, " says Luttrell, "I won't have that plate. Nothing shall induce me. So you may spare your trouble. "

"Then you may go without any, as I myself intend eating all theothers. "

"Mrs. Massereene, you are my only friend. I appeal to you; is it fair?Just look at all she is keeping for herself. If I die for it, I willget my rights, " exclaims Tedcastle, goaded into activity, and springingfrom his recumbent position, makes straight for the tray. There is ashort but decisive battle; and then, victory being decided in favor ofLuttrell, he makes a successful raid upon the fruit, and retirescovered with glory and a good deal of juice. 

"Coward, thief! won't I pay you for this?" cries Molly, viciously. 

"I wouldn't use school-boy slang if I were you, " returns Luttrell, withprovoking coolness, and an evident irritating appreciation of thefruit. 

Fortunately for all parties, at this moment John appears upon thescene. 

"It _is_ warm, " says he, sinking on the grass, under the weakimpression that he is imparting information. 

"I think there is thunder in the air, " says Letitia, with a mischievousglance at the late combatants, at which they laugh in spite ofthemselves. 

"Not at all, my dear; you are romancing, " says ignorant John. "Well, Molly Bawn, where is my tea? Have you kept me any?"

"As if I would forget _you_! Is it not an extraordinary thing, Letty, that Sarah cannot be induced to bring us a tea-pot? Now, I wantmore, and must only wait her pleasure. "

"Remonstrate with her, " says John. 

"I am tired of doing so. Only yesterday I had a very lengthy argumentwith her on the subject, to the effect that as it was I who was havingthe tea, and not she, surely I might be allowed to have it the way Iwished. When I had exhausted my eloquence, and was nearly on the vergeof tears, I discovered that she was still at the very point from whichwe started. 'But the tea is far more genteeler, Miss Molly, whenbrought up without the tea-pot. It spoils the look of the tray. ' I said'Yes, the _want_ of it does, ' with much indignation; but I mightas well have kept my temper. "

"Much _better_, " says Luttrell, placidly. 

"I do hate having my tea poured out for me, " goes on Molly, notdeigning to notice him. "I am convinced Sarah lived with a retiredtallow-chandler, or something equally horrible, before she came to us. She has one idol to which she sacrifices morning, noon, and night, andI think she calls it 'style. '"

"And what is that?" interposes Luttrell, anxiously. 

"I don't know, but I think it has something to do with not putting thetea-pot on the tray, for instance, and taking the pretty fresh coversoff the drawing-room chairs when any one is coming, to convince them ofthe green damask beneath. And once when, during a passing fit ofinsanity, I dressed my hair into a pyramid, she told me I looked'stylish. ' It took me some time to recover that shock to my vanity. "

"I like 'stylish' people myself, " says John. "Lady Barton, I ampositive, is just what Sarah means by that, and I admire herimmensely, --within bounds, of course, my dear Letitia. "

"Dreadful, vulgar woman!" says Molly, with a frown. "I'm sure Iwouldn't name Letty in the same day with her. "

"We all know you are notoriously jealous of her, " says John. "Hermeridian charms eclipse yours of the dawn. "

"How poetical!" laughs Molly. "But the thing to see is Letitiaproducing the children when her ladyship comes to pay a visit. Shealways reminds me of the Mother of the Gracchi. Now, confess it, Letty, don't you think Lady Barton's diamonds and rubies and emeralds growpale and lustreless beside your living jewels?"

"Indeed I do, " returns Letitia, with the readiest, most unexpectedsimplicity. 

"Letitia, " cries Molly, touched, giving her a little hug, "I do thinkyou are the dearest, sweetest, truest old goose in the world. "

"Nonsense, my dear!" says Letitia, with a slow pleased blush that is atonce so youthful and so lovely. 

"Oh! why won't Sarah come?" says Molly, recurring suddenly to her woes. "I know, even if I went on my knees to Mr. Luttrell, he would not sofar trouble himself as to go in and find her; but I think she mightremember my weakness for tea. "

"There she is!" exclaims John. 

To their right rises a hedge, on which it has been customary for agesto dry the household linen, and moving toward it appears Sarah, armedwith a basket piled high to the very top. 

"Sarah, " calls Molly, "Sarah--Sarah!"

Now, Sarah, though an undeniably good servant, and a cleanly one, striking the beholder as a creature born to unlimited caps and spotlessaprons, is undoubtedly obtuse. She presents her back hair andheels--that would not have disgraced an elephant--to Miss Massereene'scall, and goes on calmly with her occupation of shaking out and hangingup to dry the garments she has just brought. 

"Shall I go and call her?" asks Luttrell, with some remains of graceand an air of intense fatigue. 

"Not worth your while, " says John, with all a man's deliciousconsideration for a man; "she must turn in a moment, and then she willsee us. "

For two whole minutes, therefore, they gaze in rapt silence upon theunconscious Sarah. Presently Mr. Massereene breaks the eloquentstillness. 

"There is nothing, " says he, mildly, "that so clearly declares thesociability--the _bon camaraderie_, so to speak--that ought toexist in every well-brought-up family as the sight of washing done athome. There is such a happy mingling and yet such a thorough disregardof sex about it. It is 'Hail, fellow! well met!' all through. If youwill follow Sarah's movements for a minute longer you will betterunderstand what I mean. There! now she is spreading out Molly'spale-green muslin, in which she looked so irresistible last week. Andthere goes Daisy's pinafore, and Bobby's pantaloons; and now she ispausing to remove a defunct grasshopper from Renee's bonnet! What acharming picture it all makes, so full of life! There go Molly'sstock----"

"John, " interrupts Molly, indignantly, who has been frowning heavily athim for some time without the smallest result. 

"If you say another word, " puts in Luttrell, burying his face in thegrass, with a deep groan, "if you go one degree further, I shallfaint. "

"And now comes my shirt, " goes on John, in the same even tone, totallyunabashed. 

"My dear John!" exclaims Letitia, much scandalized, speaking in a verysuperior tone, which she fondly but erroneously believes to be sternand commanding, "I beg you will pursue the subject no further. We haveno desire whatever to learn any particulars about your shirts. "

"And why not, my dear?" demands Mr. Massereene, his manner full of mildbut firm expostulation. "What theme so worthy of prolonged discussionas a clean shirt? Think of the horrors that encompass all the 'greatunwashed, ' and then perhaps you will feel as I do. In my opinion it isa topic on which volumes might be written: if I had time I would writethem myself. And if you will give yourself the trouble to think, mydear Letitia, you will doubtless be able to bring to mind the fact thatonce a very distinguished and reasonable person called Hood wrote asong about it. Besides which----"

"She is looking now!" cries Molly, triumphantly. "Sarah--Sa--rah!"

"The 'bells they go ringing for Sarah, '" quotes Mr. Luttrell, irrelevantly. But Sarah has heard, and is hastening toward them, andwrath is for the present averted from his unlucky head. 

Smiling, panting, rubicund, comes Sarah, ready for anything. 

"Some more tea, Sarah, " says Molly, with a smile that would corrupt anarchbishop. Molly is a person adored by servants. "That's my cup. "

"And that's mine, " says Tedcastle, turning his upside down on hissaucer. "I am particular about getting my own cup, Sarah, and hope youwill not mistake mine for Miss Massereene's. Fill it, and bring it backto me just like this. "

"Yes, sir, " says Sarah, in perfect good faith. 

"And, Sarah--next time we would like the tea-pot, " puts in Mr. Massereene, mildly. 

CHAPTER VI. 

"Oh, we fell out, --I know not why, -- And kissed again with tears. "

 --Tennyson. 

They are now drawing toward the close of July. To Luttrell it appearsas though the moments are taking to themselves wings to fly away; tomore prosaic mortals they drag. Ever since that first day in the gardenwhen he betrayed his love to Molly, he had been silent on the subject, fearful lest he gain a more decided repulse. 

Yet this enforced silence is to him a lingering torture; and as aschool-boy with money in his pocket burns till he spend it, so he, withhis heart brimful of love, is in torment until he can fling its richtreasures at his mistress's feet. Only a very agony of doubt restrainshim. 

Not that this doubt contains all pain; there is blended with it a deepecstasy of joy, made to be felt, not spoken; and all the grace andpoetry and sweetness of a first great passion, --that thing that in allthe chilling after-years never wholly dies, --that earliest, purest dewthat falls from the awakening heart. 

 "O love! young love! Let saints and cynics cavil as they will, One throb of yours is worth whole years of ill. "

So thinks Luttrell; so think I. 

To-day Molly has deserted him, and left him to follow his own devices. John has gone into the next town on some important errand connectedwith the farm: so perforce our warrior shoulders his gun and salliesforth savagely, bent on slaying aught that comes in his way. As twocrows, a dejected rabbit, and an intelligent squirrel are all thatpresent themselves to his notice, he wearies toward three o'clock, andthinks with affection of home. For so far has his air-castle mountedthat, were Molly to inhabit a hovel, that hovel to him would be home. 

Crossing a stile and a high wall, he finds himself in the middle of thegrounds that adjoin the more modest Brooklyn. The shimmer of a smalllake makes itself seen through the branches to his right, and as hegains its bank a boat shoots forth from behind the willows, and a gayvoice sings:

 "There was a little man, And he had a little gun, And his bullets they were made of lead, lead, lead; He went to a brook, And he saw a little----"

"Oh, Mr. Luttrell, please, please don't shoot _me_, " cries Molly, breaking down in the song with an exaggerated show of feigned terror. 

"Do _you_ call yourself a 'duck'?" demands Luttrell, with muchscorn. "Is there any limit to a woman's conceit? Duck, indeed! sayrather----"

"Swan? Well, yes, I will, if you wish it: I don't mind, " says Molly, amiably. "And now tell me, are you not surprised to see me here?"

"I am, indeed. Are you ubiquitous? I thought I left you safe at home. "

"So you did. But I never counted on your staying so long away. I wastired of waiting for you. I thought you would _never_ come. So indespair I came out here by myself. "

"So you absolutely missed me?" says Luttrell, quietly, although hisheart is beating rapidly. Too well he knows her words are from the lipsalone. 

"Oh, didn't I!" exclaims she, heartily. "You should have seen mestanding at the gate peering up and down for you and bemoaning my fate, like that silly Mariana in the moated grange. Indeed, if I had beenphotographed then and there and named 'Forsaken, ' I'm positive I wouldhave sold well. "

"I don't doubt it. "

"Then I grew enraged, and determined to trouble my head no more aboutyou; and then---- It was lucky I came here, wasn't it?"

"Very lucky, --for me. But you never told me you had a boat on thelake. "

"Because I hadn't, --at least not for the last two months, --untilyesterday. It got broken in the spring, and they have been ever sincemending it. They are so slow down here. I kept the news of its returnfrom you a secret all yesterday, meaning to bring you here and show ityou as a surprise; and this is how my plan has ended. "

"But are you allowed? I thought you did not know the owners of thisplace. "

"Neither do we. He is a retired butcher, I fancy (he doesn't lookanything like as respectable as a grocer), with a fine disregard forthe Queen's English. We called there one day, Letitia and I (nothingwould induce John to accompany us), but Mrs. Butcher was too much forLetitia, --too much for even me, " cries Molly, with a laugh, "and I'mnot particular: so we never called again. They don't bear malice, however, and rather affect our having our boat here than otherwise. Jump in and row me for a little while. "

Over the water, under the hanging branches they glide to the sweetmusic of the wooing wind, and scarcely care to speak, so perfect is themotion and the stillness. 

Luttrell, with his hat off and a cigar between his lips, is far happierthan he himself is at all aware. Being of necessity opposite her, he iscalmly feasting himself upon the sweet scenery of Molly's face, or elseletting his eyes wander to where her slender fingers drag their waythrough the cool water, leaving small bubbles in their track. 

"It is a pity the country is so stupid, is it not?" says Molly, breaking the silence at length, and speaking in a regretful tone. "Because otherwise there is no place like it. "

"Some country places are not at all stupid. There are generally toomany people about. I think Brooklyn's principal charm is its repose, its complete separation from the world. "

"Well, for my own part, " seriously, "I think I would excuse the reposeand the separation from the world, by which, I suppose, you meansociety. I have no admiration for cloisters and convents myself; I likeamusement, excitement. If I could, I would live in London all the yearround, " concludes Molly, with growing animation. 

"Oh, horror!" exclaims Luttrell, who, seven years before, thoughtexactly as she does now, and who occasionally thinks so still. "Who thatever lived for six months among all its grime and smoke and turmoil butwould pine for this calmer life?"

"I lived there for more than six months, " says Molly, "and I didn'tpine for anything. I thought it charming. It is all very well foryou"--dejectedly--"who are tired of gayety, to go into raptures overcalmness and tranquillity, and that; but if you lived in Brooklyn fromsummer until winter and from winter back again to summer, and if youcould count your balls on one hand, "--holding up five wet openfingers, --"you would think just as I do, and long for change. "

"I never knew you had been to London. "

"Yes: when I was sixteen I spent a whole year there, with a cousin ofmy father's, who went to Canada with her husband's regiment afterward. But I didn't go out much, she thought me too young, though I was quiteas tall as I am now. She heard me sing once, and insisted on carryingme up with her to get me lessons from Marigny. He took great pains withme: that is why I sing so well, " says Molly, modestly. 

"I confess I often wondered where your exquisite voice received itscultivation, its finish. Now I know. You were fortunate in securingMarigny. I have known him refuse dozens through want of time; or so hesaid. More probably he would not trouble himself to teach where therewas no certainty of success. Well, and so you dislike the country?"

"No, no. Not so much that. What I dislike is having no one to speak to. When John is away and Letty on the tread-mill--that is, in thenursery--I am rather thrown on my own resources; and they are not much. Your coming was the greatest blessing that ever befell me. When Iactually beheld you in your own proper person on the garden path thatnight, I could have hugged you in the exuberance of my joy. "

"Then why on earth didn't you?" says Luttrell, reproachfully, as thoughhe had been done out of something. 

"A lingering sense of maiden modesty and a faint idea that perhaps youmight not like it alone restrained me. But for that I must have givenway to my feelings. Just think, if I had, " says Molly, breaking into amerry laugh, "what a horrible fright I would have given you!"

"Not a horrible one, at all events. Molly, " bending to examine someimaginary thing in the side of the boat, "have you never--hada--lover?"

"A lover? Oh, yes, I have had any amount of them, " says Molly, with analacrity that makes his heart sink. "I don't believe I could count myadorers: it quite puzzles me to know where to begin. There were thecurates, --our rector is not sweet-tempered, so we have a fresh oneevery year, --and they never fail me. Three months after they come, asregular as clock-work, they ask me to be their wife. Now, I appeal toyou, "--clasping her hands and wrinkling up all her prettyforehead, --"_do_ I look like a curate's wife?"

"You do not, " replies Luttrell, emphatically, regarding with interestthe _debonnaire, spirituelle_ face before him: "no, you mostcertainly do not. "

"Well, I thought not myself; yet each of those deluded young men sawsomething angelic about me, and would insist on asking me to share hislot. They kept themselves sternly blind to the fact that I detest withequal vigor broth and old women. "

"Intolerable presumption!" says Luttrell, parenthetically. 

"Was it? I don't think I looked at it in that light. They were all veryestimable men, and Mr. Rochfort was positively handsome. You, you maywell stare, but some curates, you know, are good-looking, and he wasdecidedly High Church. In fact, he wasn't half so bad as the generalityof them, " says Molly, relentingly. "Only--it may be wrong, but thetruth is I hate curates. I think nothing of them. They are a mixture oftea and small jokes, and are ever at a stand-still. They are always inthe act of budding, --they never bloom; and then they are so afraid ofthe bishop. "

"I thank my stars I'm not a curate, " says Luttrell, devoutly. 

"However, "--regretfully, --"they were _something_: a proposal isalways an excitement. But the present man is married; so that makes itimpossible for this present year. There was positively nothing to whichto look forward. So you may fancy with what rapture I hailed yourcoming. "

"You are very good, " says Luttrell, in an uncertain tone, not beingquite sure whether he is intensely amused or outrageously angry, orboth. "Had you--any other lovers?"

"Yes. There was the last doctor. He poisoned a poor man afterward bymistake, and had to go away. "

"After what?"

"After I declined to assist him in the surgery, " says Molly, demurely. "It was a dreadful thing, --the poisoning, I mean, --and caused a greatdeal of scandal. I don't believe it was anybody's fault, but Icertainly did pity the man he killed. And--it might have been me, youknow; think of that! He was very much attached to me; and so was theLefroys' eldest son, and James Warder, and the organist, to say nothingof the baker's boy, who, I am convinced, would cut his throat to obligeme to-morrow morning, if I asked him. "

"Well, don't ask him, " says Luttrell, imploringly. "He might do it onthe door-step, and then think of the horrid mess! Promise me you won'teven hint at it until after I am gone. "

"I promise, " says Molly, laughing. 

Onward glides the boat; the oars rise and fall with a tuneful splash. Miss Massereene, throwing her hat with reckless extravagance into thebottom of the punt, bares her white arm to the elbow and essays tocatch the grasses as she sweeps by them. 

"Look at those lilies, " she says, eagerly; "how exquisite, in theirbroad green frames! Water-sprites! how they elude one!" as she makes avigorous but unsuccessful grab at some on her right hand. 

"Very beautiful, " says Luttrell, dreamily, with his eyes on Molly, noton the lilies. 

"I want some, " says Molly, revengefully; "I always do want what don'twant me, and _vice versa_. Oh! look at those beauties near you. Catch them. "

"I don't think I can; they are too far off. "

"Not if you stoop very much for them. I think if you were to bend overa good deal you might do it. "

"I might; I might do something else, too, " says Luttrell, calmly, seeing it would be as easy for him to grasp the lilies in question aslast night's moon: "I might fall in. "

"Oh, never mind that, " responds Molly, with charming thoughpremeditated unconcern, a little wicked desire to tease getting thebetter of her amiability. 

Luttrell, hardly sure whether she jests or is in sober earnest, openshis large eyes to their fullest, the better to judge, but, seeing nosigns of merriment in his companion, gives way to his feelings alittle. 

"Well, you _are_ cool, " he says, slowly. 

"I am not, indeed, " replies innocent Molly. "How I wish I _were_'cool, ' on such a day as this! Are _you_?"

"No, " shortly. "Perhaps that is the reason you recommended me a plunge;or is it for your amusement?"

"You are afraid, " asserts Molly, with a little mischievous, scornfullaugh, not to be endured for a moment. 

"Afraid!" angrily. "Nonsense! I don't care about wetting my clothes, certainly, and I don't want to put out my cigar; but"--throwing awaythe choice Havana in question--"you shall have your lilies, of course, if you have set your heart on them. "

Here, standing up, he strips off his coat with an air that meansbusiness. 

"I don't want them now, " says Molly, in a degree frightened, "at leastnot those. See, there are others close behind you. But I will pluckthem myself, thank you: I hate giving trouble. No, don't put your handsnear them. I won't have them if you do. "

"Why?"

"Because you are cross, and I detest cross people. "

"Because I didn't throw myself into the water head foremost to pleaseyou?" with impatient wrath. "They used to call that chivalry long ago. I call it folly. You should be reasonable. "

"Oh, don't lose your temper about it, " says Molly. 

Now, to have a person implore you at any time "not to lose your temper"is simply abominable; but to be so implored when you have lost it isabout the most aggravating thing that can occur to any one. So Luttrellfinds it. 

"I never lose my temper about trifles, " he says, loftily. 

"Well, I don't know what you call it, but when one puts on a frown, anddrags down the corners of one's mouth, and looks as if one was going todevour some one, and makes one's self generally disagreeable, _I_know what _I_ call it, " says Molly, viciously. 

"Would you like to return home?" asks Mr. Luttrell, with promptsolicitude. "You are tired, I think. "

"'Tired'? Not in the least, thank you. I should like to stay out herefor the next two hours, if----"

"Yes?"

"If you think you could find amusement for yourself--elsewhere!"

"I'll try, " says Tedcastle, quietly taking up the oars and proceedingto row with much appearance of haste toward the landing-place. 

By the time they reach it, Miss Massereene's bad temper--not being atany time a lengthened affair--has cooled considerably, though still avery handsome allowance remains. As he steps ashore, with the evidentintention of not addressing her again, she feels it incumbent on her tospeak just a word or so, if only to convince him that his ill-humor isthe worst of the two. 

"Are you going home?" asks she, with cold politeness. 

"No, "--his eyebrows are raised, and he wears an expression halfnonchalant, wholly bored, --"I am going to Grantham. "

Now, Grantham is nine miles distant. He must be very angry if he hasdecided on going to Grantham. It will take him a long, long time to getthere, and a long, long time to get back; and in the meantime what isto become of her?

"That is a long way, is it not?" she says, her manner a degree morefrigid, lest he mistake the meaning of her words. 

"The longer the better, " ungraciously. 

"And on so hot a day!"

"There are worse things than heat. " Getting himself into his coat insuch a violent fashion as would make his tailor shed bitter tears overthe cruel straining of that garment. 

"You will be glad to get away from----" hesitates Molly, who has alsostepped ashore, speaking in a tone that would freeze a salamander. 

"_Very_ glad. " With much unnecessary emphasis. 

"Go then, " cries she, with sudden passion, throwing down the oar shestill holds with a decided bang, "and I hope you will _never_ comeback. There!"

And--will you believe it?--even after this there is no deluge. 

So she goes to the right, and he goes to the left, and when too laterepent their haste. But pride is ever at hand to tread down tenderness, and obstinacy is always at the heels of pride; and out of this "trivialcause" see what a "pretty quarrel" has been sprung. 

 * * * * *

"The long and weary day" at length has "passed away. " The dinner hascome to an unsuccessful end, leaving both Luttrell and his divinitystill at daggers drawn. There are no signs of relenting about Molly, nosymptoms of weakness about Tedcastle: the war is civil but energetic. 

They glower at each other through each course, and are positivelydevoted in their attentions to John and Letitia. Indeed, they seem benton bestowing all their conversational outbreaks on these two worthies, to their unmitigated astonishment. As a rule, Mr. And Mrs. Massereenehave been accustomed to occupy the background; to-night they arebrought to the front with a vehemence that takes away their breath, andis, to say the least of it, embarrassing. 

Letitia, --dear soul, --who, though the most charming of women, couldhardly be thought to endanger the Thames, understands nothing; John, onthe contrary, comprehends fully, and takes a low but exquisite delightin compelling the antagonists to be attentive to each other. 

For instance:

"Luttrell, my dear fellow, what is the matter with you this evening?How remiss you are! Why don't you break some walnuts for Molly? I wouldbut I don't wish Letitia to feel slighted. "

"No, thank you, John, "--with a touch of asperity from Molly, --"I don'tcare for walnuts. "

"Oh, Molly Bawn! what a tarididdle! Only last night I quite shudderedat the amount of shells you left upon your plate. 'How can thatwretched child play such pranks with her digestion?' thought I, andindeed felt thankful it had not occurred to you to swallow the shellsalso. "

"Shall I break you some, Miss Massereene?" asks Luttrell, very coldly. 

"No, thank you, " ungraciously. 

"Luttrell, did you see that apple-tree in the orchard? I never beheldsuch a show of fruit in my life. The branches will hardly bear theweight when it comes to perfection. It is very worthy of admiration. Molly will show it to you to-morrow: won't you, Molly?"

Luttrell, hastily: "I will go round there myself after breakfast andhave a look at it. "

John: "You will never find it by yourself. Molly will take you; eh, Molly?"

Molly, cruelly: "I fear I shall be busy all the morning; and in theafternoon I intend going with Letitia to spend the day with theLaytons. "

Letitia, agreeably surprised: "Oh, will you, dear? That is very good ofyou. I thought this morning you said nothing would induce you to comewith me. I shall be so glad to have you; they are so intensely dull anddifficult. "

Molly, still more cruelly: "Well, I have been thinking it over, and itseems, do you know, rather rude my not going. Besides, I hear theirbrother Maxwell (a few more strawberries, if you please, John) is homefrom India, and--he used to be _so_ good-looking. "

John, with much unction: "Oh, has he come at last! I am glad to hearit. (Luttrell, give Molly some strawberries. ) You underrate him, Ithink: he was downright handsome. When Molly Bawn was in shortpetticoats he used to adore her. I suppose it would be presumptuous topretend to measure the admiration he will undoubtedly feel for her now. I have a presentiment that fortune is going to favor you in the end, Molly. He must inherit a considerable property. "

"Rich and handsome, " says Luttrell, with exemplary composure and agrowing conviction that he will soon hate with an undying hatred hiswhilom friend John Massereene. "He must be a favorite of the gods: letus hope he will not die young. "

"He can't, " says Letitia, comfortably: "he must be forty if he is aday. "

"And a good, sensible age, too, " remarks John; whereupon Molly, who istoo much akin to him in spirit not to fully understand his manoeuvering, laughs outright. 

Then Letitia rises, and the two women move toward the door; and Molly, coming last, pauses a moment on the threshold, while Luttrell holds thedoor open for her. His heart beats high. Is she going to speak to him, to throw him even one poor word, to gladden him with a smile, howeverfrozen?

Alas! no. Miss Massereene, with a little curve of her neck, glancesback expressively to where an unkind nail has caught the tail of herlong soft gown. That miserable nail--not he--has caused her delay. Stooping, he extricates the dress. She bows coldly, without raising hereyes to his. A moment later she is free; still another moment, and sheis gone; and Luttrell, with a suppressed but naughty word upon hislips, returns to his despondency and John; while Molly, who, though shehas never once looked at him, has read correctly his fond hope andfinal disappointment, allows a covert smile of pleased malevolence tocross her face as she walks into the drawing-room. 

Mr. Massereene is holding a long and very one-sided argument on thesubject of the barbarous Mussulman. As Luttrell evinces no faintestdesire to disagree with him in his opinions, the subject wears itselfout in due course of time; and John, winding up with an amiable wishthat every Turk that ever has seen the light or is likely to see thelight may be blown into fine dust, finishes his claret and rises, witha yawn. 

"I must leave you for awhile, " he says: "so get out your cigars, anddon't wait for me. I'll join you later. I have had the writing of aletter on my conscience for a week, and I must write it now or never. Ireally do believe I have grasped my own meaning at last. Did you noticemy unusual taciturnity between the fish and the joint?"

"I can't say I did. I imagined you talking the entire time. "

"My dear fellow, of what were you thinking. I sincerely trust you arenot going to be ill; but altogether your whole manner this evening----Well, just at that moment a sudden inspiration seized me, and then andthere my letter rose up before me, couched in such eloquent language asastonished even myself. If I don't write it down at once I am a lostman. "

"But now you have composed it to your satisfaction, why not leave thewriting of it until to-morrow?" expostulates Luttrell, trying to lookhearty, as he expresses a hypocritical desire for his society. 

"I always remark, " says John, "that sleeping on those treacherousflights of fancy has the effect of taking the gilt off them. When Irise in the morning they are hardly up to the mark, and appear by nomeans so brilliant as they did over-night. Something within warns me ifI don't do it now I won't do it at all. There is more claret on thesideboard, --or brandy, if you prefer it, " says Mr. Massereene, tenderly. 

"Thanks, --I want nothing more, " replies Luttrell, whose spirits are atzero. As Massereene leaves him, he saunters toward the open window andgazes on the sleeping garden. Outside, the heavens are alive with starsthat light the world in a cold, sweet way, although as yet the moon hasnot risen. All is

 "Clear, and bright, and deep; Soft as love, and calm as death; Sweet as a summer night without a breath. "

Lighting a cigar (by the bye, can any one tell me at what stage ofsuffering it is a man abandons this unfailing friend as being powerlessto soothe?), he walks down the balcony steps, and, still grim andunhappy, makes up his mind to a solitary promenade. 

Perhaps he himself is scarcely conscious of the direction he takes, buthis footsteps guide him straight over the lawn and down to the very endof it, where a broad stream runs babbling in one corner. It is averitable love-retreat, hedged in by larches and low-lying evergreens, so as to be completely concealed from view, and a favorite haunt ofMolly's, --indeed, such a favorite that now as he enters it he findshimself face to face with her. 

An impromptu tableau follows. For a full minute they regard each otherunwillingly, too surprised for disdain, and then, with a laudabledesire to show how unworthy of consideration either deems the other, they turn slowly away until a shoulder and half a face alone arevisible. 

Now, Luttrell has the best of it, because he is the happy possessor ofthe cigar: this gives him something to do, and he smokes onpersistently, not to say viciously. Miss Massereene, being withoutoccupation beyond what one's thumbs may afford, is conscious of beingat a disadvantage, and wishes she had earlier in life cultivated apassion for tobacco. 

Meanwhile, the noisy brook flows on merrily, chattering as it goes, andreflecting the twinkling stars, with their more sedate brethren, theplanets. Deep down in the very heart of the water they lie, quivering, changing, gleaming, while the stream whispers their lullaby and dashesits cool soft sides against the banks. A solitary bird drops down tocrave a drink, terrifying the other inhabitants of the rushes by thetrembling of its wings; a frog creeps in with a dull splash; to all thestream makes kind response; while on its bosom

 "Broad water-lilies lay tremulously, And starry river-buds glimmered by; And round them the soft stream did glide and dance, With a motion of sweet sound and radiance. "

A little way above, a miniature cataract adds its tiny roar to the many"breathings of the night;" at Molly's feet lie great bunches of blueforget-me-nots. 

Stooping, she gathers a handful to fasten at her breast; a few spraysstill remain in her hands idle; she has turned so that her full face isto her companion: he has never stirred. 

He is still puffing away in a somewhat indignant fashion at theunoffending cigar, looking taller, more unbending in his eveningclothes, helped by the dignity of his wrongs. Miss Massereene, havingindulged in a long examination of his would-be stern profile, decideson the spot that if there is one thing on earth toward which she bearsa rancorous hatred it is an ill-tempered man. What does he mean bystanding there without speaking to her? She makes an undying vow that, were he so to stand forever, she would not open her lips to him; andexactly sixty seconds after making that terrible vow she says, --oh, sosweetly!--"Mr. Luttrell!"

He instantly pitches the obnoxious cigar into the water, where it diesaway with an angry fizz, and turns to her. 

She is standing a few yards distant from him, with her head a littlebent and the bunch of forget-me-nots in one hand, moving them slowly, slowly across her lips. There is penitence, coquetry, mischief, athousand graces in her attitude. 

Now, feeling his eyes upon her, she moves the flowers about threeinches from her mouth, and, regarding them lovingly, says, "Are notthey pretty!" as though her whole soul is wrapt in contemplation oftheir beauty, and as though no other deeper thought has led her toaddress him. 

"Very. They are like your eyes, " replies he, gravely, and with somehesitation, as if the words came reluctantly. 

This is a concession, and so she feels it. A compliment to a true womancomes never amiss; and the knowledge that it has been wrung from himagainst his will, being but a tribute to its truth, adds yet anothercharm. Without appearing conscious of the fact, she moves a few stepsnearer to him, always with her eyes bent upon the flowers, the grass, anywhere but on him: because you will understand how impossible it isfor one person to drink in the full beauty of another if checked bythat other's watchfulness. Molly, at all events, understands itthoroughly. 

When she is quite close to him, so close that if she stirs her dressmust touch him, so close that her flower-like face is dangerously nearhis arm, she whispers, softly:

"I am sorry. "

"Are you?" says Luttrell, stupidly, although his heart is throbbingpassionately, although every pulse is beating almost to pain. If hislife depended upon it, or perhaps because of it, he can frame no moreeloquent speech. 

"Yes, " murmurs Molly, with a thorough comprehension of all he isfeeling. "And now we will be friends again, will we not?" Holding outto him a little cool, shy hand. 

"Not _friends_, " says the young man, in a low, passionate tone, clasping her hand eagerly: "it is too cold a word. I _cannot_ beyour friend. Your lover, your slave, if you will; only let me feel_near_ to you. Molly, "--abandoning her slender fingers for the farsweeter possession of herself, and folding his arms around her withgentle audacity, --"speak to me. Why are you so silent? Why do you noteven look at me? You cannot want me to tell you of the love that isconsuming me, because you know of it. "

"I don't think you ought to speak to me like this at all, " says Molly, severely, drawing herself out of his embrace, not hurriedly or angrily, but surely; "I am almost positive you should not; and--and John mightnot like it. "

"I don't care a farthing what John likes, " exclaims Luttrell, ratherforcibly, giving wings to his manners, as his wrongs of the eveningblossom. "What has he or any one to do with it but you and I alone? Thequestion is, do _you_ like it?"

"I am not at all sure that I do, " says Molly, doubtfully, with a littledistracting shake of her head. "You are so vehement, and I----"

"Don't go on, " interrupts he, hastily. "You are going to say somethingunkind, and I won't listen to it. I know it by your eyes. Darling, whyare you so cruel to me? Surely you must care for me, be it ever such alittle. To think otherwise would---- But I will _not_ think it. Molly, "--with increasing fervor, --"say you will marry me. "

"But indeed I can't, " exclaims Miss Massereene, retreating a step ortwo, and glancing at him furtively from under her long lashes. "Atleast"--relenting a little, as she sees his face change and whiten ather words--"not _yet_. It is all so sudden, so unexpected; and youforget I am not accustomed to this sort of thing. Now, thecurates"--with an irrepressible smile--"never went on like this: theyalways behaved modestly and with such propriety. "

"'The curates!' What do they know about it?" returns this young man, most unjustly. "Do you suppose I love you like a curate?"

"And yet, when all is told, I suppose a curate is a man, " says Molly, uncertainly, as one doubtful of the truth of her assertion, "and awell-behaved one, too. Now, you are quite different; and you have knownme such a little time. "

"What has time to do with it? The beginning and the ending of the wholematter is this: I love you!"

He is holding her hands and gazing down into her face with all hisheart in his eyes, waiting for her next words, --may they not decide hisfate?--while she is feeling nothing in the world but a mad desire tobreak into laughter, --a desire that arises half from nervousness, halffrom an irrepressible longing to destroy the solemnity of the scene. 

"A pinch for stale news, " says she, at last, with a frivolity mostunworthy of the occasion, but in the softest, merriest whisper. 

They are both young. The laugh is contagious. After a moment's strugglewith his dignity, he echoes it. 

"You can jest, " says he: "surely that is a good sign. If you were goingto refuse me you would not laugh. Beloved, "--taking her into his fondarms again, --"say one little word to make me happy. "

"Will any little word do? Long ago, in the dark ages when I was achild, I remember being asked a riddle _à propos_ of short words. I will ask it to you now. What three letters contain everything in theworld? Guess. "

"No need to guess: I know. YES would contain everything in the worldfor me. "

"You are wrong, then. It is ALL, --all. Absurd, isn't it? I must havebeen very young when I thought that clever. But to return: would_that_ little word do you?"

"Say 'Yes, ' Molly. "

"And if I say 'No, ' what then? Will you throw yourself into this smallriver? Or perhaps hang yourself to the nearest tree? Or, worse still, refuse to speak to me ever again? Or 'go to skin and bone, ' as my oldnurse used to say I would when I refused a fifth meal in the day? Tellme which?"

"A greater evil than all those would befall me: I should live with nonearer companion than a perpetual regret. But"--with a shudder--"I willnot believe myself so doomed. Molly, say what I ask you. "

"Well, 'Yes, ' then, since you will have it so. Though why you are sobent on your own destruction puzzles me. Do you know you never spoke tome all this evening? I don't believe you love me as well as you say. "

"Don't I?" wistfully. Then, with sudden excitement, "I wish with all myheart I did not, " he says, "or at least with only half the strength Ido. If I could regulate my affections so, I might have some smallchance of happiness; but as it is I doubt--I fear. Molly, do you carefor me?"

"At times, "--mischievously--"I do--a _little_. "

"And you know I love you?"

"Yes, --it may be, --when it suits you. "

"And you, "--tightening his arms round her, --"some time you will loveme, my sweet?"

"Yes, --perhaps so, --when it suits me. "

"Molly, " says Luttrell after a pause, "won't you kiss me?"

As he speaks he stoops, bringing his cheek very close to hers. 

"'Kiss you'?" says Molly, shrinking away from him, while flushing andreddening honestly now. "No, I think not. I never in all my life kissedany man but John, and--I don't believe I should like it. No, no; if Icannot be engaged to you without kissing you, I will not be engaged toyou at all. "

"It shall be as you wish, " says Luttrell, very patiently, consideringall things. 

"You mean it?" Still keeping well away from him, and hesitating aboutgiving the hand he is holding out his to receive. 

"Certainly I do. "

"And"--anxiously--"you don't _mind_?"

"Mind?" says he, with wrathful reproach. "Of course I mind. Am I astick or a stone, do you think? You might as well tell me in so manywords of your utter indifference to me as refuse to kiss me. "

"Do all women kiss the men they promise to marry?"

"All women kiss the men they love. "

"What, whether they ask them or not?"

"Of course I mean when they are asked. "

"Even if at the time they happen to be married to somebody else?"

"I don't know anything about that, " says Luttrell, growing ashamed ofhimself and his argument beneath the large, horror-stricken eyes of hiscompanion. "I was merely supposing a case where marriage and love wenthand in hand. "

"Don't suppose, " says Miss Massereene; "there is nothing so tiresome. It is like 'fourthly' and 'fifthly' in a sermon: you never know whereit may lead you. Am I to understand that all women want to kiss the manthey love?"

"Certainly they do, " stoutly. 

"How very odd!" says Molly. 

After which there is a most decided pause. 

Presently, as though she had been pondering all things, she says:

"Well, there is one thing: I don't mind your having your arms round mea bit, not in the _least_. That must be something. I would quiteas soon they were there as not. "

"I suppose that is a step in the right direction, " says Luttrell, trying not to see the meaning in her words, because too depressed toaccept the comic side of it. 

"You are unhappy, " says Molly, remorsefully, heaving a quicklysuppressed sigh. "Why? Because I won't be good to you? Well, "--coloringcrimson and leaning her head back against his shoulder with the air ofa martyr, so that her face is upturned, --"you may kiss me once, if youwish, --but only once, mind, --because I can't bear to see youmiserable. "

"No, " returns Luttrell, valiantly, refusing by a supreme effort toallow himself to be tempted by a look at her beauty, "I will not kissyou so. Why should you be made unhappy, and by me? Keep such gifts, Molly, until you can bestow them of your own free will. "

But Molly is determined to be generous. 

"See, I will give you this one freely, " she says, with unwontedsweetness, knowing that she is gaining more than she is giving; andthus persuaded, he presses his lips to the warm tender ones so near hisown, while for one mad moment he is absurdly happy. 

"You really do love me?" asks Molly, presently, as though justawakening to the fact. 

"My darling!--my angel!" whispers he, which is conclusive; because whena man can honestly bring himself to believe a woman an angel he must bevery far gone indeed. 

"I fancy we ought to go in, " says Molly, a little later; "they will bewondering where we are. "

"They cannot have missed us yet; it is too soon. "

"Soon! Why, it must be hours since we came out here, " says Molly, withuplifted brows. 

"Have you found it so very long?" asks he, aggrieved. 

"No, "--resenting his tone in a degree, --"I have not been bored todeath, if you mean that; but I am not so dead to the outer world that Icannot tell whether time has been short or long. And it _is_long, " viciously. 

"At that rate, I think we had better go in, " replies he, somewhatstiffly. 

As they draw near the house, so near that the lights from the opendrawing-room windows make yellow paths across the grass that runs theirpoints almost to their feet, --Luttrell stops short to say:

"Shall I speak to John to-night or to-morrow morning?"

"Oh! neither to-night nor to-morrow, " cries Molly, frightened. "Not forever so long. Why talk about it at all? Only a few minutes ago nothingwas farther from my thoughts, and now you would publish it on thehouse-tops! Just think what it will be to have every one wondering andwhispering about one, and saying, 'Now they have had a quarrel, ' and'Now they have made it up again. ' Or, 'See now she is flirting withsomebody else. ' I could not bear it, " says Molly, blind to the growinganger on the young man's face as he listens to and fully takes in thesuggestions contained in these imaginary speeches; "it would make mewretched. It might make me hate you!"

"Molly!"

"Yes, it might; and then what would you do? Let us keep it a secret, "says Molly, coaxingly, slipping her hand into his, with a littlepersuasive pressure. "You see, everything about it is so far distant;and perhaps--who knows?--it may never come to anything. "

"What do you mean by that?" demands he, passionately, drawing her tohim, and bending to examine her face in the uncertain light. "Do yousuppose I am a boy or a fool, that you so speak to me? Am I so veryhappy that you deem it necessary to blast my joy like this? or is itmerely to try me? Tell me the truth now, at once: do you mean to throwme over?"

"I do not, " with surprise. "What has put such an idea into your head?If I did, why be engaged to you at any time? It is a great deal morelikely, when you come to know me better, that you will throw me over. "

"Don't build your hopes on that, " says Luttrell, grimly, with a rathersad smile. "I am not the sort of fellow likely to commit suicide; andto resign you would be to resign life. "

"Well, " says Molly, "if I am ever to say anything on the subject I mayas well say it now; and I must confess I think you are behaving veryfoolishly. I may be--I probably am--good to look at; but what is theuse of that? You, who have seen so much of the world, have, of course, known people ten times prettier than I am, and--perhaps--fonder of you. And still you come all the way down here to this stupid place to fallin love with me, a girl without a penny! I really think, " winds upMolly, growing positively melancholy over his lack of sense, "it is themost absurd thing I ever heard in my life. "

"I wish I could argue with your admirable indifference, " says he, bitterly. 

"If I was indifferent I would not argue, " says Molly, offended. "Iwould not trouble myself to utter a word of warning. You ought to beimmensely obliged to me instead of sneering and wrinkling up all yourforehead into one big frown. Are you going to be angry again? I dohope, " says Molly, anxiously, "you are not naturally ill-tempered, because, if so, on no account would I have anything to do with you. "

"I am not, " replies he, compelled to laughter by her perturbed face. "Reassure yourself. I seldom forget myself in this way. And you?"

"Oh, I have a fearful temper, " says Molly, with a charming smile; "thatis why I want to make sure of yours. Because two tyrants in one housewould infallibly bring the roof about their ears. Now, Mr. Luttrell, that I have made this confession, will you still tell me you are notfrightened?"

"Nothing frightens me, " whispers he, holding her to his heart andpressing his lips to her fair, cool cheek, "since you are my own, --mysweet, --my beloved. But call me Tedcastle, won't you?"

"It is too long a name. "

"Then alter it, and call me----"

"Teddy? I think I like that best; and perhaps I shall have it all tomyself. "

"I am afraid not, " laughing. "All the fellows in the regimentchristened me 'Teddy' before I had been in a week. "

"Did they? Well, never mind; it only shows what good taste they had. The name just suits you, you are so fair and young, and handsome, " saysMolly, patting his cheek with considerable condescension. "Now, onething more before we go in to receive our scolding: you are not to makelove to me again--not even to mention the word--until a whole week haspassed: promise. "

"I could not. "

"You must. "

"Well, then, it will be a pie-crust promise. "

"No, I forbid you to break it. I can endure a little of it now andagain, " says Molly, with intense seriousness, "but to be made love toalways, every day, would kill me. "

CHAPTER VII. 

"Then they sat down and talkedOf their friends at home . .. 

 * * *

And related the wondrous adventure. "

 --_Courtship of Miles Standish. _

"Do exert yourself, " says Molly. "I never saw any one so lazy. Youdon't pick one to my ten. "

"I can't see how you make that out, " says her companion in an injuredtone. "For the last three minutes you have sat with your hands in yourlap arguing about what you don't understand in the least, while I havebeen conscientiously slaving; and before that you ate two for every oneyou put in the basket. "

"I never heard any one talk so much as you do, when once fairlystarted, " says Molly. "Here, open your mouth until I put in thisstrawberry; perhaps it will stop you. "

"And I find it impossible to do anything with this umbrella, " saysLuttrell, still ungrateful, eying with much distaste the ancientarticle he holds aloft: "it is abominably in the way. I wouldn't mindif you wanted it, but you cannot with that gigantic hat you arewearing. May I put it down?"

"Certainly not, unless you wish me to have a sun-stroke. Do you?"

"No, but I really think----"

"Don't think, " says Molly: "it is too fatiguing; and if you get used upnow, I don't see what Letitia will do for her jam. "

"Why do people make jam?" asks Luttrell, despairingly; "they wouldn'tif they had the picking of it: and nobody ever eats it, do they?"

"Yes, I do. I love it. Let that thought cheer you on to victory. Oh!here is another fat one, such a monster. Open your mouth again, wide, and you shall have it, because you really do begin to look weak. "

They are sitting on the strawberry bank, close together, with a smallsquare basket between them, and the pretty red and white fruit hangingfrom its dainty stalks all round them. 

Molly, in a huge hat that only partially conceals her face and throws ashadow over her glorious eyes, is intent upon her task, while Luttrell, sitting opposite to her, holds over her head the very largest familyumbrella ever built. It is evidently an old and esteemed friend, thathas worn itself out in the Massereenes' service, and now shows daylighthere and there through its covering where it should not. A troublesomescorching ray comes through one of these impromptu air-holes andalights persistently on his face; at present it is on his nose, andmakes that feature appear a good degree larger than Nature, who hasbeen very generous to it, ever intended. 

It might strike a keen observer that Mr. Luttrell doesn't like theumbrella; either it or the wicked sunbeams, or the heat generally, istelling on him, slowly but surely; he has a depressed and melancholyair. 

"Is it good?" asks Molly, _à propos_ of the strawberry. "There, you need not bite my finger. Will you have another? You really do lookvery badly. You don't think you are going to faint, do you?"

"Molly, " taking no notice of her graceful _badinage_, "why don'tyou get your grandfather to invite you to Herst Royal for the autumn?Could you not manage it in some way? I wish it could be done. "

"So do I, " returns she, frankly, "but there is not the remotest chanceof it. It would be quite as likely that the skies should fall. Why, hedoes not even acknowledge me as a member of the family. "

"Old brute!" says Luttrell from his heart. 

"Well, it has always been rather a regret to me, his neglect, I mean, "says Molly, thoughtfully, "and besides, though I know it ispoor-spirited of me, I confess I have the greatest longing to see mygrandfather. "

"To '_see_' your grandfather?"

"Exactly. "

"Do you mean to tell me, " growing absolutely animated through hissurprise, "that you have never been face to face with him?"

"Never. I thought you knew that. Why, how amazed you look! Is thereanything the matter with him? is he without arms, or legs? or has hehad his nose shot off in any campaign? If so, break it to me gently, and spare me the shock I might experience, if ever I make my curtsey tohim. "

"It isn't that, " says Tedcastle: "there's nothing wrong with him beyondold age, and a beastly temper; but it seems so odd that, living allyour life in the very next county to his, you should never have met. "

"It is not so odd, after all, when you come to think of it, " saysMolly, "considering he never goes anywhere, as I have heard, and that Ilead quite as lively an existence. But is he not a stern old thing, tokeep up a quarrel for so many years, especially as it wasn't my fault, you know? I didn't insist on being born. Poor mother! I think she wasquite right to run away with papa, when she loved him. "

"Quite right, " enthusiastically. 

"What made her crime so unpardonable was the fact that she was engagedto another man at the time, some rich _parti_ chosen by herfather, whom she thought she liked well enough until she saw papa, andthen she knew, and threw away everything for her love; and she didwell, " says Molly, with more excitement than would be expected from heron a sentimental subject. 

"Still, it was rather hard on the first man, don't you think?" saysLuttrell. There is rather less enthusiasm in his tone this time. 

"One should go to the wall, you know, " argues Molly, calmly, "and I formy part would not hesitate about it. Now, let us suppose I am engagedto you without caring very much about you, you know, and all that, andsupposing then I saw another I liked better, --why, then, I honestlyconfess I would not hold to my engagement with you for an hour!"

Here that wicked sunbeam, with a depravity unlooked for, fallingstraight through the chink of the umbrella into Mr. Luttrell's eye, maddens him to such a degree that he rises precipitately, shuts thecause of his misfortunes with a bang, and turns on Molly. 

"I won't hold it up another instant, " he says; "you needn't think it. Iwonder Massereene wouldn't keep a decent umbrella in his hall. "

"What's the matter with it? I see nothing indecent about it: I think ita very charming umbrella, " says Molly, examining the article inquestion with a critical eye. 

"Well, at all events, this orchard is oppressive. If you don't want tokill me, you will leave it, and come to the wood, where we may knowwhat shade means!"

"Nonsense!" returns Molly, unmoved. "It is delicious here, and I won'tstir. How can you talk in that wild way about no shade, when you havethis beautiful apple-tree right over your head? Come and sit at thisside; perhaps, " with a smile, "you will feel more comfortable--next tome?"

Thus beguiled, he yields, and seats himself beside her--very muchbeside her--and reconciles himself to his fate. 

"I wish you would remember, " she says, presently, "that you havenothing on your head. I would not be rash if I were you. Take my adviceand open the umbrella again, or you will assuredly be having asun-stroke. "

This is one for him and two for herself; and--need I say?--the familyfriend is once more unfurled, and waves to and fro majestically in thesoft wind. 

"Now, don't you feel better?" asks Molly, placing her two fingersbeneath his chin, and turning his still rather angry face toward her. 

"I do, " replies he; and a smile creeping up into his eyes slays thechagrin that still lingers there, but half _perdu_. 

"And--are you happy?"

"Very. "

"Intensely happy?"

"Yes. "

"So much so that you could not be more so?"

"Yes, " replies he again, laughing, and slipping his arm round herwaist. "And you?" tenderly. 

"Oh, I'm all right!" says Miss Massereene, with much graciousness, butrather disheartening vivacity. "And now begin, Teddy, and tell me allabout Herst Royal and its inmates. First, is it a pretty place?"

"It is a magnificent place. But for its attractions, and his twentythousand pounds a year, I don't believe your grandfather would be knownby any one; he is such a regular old bear. Yet he is fond of society, and is never content until he has the house crammed with people, fromgarret to basement, to whom he makes himself odiously disagreeablewhenever occasion offers. I have an invitation there for September andOctober. "

"Will you go?"

"I don't know. I have hardly made up my mind. I have been asked to theCareys, and the Brownes also; and I rather fancy the Brownes. They arethe most affording people I ever met: one always puts in such a goodtime at their place. But for one reason I would go there. "

"What reason?"

"That Herst is so much nearer to Brooklyn, " with a fond smile. "And, perhaps, if I came over once or twice, you would be glad to see me?"

"Oh, would I not!" cries Molly, her faultless face lighting up at hiswords. "You may be sure of it. You won't forget, will you? And you willcome early, so as to spend the entire day here, and tell me all aboutthe others who will be staying there. Do you know my cousin Marcia?"

"Miss Amherst? Yes. She is very handsome, but too statuesque to pleaseme. "

"Am I better-looking?"

"Ten thousand times. "

"And Philip Shadwell; he is my cousin also. Do you know him?"

"Very intimately. He is handsome also, but of a dark Moorish sort ofbeauty. Not a popular man, by any means. Too reserved, --cold, --I don'tknow what it is. Have you any other cousins?"

"Not on my mother's side. Grandpa had but three children, you know, --mymother, and Philip's mother, and Marcia's father: he married an Italianactress, which must have been a terrible _mésalliance_, and yetMarcia is made much of, while I am not even recognized. Does it notsound unfair?"

"Unaccountable. Especially as I have often heard your mother was hisfavorite child!"

"Perhaps that explains his harshness. To be deceived by one we loveengenders the bitterest hatred of all. And yet how could he hate poormamma? John says she had the most beautiful, lovable face. "

"I can well believe it, " replied he, gazing with undisguised admirationupon the perfect profile beside him. 

"And Marcia will be an heiress, I suppose?"

"She and Philip will divide everything, people say, the place, ofcourse, going to Philip. Lucky he! Any one might envy him. You knowthey both live there entirely, although Marcia's mother is alive andresides somewhere abroad. Philip was in some dragoon regiment, but soldout about two years ago: debt, I fancy, was the cause, or somethinglike it. "

"Marcia is the girl you ought to have fallen in love with, Ted. "

"No, thank you; I very much prefer her cousin. Besides, I should haveno chance, as she and Philip are engaged to each other: they thought ita pity to divide the twenty thousand pounds a year. Do you know, Molly, I never knew what it was to covet my neighbor's goods until I met you?so you have that to answer for; but it does seem hard that one manshould be so rich, and another so poor. "

"Are you poor, Teddy?"

"Very. Will that make you like me less?"

"Probably it will make me like you more, " replies she, with abewitching smile, stroking down the hand that supports the obnoxiousumbrella (the other is supporting herself) almost tenderly. "It is onlythe very nicest men that haven't a farthing in the world. I have nomoney either, and if I had I could not keep it: so we are well met. "

"But think what a bad match you are making, " says he, regarding hercuriously. "Did you never ask yourself whether I was well off, orotherwise?"

"Never!" with a gay laugh. "If I were going to marry you next week orso, it might occur to me to ask the question; but everything is so faraway, what does it signify? If you had the mines of Golconda, I shouldnot like you a bit better than I do. "

"My own darling! Oh, Molly, how you differ from most girls one meets. Now, in London, once they find out I am only the third son, they throwme over without warning, and generally manage to forget the extra dancethey had promised, while their mothers look upon me, and such as me, asa pestilence. And you, sweetheart, you never once asked me how much ayear I had!"

"You have your pay, I suppose?" says Molly, doubtfully. "Is that much?"

"Very handsome, " replies he, laughing; "a lieutenant's pay generallyis. But I have something besides that; about as much as most fellowswould spend on their stabling. I have precisely five hundred and fiftypounds a year, neither more nor less, and I owe two hundred pounds. Does not that sound tempting? The two hundred pounds I owe don't count, because the governor will pay up that; he always does in the long run;and I haven't asked him for anything out of the way now for fully eightmonths. " He says this with a full consciousness of his own virtue. 

"I call five hundred and fifty pounds a year a great deal, " says Molly, with a faint ring of disappointment in her tone. "I fancied youdownright poor from what you said. Why, you might marry to-morrowmorning on that. "

"So I might, " agrees he, eagerly; "and so I will. That is, notto-morrow, exactly, but as soon as ever I can. "

"Perhaps you will, " says Molly, slowly; "but, if so, it will not be meyou will marry. Bear that in mind. No, we won't argue the matter: asfar as I am concerned it doesn't admit of argument. " Then recurring tothe former topic: "Why, John has only seven hundred pounds, and he hasall the children and Letitia and me to provide for, and he keepsLovat--that is the eldest boy--at a very good school as well. How_could_ you call yourself poor, with five hundred pounds a year?"

"It ought to be six hundred and fifty pounds; but I thought it a pityto burden myself with superfluous wealth in my palmy days, so I got ridof it, " says he, laughing. 

"Gambling?"

"Well, yes, I suppose so. "

"Cards?"

"No, horses. It was in India, --stupid part, you know, and nothing todo. Potts suggested military races, and we all caught at it. And--and Ididn't have much luck, you know, " winds up Luttrell, ingenuously. 

"I don't like that young man, " says Molly, severely. "You are alwaystalking of him, and he is my idea of a ne'er-do-weel. Your Mr. Pottsseems never to be out of mischief. He is the head and front of everyoffense. "

"Are you talking of Potts?" says her lover, in grieved amazement. "Abetter fellow never stepped. Nothing underhand about Potts. When yousee him you will agree with me. "

"I will not. I can see him in my mind's eye already. I know he is tall, and dark, and insinuating, and, in fact, a Mephistopheles. "

Luttrell roars. 

"Oh, if you could but see Potts!" he says. "He is the best fellow inthe world, but---- He ought to be called Rufus: his hair is red, hisface is red, his nose is red, he is all red, " finishes Tedcastle, witha keen enjoyment of his friend's misfortunes. 

"Poor man, " kindly; "I forgive him his small sins; he must besufficiently punished by his ugliness. Did you like being in India?"

"Pretty well. At times it was rather slow, and our regiment has somehowgone to the dogs of late. No end of underbred fellows have joined, withquite too much the linen-draper about them to be tolerated. "

"How sad! Your candor amazes me. I thought every soldier made it apoint to be enthusiastic over his brother soldiers, whether by being sohe lied or not. "

"Then look upon me as an exception. The fact is, I grew ratherdiscontented about three years ago when my greatest chum sold out andgot married. You have no idea how lost a fellow feels when thathappens. But for Potts I might have succumbed. "

"Potts! what a sweet name it is!" says Molly, mischievously. 

"What's in a name?" with a laugh. "He was generally called Mrs. Luttrell, we were so much together: so his own didn't matter. But Imissed Penthony Stafford awfully. "

"And Mrs. Penthony, did you like her?"

"Lady Stafford, you mean? Penthony is a baronet. Yes, I like herimmensely, and the whole affair was so peculiar. You won't believe mewhen I tell you that, though they have now been married for threeyears, her husband has never seen her. "

"But that would be impossible. "

"It is a fact for all that. Shall I tell you the story? Most peopleknow it by this, I think: so I am breaking no faith by telling it toyou. "

"Never mind whether you are or not, " says Molly: "I must and will hearit now. "

"Well, to begin with, you must understand that she and her husband arefirst cousins. Have you mastered that fact?"

"Though not particularly gifted, I think I have. I rather flattermyself I could master more than that, " says Molly, significantly, giving his ear a pinch, short but sharp. 

"She is also a cousin of mine, though not so near. Well, about threeyears ago, when she was only Cecil Hargrave, and extremely poor, anuncle of theirs died, leaving his entire property, which was veryconsiderable, between them, on the condition that they should marryeach other. If they refused, it was to go to a lunatic asylum, or arefuge for dogs, or something equally uninteresting. "

"He would have made a very successful lunatic himself, it seems to me. What a terrible condition!"

"Now, up to this they had been utter strangers to each other, had nevereven been face to face, and being told they must marry whether theyliked it or not, or lose the money, they of course on the spotconceived an undying hatred for each other. Penthony even refused tosee his possible wife, when urged to do so, and Cecil, on her part, quite as strenuously opposed a meeting. Still, they could not make uptheir minds to let such a good property slip through their fingers. "

"It _was_ hard. "

"Things dragged on so for three months, and then, Cecil, being a woman, was naturally the one to see a way out of it. She wrote to Sir Penthonysaying, if he would sign a deed giving her a third of the money, andpromising never to claim her as his wife, or interfere with her in anyway, beyond having the marriage ceremony read between them, she wouldmarry him. "

"And he?" asks Molly, eagerly, bending forward in her excitement. 

"Why, he agreed, of course. What was it to him? he had never seen her, and had no wish to make her acquaintance. The document was signed, thelicense was procured. On the morning of the wedding, he looked up abest man, and went down to the country, saw nothing of his bride untila few minutes before the service began, when she entered the roomcovered with so thick a veil that he saw quite as little of her then, was married, made his best bow to the new Lady Stafford, andimmediately returning to town, set out a few days later for a foreigntour, which has lasted ever since. Now, is not that a thrillingromance, and have I not described it graphically?"

"The 'Polite Story-teller' sinks into insignificance beside you: such aflow of language deserves a better audience. But really, Teddy, I neverheard so extraordinary a story. To marry a woman, and never have thecuriosity to raise her veil to see whether she was ugly or pretty! Itis inconceivable! He must be made of ice. "

"He is warm-hearted, and one of the jolliest fellows you could meet. Curiously enough, from a letter he wrote me just before starting hegave me the impression that he believed his wife to be not only plain, but vulgar in appearance. "

"And is she?"

"She is positively lovely. Rather small, perhaps, but exquisitely fair, with large laughing blue eyes, and the most fetching manner. If he hadraised her veil, I don't believe he would ever have gone abroad tocultivate the dusky nigger. "

"What became of her, --'poor maid forlorn?'"

"She gave up 'milking the cow with the crumpled horn, ' and the countrygenerally, and came up to London, where she took a house, went intosociety, and was the rage all last season. "

"Why did you not tell him how pretty she was?" impatiently. 

"Because I was in Ireland at the time on leave, and heard nothing of ituntil I received that letter telling of the marriage and his departure. I was thunderstruck, you may be sure, but it was too late then tointerfere. Some one told me the other day he is on his way home. "

"'When Greek meets Greek' we know what happens, " says Molly. "I think_their_ meeting will be awkward. "

"Rather. She is to be at Herst this autumn: she was a ward of yourgrandfather's. "

"Don't fall in love with her, Teddy. "

"How can I, when you have put it out of my power? There is no room inmy heart for any one but Molly Bawn. Besides, it would be energywasted, as she is encased in steel. A woman in her equivocal position, and possessed of so much beauty, might be supposed to find it difficultto steer her bark safely through all the temptations of a Londonseason; yet the flattery she received, and all the devotion that waslaid at her feet, touched her no more than if she was ninety, insteadof twenty-three. "

"Yet what a risk it is! How will it be some day if she falls in love?as they say all people do once in their lives. "

"Why, then, she will have her _mauvais quart-d'heure_, like therest of us. Up to the present she has enjoyed her life to the utmost, and finds everything _couleur de rose_. "

"Would it not be charming, " says Molly, with much _empressement_, "if, when Sir Penthony comes home and sees her, they should both fallin love with each other?"

"Charming, but highly improbable. The fates are seldom so propitious. It is far more likely they will fall madly in love with two otherpeople, and be unhappy ever after. "

"Oh, cease such raven's croaking, " says Molly, laying her hand upon hislips. "I will not listen to it. Whatever the Fates may be, Love, Iknow, is kind. "

"Is it?" asks he, wistfully. "You are my love--are you kind?"

"And you are my lover, " returns Molly. "And you most certainly are notkind, for that is the third time you have all but run that horridumbrella into my left eye. Surely, because you hold it up for your ownpersonal convenience is no reason why you should make it an instrumentof torture to every one else. Now you may finish picking thosestrawberries without me, for I shall not stay here another instant indeadly fear of being blinded for life. "

With this speech--so flagrantly unjust as to render her companiondumb--she rises, and catching up her gown, runs swiftly away from himdown the garden-path, and under the wealthy trees, until at last thegarden-gate receives her in its embrace and hides her from his view. 

CHAPTER VIII. 

"Thine eyes I love, and they as pitying me, Knowing thy heart, torment me with disdain. "

 --Shakespeare. 

All round one side of Brooklyn, and edging on to the retired butcher'scountry residence, or rather what he is pleased to term, with a knowingjerk of the thumb over his right shoulder, his "little villar in thesouth, " stretches a belt of trees, named by courtesy "the wood. " It isa charming spot, widening and thickening toward one corner, which hasbeen well named the "Fairies' Glen, " where crowd together all the"living grasses" and wild flowers that thrive and bloom so bravely whennursed on the earth's bosom. 

On one side rise gray rocks, cold and dead, save for the little happylife that, springing up above, flows over them, leaping, laughing fromcrag to crag, bedewing leaf and blossom, and dashing its gem-like sprayover all the lichens and velvet mosses and feathery ferns that growluxuriantly to hide the rugged jags of stone. 

Here, at night, the owls delight to hoot, the bats go whirring past, the moonbeams surely cast their kindest rays; by day the pigeons coofrom the topmost boughs their tales of love, while squirrels sitblinking merrily, or run their Silvios on their Derby days. 

Just now it is neither night nor garish day, but a soft, earlytwilight, and on the sward that glows as green as Erin's, sit Molly andher attendant slave. 

"The reason I like you, " says Molly, reverting to something that hasgone before, and tilting back her hat so that all her pretty face islaid bare to the envious sunshine, while the soft rippling locks on herforehead make advances to each other through the breeze, "the reason Ilike you, --no, "--seeing a tendency on his part to creep nearer, "no, stay where you are. I only said I liked you. If I had mentioned theword love, then indeed--but, as it is, it is far too warm to admit ofany endearments. "

"You are right, --as you always are, " says Luttrell, with suspiciousamiability, being piqued. 

"You interrupted me, " says Miss Massereene, leaning back comfortablyand raising her exquisite eyes in lazy admiration of the green andleafy tangle far above her. "I was going to say that the reason I likeyou so much is because you look so young, quite as young as I do, --moreso, indeed, I think. "

"It is a poor case, " says Luttrell, "when a girl of nineteen looksolder than a man of twenty-seven. "

"That is not the way to put it. It is a charming and novel case when aman of twenty-seven looks younger than a girl of nineteen. "

"How much younger?" asks Luttrell, who is still sufficiently youthfulto have a hankering after mature age. "Am I fourteen or nine years oldin your estimation?"

"Don't let us dispute the point, " says Molly, "and don't get cross. Isee you are on for a hot argument, and I never could follow even a mildone. I think you young, and you should be glad of it, as it is the onegood thing I see about you. As a rule I prefer dark men, --but for theirunhappy knack of looking old from their cradles, --and have a perfectpassion for black eyes, black skin, black locks, and a generalappearance of fierceness! Indeed, I have always thought, up to this, that there was something about a fair man almost ridiculous. Have notyou?"

Here she brings her eyes back to the earth again, and fastens them uponhim with the most engaging frankness. 

"No. I confess it never occurred to me before, " returns Luttrell, coloring slightly through his Saxon skin. 

Silence. If there is any silent moment in the throbbing summer. Abovethem the faint music of the leaves, below the breathing of the flowers, the hum of insects. All the air is full of the sweet warblings ofinnumerable songsters. Mingling with these is the pleasant drip, dripof the falling water. 

A great lazy bee falls, as though no longer able to sustain its mightyframe, right into Miss Massereene's lap, and lies there humming. With alittle start she shakes it off, almost fearing to touch it with herdainty rose-white fingers. 

Thus rudely roused, she speaks:

"Are you asleep?" she asks, not turning her head in her companion'sdirection. 

"No, " coldly; "are you?"

"Yes, almost, and dreaming. "

"Dreams are the children of an idle brain, " quotes he, somewhatmaliciously. 

"Yes?" sweetly. "And so you really have read your Shakespeare? And canactually apply it every now and then with effect, to the utterconfusion of your friends? But I think you might have spared _me_. Teddy!" bending forward and casting upon him a bewitching, tormenting, adorable glance from under her dark lashes, "if you bite your moustacheany harder it will come off, and then what will become of me?"

With a laugh Luttrell flings away the fern he has been reducing toruin, and rising, throws himself upon the grass at her feet. 

"Why don't I hate you?" he says, vehemently. "Why cannot I feel evendecently angry with you? You torment and charm in the same breath. Attimes I say to myself, 'She is cold, heartless, unfeeling, ' and then aword, a look--Molly, " seizing her cool, slim little hand as it liespassive in her lap, "tell me, do you think you will ever--I do not meanto-morrow, or in a week, or a month, but in all the long years to come, do you think you will ever love me?" As he finishes speaking, hepresses his lips with passionate tenderness to her hand. 

"Now, who gave you leave to do that?" asks Molly, _à propos_ ofthe kissing. 

"Never mind: answer me. "

"But I do mind very much indeed. I mind dreadfully. "

"Well, then, I apologize, and I am very sorry, and I won't do it again:is that enough?"

"No, the fact still remains, " gazing at her hand with a little pout, asthough the offending kiss were distinctly visible; "and I don't wantit. "

"But what can be done?"

"I think--you had better--take it back again, " says she, the pretendedpout dissolving into an irresistible smile, as she slips her fingerswith a sudden unexpected movement into his; after which she breaks intoa merry laugh. "

"And now tell me, " he persists, holding them close prisoners, andbestowing a loving caress upon each separately. 

"Whether I love you? How can I, when I don't know myself? Perhaps atthe end I may be sure. When I lie a-dying you must come to me, and bendover me, and say, 'Molly Bawn, do you love me?' And I shall whisperback with my last breath, 'yes' or 'no, ' as the case may be. "

"Don't talk of dying, " he says, with a shudder, tightening his clasp. 

"Why not? as we must die. "

"But not now, not while we are young and happy. Afterward, when old agecreeps on us and we look on love as weariness, it will not matter. "

"To me, that is the horror of it, " with a quick distasteful shiver, leaning forward in her earnestness, "to feel that sooner or later therewill be no hope; that we _must_ go, whether with or without ourown will, --and it is never with it, is it?"

"Never, I suppose. "

"It does not frighten me so much to think that in a month, or perhapsnext year, or at any moment, I may die, --there is a blessed uncertaintyabout that, --but to know that, no matter how long I linger, the timewill surely come when no prayers, no entreaties, will avail. They sayof one who has cheated death for seventy years, that he has had a goodlong life: taking that, then, as an average, I have just fifty-oneyears to live, only half that to enjoy. Next year it will be fifty, then forty-nine, and so on until it comes down to one. What shall I dothen?"

"My own darling, how fanciful you are! your hands have grown cold asice. Probably when you are seventy you will consider yourself a stillfascinating person of middle age, and look upon these thoughts ofto-day as the sickly fancies of an infant. Do not let us talk about itany more. Your face is white. "

"Yes, " says Molly, recovering herself with a sigh, "it is the one thingthat horrifies me. John is religious, so is Letty, while I--oh, that Icould find pleasure in it! You see, " speaking after a slight pause, with a smile, "I am at heart a rebel, and hate to obey. Mind you nevergive me an order! How good it would be to be young, and gay, and fullof easy laughter, always, --to have lovers at command, to have some oneat my feet forever!"

"'Some one, '" sadly. "Would any one do? Oh, Molly, can you not besatisfied with me?"

"How can I be sure? At present--yes, " running her fingers lightly downthe earnest, handsome face upraised to hers, apparently quite forgetfulof her late emotion. 

"Well, at all events, " says the young man, with the air of one who isdetermined to make the best of a bad bargain, "there is no man you likebetter than me. "

"At present, --no, " says the incorrigible Molly. 

"You are the greatest flirt I ever met in my life, " exclaims he, withsudden anger. 

"Who? I?"

"Yes, --you, " vehemently. 

A pause. They are much farther apart by this time, and are lookinganywhere but at each other. Molly has her lap full of daisies, and isstringing them into a chain in rather an absent fashion; whileLuttrell, who is too angry to pretend indifference, is sitting withgloom on his brow and a straw in his mouth, which latter he is bitingvindictively. 

"I don't believe I quite understand you, " says Molly at length. 

"Do you not? I cannot remember saying anything very difficult ofcomprehension. "

"I must be growing stupid, then. You have accused me of flirting; andhow am I to understand that, I who never flirted? How should I? I wouldnot know how. "

"You must allow me to differ with you; or, at all events, let me sayyour imitation of it is highly successful. "

"But, " with anxious hesitation, "what is flirting?"

"Pshaw!" wrathfully, "have you been waiting for me to tell you? It istrying to make a fool of a fellow, neither more nor less. You arepretending to love me, when you know in your heart you don't care_that_ for me. " The "that" is both forcible and expressive, andhas reference to an indignant sound made by his thumb and his secondfinger. 

"I was not aware that I ever 'pretended to love' you, " replies Molly, in a tone that makes him wince. 

"Well, let us say no more about it, " cries he, springing to his feet, as though unable longer to endure his enforced quietude. "If you don'tcare for me, you don't, you know, and that is all about it. I dare sayI shall get over it; and if not, why, I shall not be the only man inthe world made miserable for a woman's amusement. "

Molly has also risen, and, with her long daisy chain hanging from bothher hands, is looking a perfect picture of injured innocence; althoughin truth she is honestly sorry for her cruel speech. 

"I don't believe you know how unkind you are, " she says, with asuspicion of tears in her voice, whether feigned or real he hardlydares conjecture. Feeling herself in the wrong, she seeks meanly tofree herself from the false position by placing him there in her stead. 

"Do not let us speak about unkindness, or anything else, " says theyoung man, impatiently. "Of what use is it? It is the same thingalways: I am obnoxious to you; we cannot put together two sentenceswithout coming to open war. "

"But whose fault was it this time? Think of what you accuse me! I didnot believe you could be so rude to me!" with reproachful emphasis. 

Here she directs a slow lingering glance at him from her violet eyes. There are visible signs of relenting about her companion. He colors, and persistently refuses, after the first involuntary glance, to allowhis gaze to meet hers again; which is, of all others, the surestsymptom of a coming rout. There are some eyes that can do almostanything with a man. Molly's eyes are of this order. They are herstrongest point; and were they her sole charm, were she deaf and dumb, I believe it would be possible to her, by the power of their expressivebeauty alone, to draw most hearts into her keeping. 

"Did you mean what you said just now, that you had no love for me?" heasks, with a last vain effort to be stern and unforgiving. "Am I tobelieve that I am no more to you than any other man?"

"Believe nothing, " murmurs she, coming nearer to lay a timid hand uponhis arm, and raising her face to his, "except this, that I am your ownMolly. "

"Are you?" cries he, in a subdued tone, straining her to his heart, andspeaking with an emotional indrawing of the breath that betrays morethan his words how deeply he is feeling, "my very own? Nay, more thanthat, Molly, you are my all, my world, my life: if ever you forget me, or give me up for another, you will kill me: remember that. "

"I will remember it. I will never do it, " replies she, soothingly, thetouch of motherhood that is in all good women coming to the front asshe sees his agitation. "Why should I, when you are such a dear oldboy? Now come and sit down again, and be reasonable. See, I will tieyou up with my flowery chain as punishment for your behavior, and"--with a demure smile--"the kiss you stole in the _melée_without my permission. "

"This is the chain by which I hold you, " he says, rather sadly, surveying his wrists, round which the daisies cling. "The links thatbind _me_ to _you_ are made of sterner stuff. Sweetheart, "turning his handsome, singularly youthful face to hers, and speakingwith an entreaty that savors strongly of despair, "do not let yourbeauty be my curse!"

"Why, who is fanciful now?" says Molly, making a little grimace at him. "And truly, to hear you speak, one must believe love is blind. Is itVenus, " saucily, "or Helen of Troy, I most closely resemble? or am I'something more exquisite still'? It puzzles me why you should think sovery highly of my personal charms. Ted, " leaning forward to look intoher lover's eyes, "tell me this. Have you been much away? Abroad, Imean, on the Continent and that?"

"Well, yes, pretty much so. "

"Have you been to Paris?"

"Oh, yes, several times. "

"Brussels?"

"Yes. "

"Vienna?"

"No. I wait to go there with you. "

"Rome?"

"Yes, twice. The governor was fond of sending us abroad between theages of seventeen and twenty-five, --to enlarge our minds, he said; toget rid of us, he meant. "

"Are there many of you?"

"An awful lot. I would be ashamed to say how many. Ours was indeed a'numerous father. '"

"He isn't dead?" asks Molly, in a low tone befitting the occasion incase he should be. 

"Oh no: he is alive and kicking, " replies Mr. Luttrell, with more forcethan elegance. "And I hope he will keep on so for years to come. He isabout the best friend I have, or am likely to have. "

"I hope he won't keep up the kicking part of it, " says Molly, with adelicious laugh that ripples through the air and shows her utterenjoyment of her own wit. Not to laugh when Molly laughs, isimpossible; so Luttrell joins her, and they both make merry over hisvulgarity. In all the world, what is there sweeter than the happy, penetrating, satisfying laughter of unhurt youth?

"Lucky you, to have seen so much already, " says Molly, presently, withan envious sigh; "and yet, " with a view to self-support, "what good hasit done you? Not one atom. After all your traveling you can do nothinggreater than fall absurdly in love with a village maiden. Will yourfather call that enlarging your mind?"

"I hope so, " concealing his misgivings on the point. "But why put it sobadly? Instead of village maiden, say the loveliest girl I ever met. "

"What!" cries Molly, the most naïve delight and satisfaction animatingher tone; "after going through France, Germany, Italy, and India, youcan honestly say I am the loveliest woman you ever met?"

"You put it too mildly, " says Luttrell, raising himself on his elbow togaze with admiration at the charming face above him, "I can say more. You are ten thousand times the loveliest woman I ever met. "

Molly smiles, nay, more, she fairly dimples. Try as she will and does, she cannot conceal the pleasure it gives her to hear her praises sung. 

"Why, then I am a 'belle, ' a 'toast, '" she says, endeavoringunsuccessfully to see her image in the little basin of water that hasgathered at the foot of the rocks; "while you, " turning to run fivewhite fingers over his hair caressingly, and then all down his face, "you are the most delightful person I ever met. It is so easy tobelieve what you tell one, and so pleasant. I have half a mind to--kissyou!"

"Don't stop there: have a whole mind, " says Luttrell, eagerly. "Kiss meat once, before the fancy evaporates. "

"No, " holding him back with one lazy finger (he is easy to berepulsed), "on second thought I will reserve my caress. Some othertime, when you are good, --perhaps. By the bye, Ted, did you really meanyou would take me to Vienna?"

"Yes, if you would care to go there. "

"Care? that is not the question. It will cost a great deal of money toget there, won't it? Shall we be able to afford it?"

"No doubt the governor will stand to me, and give a check for theoccasion, " says Luttrell, warming to the subject. "Anyhow, you shallgo, if you wish it. "

"Wait until your father hears you have wedded a pauper, and then youwill see what a check you will get, " says Miss Massereene, with acontemptible attempt at a joke. 

"A pun!" says Luttrell, springing to his feet with a groan; "that meansa pinch. So prepare. "

"I forbid you, " cries she, inwardly quaking, and, rising hurriedly, stands well away from him, with her petticoats caught together in onehand ready for flight. "I won't allow you. Don't attempt to touch me. "

"It is the law of the land, " declares he, advancing on her, while sheas steadily retreats. 

"Dear Teddy, good Teddy, " cries she, "spare me this time, and I willnever do it again--no, not though it should tremble forever on the tipof my tongue. As you are strong, be merciful. Do forgive me this once. "

"Impossible. "

"Then I defy you, " retorts Miss Massereene, who, having manoeuvred untilshe has placed a good distance between herself and the foe, now turns, and flies through the trees, making very successful running for the openbeyond. Not until they are within full view of the house does he manageto come up with her. And then the presence of John sunning himself onthe hall-door step, surrounded by his family, effectually prevents herever obtaining that richly-deserved punishment. 

CHAPTER IX. 

"After long years. "

It is raining, not only raining, but pouring. All the gracious sunshineof yesterday is obliterated, forgotten, while in its place the sullenraindrops dash themselves with suppressed fury against thewindow-panes. Huge drops they are, swollen with the hidden rage of manydays, that fall, and burst heavily, and make the casements tremble. 

Outside, the flowers droop and hang their pretty heads in sad wonder atthis undeserved Nemesis that has overtaken them. Along the sides of thegraveled paths small rivulets run frightened. There is no song of birdsin all the air. Only the young short grass uprears itself, and, drinking in with eager greediness the welcome but angry shower, refusesto bend its neck beneath the yoke. 

"How I hate a wet day!" says Luttrell, moodily, for the twentieth time, staring blankly out of the deserted school-room window, where he andMolly have been yawning, moping for the last half-hour. 

"Do you? I love it, " replies she, out of a sheer spirit ofcontradiction; as, if there is one thing she utterly abhors it is theidea of rain. 

"If I said I loved it, _you_ would say the reverse, " says he, laughing, not feeling equal to the excitement of a quarrel. 

"Without doubt, " replies she, laughing too: so that a very successfulopening is rashly neglected. "Surely it cannot keep on like this allday, " she says, presently, in a dismal tone, betraying by her mannerthe falsity of her former admiration: "we shall have a dry winter if itcontinues much longer. Has any wise man yet discovered how much rainthe clouds are capable of containing at one time? It would be such ablessing if they had: then we might know the worst, and make up ourminds to it. "

"Drop a line to the clerk of the weather office; he might make it hisbusiness to find out if you asked him. "

"Is that a joke?" with languid disgust. "And you professed yourselfindignant with me yesterday when I perpetrated a really superior one!You ought to be ashamed of yourself. I would not condescend to anythingso feeble. "

"That reminds me I have never yet paid you off for that misdemeanor. Now, when time is hanging so heavily on my hands, is a most favorableopportunity to pay the debt. I embrace it. And you too. So 'prepare forcavalry. '"

"A fig for all the hussars in Europe, " cries Molly, with indomitablecourage. 

 * * * * *

Meantime, Letitia and John in the morning room--that in a grander housewould have been designated a boudoir--are holding a hot discussion. 

Lovat, the eldest son, being the handsomest and by far the mostscampish of the children, is of course his mother's idol. His master, however, having written to say that up to this, in spite of all thetrouble that has been taken with him, he has evinced a far greaterdisposition for cricket and punching his companions' heads than for hisGreek and Latin, Lovat's father had given it as his opinion that Lovatdeserves a right good flogging; while Lovat's mother maintains that allnoble, high-spirited boys are "just like that, " and asks Mr. Massereene, with the air of a Q. C. , whether he never felt a distastefor the dead languages. 

Mr. Massereene replying that he never did, that he was always a modelboy, and never anywhere but at the head of his class, his wifeinstantly declares she doesn't believe a word of it, and most unfairlyrakes up a dead-and-gone story, in which Mr. Massereene figures as theprincipal feature, and is discovered during school hours on the top ofa neighbor's apple-tree, with a long-suffering but irate usher at thefoot of it, armed with his indignation and a birch rod. 

"And for three mortal hours he stood there, while I sat up aloftgrinning at him, " says Mr. Massereene, with (considering his years) adisgraceful appreciation of his past immoral conduct; "and when at lastthe gardener was induced to mount the tree and drag me ignominiously tothe ground, I got such a flogging as made a chair for some time assumethe character of a rack. "

"And you deserved it, too, " says Letitia, with unwonted severity. 

"I did, indeed, my dear, " John confesses, heartily, "richly. I am gladto see that at last you begin to take a sensible view of the subject. If I deserved a flogging because I once shirked my tasks, what does notLovat deserve for a long course of such conduct?"

"He is not accused of stealing apples, at all events; and, besides, Lovat is quite different, " says Letitia, vaguely. Whereupon John tellsher her heart is running away with her head, and that her partiality isso apparent that he must cease from further argument, and goes on withhis reading. 

Presently, however, he rises, and, crossing the room, stands over her, watching her white shapely fingers as they deftly fill up the holes inthe little socks that lie in the basket beside her. She is so far _enrapport_ with him as to know that his manner betokens a desire forconfidence. 

"Have you anything to say to me, dear?" she asks, looking up andsuspending her employment for the time being. 

"Letitia, " begins he, thoughtfully, not to say solemnly, "it is quitetwo months since Luttrell first put in an appearance in this house. Now, I don't wish to seem inhospitable, --far be it from me: a thirstfor knowledge alone induces me to put the question, --but, _do_ youthink he means to reside here permanently?"

"It is certainly very strange, " says Letitia, unmoved by his eloquenceto even the faintest glimmer of a smile, so deep is her interest in thesubject, --"the very oddest thing. If, now, it were a place where ayoung man could find any amusement, I would say nothing; but here! Doyou know, John, "--mysteriously, --"I have my suspicions. "

"No!" exclaims Mr. Massereene, betraying the wildest curiosity in voiceand gesture, --so wild as to hint at the possibility of its not beinggenuine. "You don't say so!"

"It has once or twice occurred to me----"

"Yes?"

"I have certainly thought----"

"Letitia, "--with authority, --"don't think, or suspect, or let it occurto you any more: _say_ it. "

"Well, then, I think he is in love with Molly. "

John breaks into a heavy laugh. 

"What it is to be a woman of penetration, " says he. "So you have foundthat out. Now, that is where we men fail. But are you certain? Why doyou think it?"

"I am almost convinced of it, " Letitia says, with much solemnity. "Lastnight I happened to be looking out of one of the windows that overhangthe garden, and there in the moonlight (it was quite ten o'clock) I sawMolly give him a red rose; and he took it, and gazed at it as though hewere going to devour it; and then he kissed it; and after that hekissed Molly's hand! Now, I don't think, John, unless a young manwas--you know--eh?"

"I altogether agree with you. Unless a young man _was_, you know, why, he wouldn't--that's all. I am glad, however, he had the grace tostop at the hand, --that it was not Molly's lips he chose instead. "

"My _dear_ John!"

"My darling Letty! have I said anything so very _outre_? Were younever kissed by a young man?"

"Only by you, " returns Mrs. Massereene, laughing apologetically, andblushing a rare delicate pink that would not have disgraced her ateighteen. 

"Ah, you may well be excused, considering how you were tempted. It isnot every day one meets---- By the bye, Letty, did you cease youreavesdropping at that point?"

"Yes; I did not like to remain longer. "

"Then depend upon it, my dear, you did not see the last act in thatdrama. "

"You surely do not think Molly----"

"I seldom trouble to think. I only know Luttrell is an uncommonlygood-looking fellow, and that the moon is a white witch. "

"He _is_ good-looking, " says Letitia, rising and growing troubled;"he is more than that, --he is charming. Oh, John! if our Molly were tofall in love with him, and grow unhappy about it, what would we do? Idon't believe he has anything beyond his pay. "

"He has something more than that, I know, but not much. The Luttrellshave a good deal of spare cash throwing about among them. "

"But what of that? And a poor man would be wretched for Molly. Rememberwhat an expensive regiment he is in. Why, I suppose as it is he canhardly keep himself. And how would it be with a wife and a largefamily?"

"Oh, Letitia! let us have the marriage ceremony first. Why on earthwill you saddle the miserable man with a large family so soon? Andwouldn't a small one do? Of what use to pile up the agony to such aheight?"

"I think of no one but Molly. There is nothing so terrible as a longengagement, and that is what it will come to. Do you remember SarahAnnesley? She grew thinner and thinner day by day, and her complexionbecame positively yellow when Perceval went away. And her mother saidit was suspense preying upon her. "

"So they _said_, my dear; but we all _know_ it wasindigestion. "

"John, "--austerely, --"what is the exact amount of Mr. Luttrell'sincome?"

"About six hundred a year, I think. "

"As much as that?" Slightly relieved. "And will his father allow himanything more?"

"Unless you insist upon my writing to Sir William, I could not tell youthat. "

"Six hundred a year is far too little. "

"It is almost as much as we have. "

"But you are not in the army, and you are not a fashionable young man. "

"If you say that again I shall sue for a divorce. But seriously, Letty, perhaps you are exciting yourself about nothing. Who knows but they areindifferent to each other?"

"I fear they are not. And I will not have poor Molly made unhappy. "

"Why not 'poor Luttrell'? It is far more likely as I see it. "

"I don't want any one to be unhappy. And something must be done. "

"Exactly. " After a pause, with ill-concealed cowardice: "Will you doit?"

"Do what?"

"That awful 'something' that is to be done. "

"Certainly not. It is your duty to--to--find out everything, and askthem both what they mean. "

"Then I won't, " declares John, throwing out his arms decisively. "Iwould not be bribed to do it. What! ask a man his intentions! Icouldn't bring myself to do such a thing. How could I look him in theface again? They must fight the best battle they can for themselves, like every one else. I won't interfere. "

"Very good. I shall speak to Molly. And I really think we ought to goand look them up. I have seen neither of them since breakfast time. "

"The rain has ceased. Let us go out by the balcony, " says Mr. Massereene, stepping through the open window. "I heard them in theschool-room as I passed. "

Now, this balcony, as I have told you, runs along all one side of thehouse, and on it the drawing-room, school-room, and one of the parlorwindows open. Thick curtains hang from them and conceal in part theouter world; so that when John and Letty stand before the school-roomwindow to look in they do so without being themselves seen. And this, Iregret to say, is what they see:

In the centre of the room a square table, and flying round and roundit, with the tail of her white gown twisted over her right arm, is MissMassereene, with Mr. Luttrell in full chase after her. 

"Well, upon my word!" says Mr. Massereene, unable through bewildermentto think of any remark more brilliant. 

Round and round goes Molly, round and round follows her pursuer; untilLuttrell, finding his prey to be quite as fleet if not fleeter thanhimself, resorts to a mean expedient, and, catching hold of one side ofthe table, pushes it, and Molly behind it, slowly but surely into theopposite corner. 

There is no hope. Steadily, certainly, she approaches her doom, andwith flushed cheeks and eyes gleaming with laughter, makes a vainprotest. 

"Now I have you, " says Luttrell, drawing an elaborate penknife from hispocket, in which all the tools that usually go to adorn a carpenter'sshop fight for room. "Prepare for death, or--I give you your choice: Ishall either cut your jugular vein or kiss you. Don't hurry. Say whichyou prefer. It is a matter of indifference to me. "

"Cut every vein in my body first, " cries Molly, breathless but defiant. 

["Letitia, " whispers John, "I feel I am going to laugh. What shall Ido?"

"Don't, " says Letitia, with stern promptitude. "That is what you willdo. It is no laughing matter. I hope you are not going to make a jestof it, John. "

"But, my dear, supposing I can't help it?" suggests he, mildly. "Ourrisible faculties are not always under our control. "

"On an occasion such as this they should be. "

"Letitia, " says Mr. Massereene, regarding her with severity, "you aregoing to laugh yourself; don't deny it. "

"No, --no, indeed, " protests Letitia, foolishly, considering herhandsome face is one broad smile, and that her plump shoulders arevisibly shaking. ]

"It is mean! it is shameful!" says Molly, from within, seeing no chanceof escape. Whichever way she rushes can be only into his arms. 

"All that you can say shan't prevent me, " decides Luttrell, movingtoward her with fell determination in his eye. 

"Perhaps a little that I can say may have the desired effect, " breaksin Mr. Massereene, advancing into the middle of the room, with Letitia, looking rather nervous, behind him. 

Tableau. 

There is a sudden, rather undignified, cessation of hostilities on thepart of Mr. Luttrell, who beats a hasty retreat to the wall, where hestands as though glad of the support. He bears a sneaky rather than adistinguished appearance, and altogether has the grace to betray aconsiderable amount of shame. 

Molly, dropping her gown, turns a rich crimson, but is, I need hardlysay, by far the least upset of the two delinquents. She remains whereshe is, hedged in by the table, and is conscious of feeling a wilddesire to laugh. 

Determined to break the silence, which is proving oppressive, she says, demurely:

"How fortunate, John, that you happened to be on the spot! Mr. Luttrellwas behaving _so_ badly!"

"I don't need to be told that. "

"But how did you come here?" asks Molly, making a brave butunsuccessful effort to turn the tables upon the enemy. "And Letitia, too! I do hate people who turn up when they are least expected. Whatwere you doing on the balcony?"

"Watching you--and--your friend, " says John, very gravely for him. Headdresses himself entirely to Molly, her "friend" being in the laststage of confusion and utterly incapable of speech. At this, however, he can support the situation no longer, and, coming forward, sayseagerly:

"John, let me explain. The fact is, I asked Miss Massereene to marryme, a little time ago, and she has promised to do so--if you--don'tobject. " After this bit of eloquence he draws himself up, with a littleshake, as though he had rid himself of something disagreeable, andbecomes once more his usual self. 

Letitia puts on a "didn't I tell you?" sort of air, and John says:

"Is that so?" looking at Molly for confirmation. 

"Yes, if it is your wish, " cries she, forsaking her retreat, and comingforward to lay her hand upon her brother's arm entreatingly, and with agesture full of tenderness. "But if you do object, if it vexes you inthe very slightest degree, John, I----"

"But you will give your consent, Massereene, " interrupts her lover, hastily, as though dreading the remainder of the sentence, "won't you?"He too has come close up to John, and stands on one side, oppositeMolly. Almost, from the troubled expression of his face as he looks atthe girl, one might imagine him trying to combat her apparentlukewarmness more then her brother's objections. 

"Things seem to have progressed very favorably without my consent, "says John, glancing at the unlucky table, which has come in for a mostunfair share of the blame. "But before giving you my blessing Iacknowledge--now we are on the subject--I would like to know on whatsum you intend setting up housekeeping. " Here Letitia, who haspreserved a strict neutrality throughout, comes more to the front. "Itis inconvenient, and anything but romantic, I know, but people musteat, and those who indulge in _violent exercise_ are generallypossessed of healthy appetites. "

"I have over five hundred a year, " says Luttrell, coloring, and feelingas if he had said fifty and was going to be called presumptuous. Healso feels that John has by some sudden means become very many yearsolder than he really is. 

"That includes everything?"

"Everything. When my uncle--Maxwell Luttrell--hops the--that is, dropsoff--I mean dies, " says Luttrell whose slang is extensive and ratherconfusing, "I shall come in for five thousand pounds more. "

"How can you speak in such a cold-blooded way of your uncle's death?"says Molly, who is not so much impressed by the occasion as she shouldbe. 

"Why not? There is no love lost between us. If he could leave it awayfrom me he would; but that is out of his power. "

"That makes it seven hundred, " says Letitia, softly, _à propos_ ofthe income. 

"Nearer eight, " says he, brightening at her tone. 

"Molly, you wish to marry Tedcastle?" John asks his sister, gazing ather earnestly. 

"Ye--es; but I'm not in a hurry, you know, " replies she, with a littlenod. 

Massereene regards her curiously for a moment or two; then he says:

"She is young, Luttrell; she has seen little of the world. You mustgive her time. I know no man I would prefer to you as a brother;but--give her time. Be satisfied with the engagement; do not let usspeak of marriage just yet. "

"Not unless she wishes it, " says the young man bravely, and perhaps alittle proudly. 

"In a year, " says John, still with his eyes on his beautiful sister, and speaking with marked hesitation, as though waiting for her to makesome sign by which he shall know how to best forward her secret wishes;"then we may begin to talk about it. "

"Yes, then we may talk about it, " echoes Molly, cheerfully. 

"But a year!--it is a lifetime, " says Luttrell, with some excitement, turning his eyes, full of a mute desire for help, upon Letitia. Andwhen did Letitia ever fail any one?

"I certainly think it is too long, " she says, truthfully and kindly. 

"No, " cries Molly, pettishly, "it shall be as John wishes. Why, it isnothing! Think of all the long years to come afterward, when we shallnot be able to get rid of each other, no matter how earnestly we maydesire it; and then see how small in comparison is this one year. "

Luttrell, who has grown a little pale, goes over to her and takes herhand in both his. His face is grave, fuller of purpose than they haveever seen it. To him the scene is a betrothal, almost a marriage. 

"You will be true to me?" he says, with suppressed emotion. "Swear thatyou will, before your brother. "

"Of course I will, " with a quick, nervous laugh. "Why should I beotherwise? You frighten me with your solemn ways. Am I more to you thanI was yesterday? Why, how should I be untrue to you, even if I wishedit? I shall see no one from the day you leave until you come again. "

At this moment the noise of the door-handle being turned makes him dropher hand, and they all fall simultaneously into what they hope is aneasy attitude. And then Sarah appears upon the threshold with a letterand a small packet between her first finger and thumb. She is a verygenteel girl, is Sarah, and would scorn to take a firm grasp ofanything. 

"This 'ere is for you, sir, " she says, delivering the packet toLuttrell, who consigns it hastily to his coat-pocket; "and this foryou, Miss Molly, " giving the letter. "The postman says, sir, as 'owthey only come by the afternoon, but I am of the rooted opinion that heforgot 'm this morning. "

Thus Sarah, who is loquacious though trustworthy, and bears an undyinggrudge to the postman, in that he has expressed himself less enamoredof her waning charms than of those of the more buxom Jane, who queensit over the stewpans and the cold joints. 

"Most improper of the postman, " replies Mr. Massereene, soothingly. 

Meantime, Molly is standing staring curiously at her missive. 

"I don't know the writing, " she says in a vague tone. "I do hope itisn't a bill. "

"A bill, with that monogram!" exclaims Luttrell. "Not likely. I wouldswear to a dunning epistle at twenty yards' distance. "

"Who can it be from?" wonders Molly, still dallying with one fingerinserted beneath the flap of the envelope. 

"Perhaps, if you look within you may find out, " suggests John, meekly;and thus encouraged she opens the letter and reads. 

At first her face betrays mere indifference, then surprise, then asudden awakening to intense interest, and lastly unmitigatedastonishment. 

"It is the most extraordinary thing, " she says, at last, looking up, and addressing them in an awestruck whisper, "the most unexpected. After all these years, --I can scarcely believe it to be true. "

"But what is it, darling?" asks Letty, actually tingling withexcitement. 

"An invitation to Herst Royal!"

"I don't believe you, " cries Luttrell, who means no rudeness at all, but is merely declaring in a modern fashion how delighted beyondmeasure he is. 

"Look: is not that Marcia's writing? I suppose she wrote it, though itis dictated by grandpapa. "

All four heads were instantly bent over the clear, bold calligraphy toread the cold but courteous invitation it contains. 

"Dear Eleanor" is given to understand that her grandfather will bepleased to make her acquaintance, if she will be pleased to transferherself and her maid to Herst Royal on the twenty-seventh of thepresent month. There are a few hints about suitable trains, a requestthat a speedy reply in the affirmative will be sent, and then "dearEleanor" is desired to look upon Mr. Amherst as her "affectionategrandfather. " Not one word about all the neglect that has been showeredupon her for nineteen years. 

"Well?" says Luttrell, who is naturally the first to recover himself. 

"Had you anything to do with this?" asks John, turning almost fiercelyto him. 

"Nothing, on my honor. "

"He must be near death, " says Letitia. Molly is silent, her eyes stillfixed upon the letter. "I think, John--she ought to go. "

"Of course she shall go, " returns John, a kind of savage jealousypricking him. "I can't provide for her after my death. That old man maybe softened by her face or terrified by the near approach ofdissolution into doing her justice. He has neither watched her, nortended her, nor loved her; but now that she has come to perfection heclaims her. "

"John, " cries Molly, with sudden passion, flinging herself into hisarms, "I will not go. No, not one step. What is he to me, that sternold tyrant, who has refused for nineteen years to acknowledge me? Whileyou, my dear, my darling, you are my all. "

"Nonsense, child!" speaking roughly, although consoled and strengthenedby her caress and loving words. "It is what I have been wishing for allthese years. Of course you must go. It is only right you should berecognized by your relations, even though it is so late in the day. Perhaps he will leave you a legacy; and"--smiling--"I think I mayconsole myself with the reflection that old Amherst will scarcely beable to cut me out. "

"You may, without flattering yourself, " says Luttrell. 

"Letitia, do you too want to get rid of me?" asks Molly, still halfcrying. 

"You are a hypocrite, " says Letitia; "you know you are dying to go. Ishould, were I in your place. Instead of lamenting, you ought to bethanking your stars for this lucky chance that has befallen you; andyou should be doubly grateful to us for letting you go, as we shallmiss you horribly. "

"I shan't stay any time, " says Molly, reviving. "I shall be back beforeyou realize the fact that I have gone. I know in polite society no oneis expected to outstay a month at the very longest. "

"You cover me with confusion, " says Luttrell, laughing. "Consider whatunmentionable form I have displayed. How long have I outstayed my time?It is uncommonly good of you, Mrs. Massereene, not to have given me my_congé_ long ago; but my only excuse is that I have been soutterly happy. Perhaps you will forgive me when you learn that I musttear myself away on Thursday. "

"Oh! must you?" says Letitia, honestly sorry. Now that the engagementis _un fait accompli_, and the bridegroom-elect has declaredhimself not altogether so insolvent as she had feared, she dropsprecautionary measures and gives way to the affection with which shehas begun to regard him. "You are going to Herst also. Why cannot youstay here to accompany Molly? Her going is barely three weeks distant. "

"If I could I would not require much pressing, you can readily believethat. But duty is imperative, and go I must. "

"You did not tell me you were going, " says Molly, looking aggrieved. "How long have you known it?"

"For a week. I could not bear to think about leaving, much less tospeak of it, so full of charms has Brooklyn proved itself, "--with asmile at Mrs. Massereene, --"but it is an indisputable fact for allthat. "

"Well, in spite of Lindley Murray I maintain that life is long, " saysMassereene, who has been silent for the past few minutes. "And I needhardly tell you, Luttrell, you are welcome here whenever you please tocome. "

"Thank you, old boy, " says Luttrell. 

"Come out, " whispers Molly, slipping her hand into her lover's (sheminds John and Letitia about as much as she minds the tables andchairs); "the rain has ceased; and see what a beautiful sun. I have anyamount of things to say to you, and a whole volume of questions to askabout my detested _grand-père_. So freshen your wits. But firstbefore we go"--mischievously, and with a little nod full of reproof--"Ireally think you ought to apologize to John for your scandalousbehavior of this morning. "

"Molly, I predict this glorious future for you, " says her brother:"that you will be returned to me from Herst Royal in disgrace. "

 * * * * *

When they have reached the summer-house in the garden, whither theyhave wended their way, with a view to shade (as the sun, having beendebarred from shining for so many hours, is now exerting itself to theutmost to make up for lost time), Luttrell draws from his pocket theidentical parcel delivered to him by Sarah, and, holding it out toMolly, says, somewhat shamefacedly:

"Here is something for you. "

"For me?" coloring with surprise and pleasant expectation. She is abeing so unmistakably delighted with anything she receives, be it smallor great, that it is an absolute joy to give to her. "What is it?"

"Open it and see. I have not seen it myself yet, but I hope it willplease you. "

Off comes the wrapper; a little leather case is disclosed, a mysteriousfastener undone, and there inside, in its velvet shelter, lies anexquisite diamond ring that glistens and flashes up into her enchantedeyes. 

"Oh, Teddy! it cannot be for me, " she says, with a little gasp thatspeaks volumes; "it is too beautiful. Oh, how good of you to think ofit! And how did you know that if there is one thing on earth which Ilove it is a ring? And _such_ a ring! You wicked boy, I do believeyou have spent a fortune on it. " Yet in reality she hardly guesses thefull amount of the generous sum that has been so willingly expended onthat glittering hoop. 

"I am glad you like it, " he says, radiant at her praise. "I think it ispretty. "

"'Pretty' is a poor word. It is far too handsome. I would scold you foryour extravagance, but I have lost the power just now. And do youknow, " raising her soft, flushed face to her lover, --"I never had aring before in my life, except a very old-fashioned one of my mother's, an ancient square, you know, with hair in the centre, and all around itbig pearls, that are anything but pearly now, as they have grown quiteblack. Thank you a thousand times. "

She slips her arm around his neck and presses her lips warmly, unbashfully to his cheek. Be it ever so cold, so wanting in the shynessthat belongs to conscious tenderness, it is still the very first caressshe has ever given him of her own accord. A little thrill runs throughhim, and a mad longing to catch her in his arms, as he feels the sweet, cool touch; yet he restrains himself. Some innate sense of honor, bornon the occasion, a shrinking lest she should deem him capable ofclaiming even so natural a return for his gift, compels him to foregohis desire. It is noticeable, too, that he does not even place the ringupon her engaged finger, as most men would have done. It is a baublemeant to gratify her: why make it a fetter, be it ever so light a one?

"I am amply repaid, " he says, gently. "Was there ever such luck as yourgetting that invitation this morning? I wonder what could have put itinto the old fellow's head to invite you? Are you glad you are going?"

"I am. I almost think it is mean of me to be so glad, but I can't helpit. Is my grandfather so very terrific?"

"He is all of that, " says Luttrell, "and a good deal more. If I were anAmerican I would have no scruples about calling him a 'darned oldcuss': as it is, I will smother my feelings, and let you discover hisfailings for yourself. "

"If he is as bad as you say, I wonder he gets any one to visit him. "

"He does, however. We all go, --generally the same lot every year;though I have been rather out of it for a time, on account of my shortstay in India. He has first-class shooting; and when he is not in theway, it is pretty jolly. He hates old people, and never allows achaperon inside his doors, --I mean elderly chaperons. The young onesdon't count: they, as a rule, are backward in the art of talking at oneand making things disagreeable all round. "

"But he is old himself. "

"That's just it. It is all jealousy. He finds every old person hemeets, no matter how unpleasant, a decided improvement on himself;whereas he can always hope the young ones may turn out hiscounterparts. "

"Really, if you say much more, I shall be afraid to go to Herst. "

"Oh, well"--temporizing--"perhaps I exaggerate slightly. He has awretched temper, and he takes snuff, you know, but I dare say there areworse. "

"I have heard of damning praise, " says Molly, laughing. "You are anadept at it. "

"Am I? I didn't know. Well, do you know, in spite of all my uncivilremarks, there is a certain charm about Herst that other country-houseslack? We all understand our host's little weaknesses, in the firstplace, and are, therefore, never caught sleeping. We feel as if we wereat school again, united by a common cause, with all the excitement of aconspiracy on foot that has a master for its victim; though, to confessthe truth, the master in our case has generally the best of it, as hehas a perfect talent for hitting on one's sore point. Then, too, weknow to a nicety when the dear old man is in a particularly viciousmood, which is usually at dinner-time, and we keep looking at eachother through every course, wondering on whose devoted head the shellof his wrath will first burst; and when that is over we wonder againwhose turn it will be next. "

"It must keep you very lively. "

"It does; and, what is better, it prevents formality, and puts an endto the earlier stages of etiquette. We feel a sort of relationship, aclanship among us; and, indeed, for the most part, we are related, asMr. Amherst prefers entertaining his family to any others, --it is somuch easier to be unpleasant to them than to strangers. I am connectedwith him very distantly through my mother; so is Cecil Stafford; so isPotts in some undefined way. "

"Now, don't tell me you are my cousin, " says Molly, "because I wouldn'tlike it. "

"I am not proud; if you will let me be your husband, I won't askanything more. Oh, Molly, how I wish this year was at an end!"

"Do you? I don't. I am absolutely dying to go to Herst. " Then, turningeyes that are rather wistful upon him, she says, earnestly, "Dothey--the women, I mean--wear very lovely clothes? To be like them mustI--be very well dressed?"

"You always are very well dressed, are you not?" asks her lover, inreturn, casting a loving, satisfied glance over the fresh, inexpensiveHolland gown she wears, with a charming but strictly masculinedisregard of the fact that muslin is not silk, nor cotton cashmere. 

"Am I? You stupid boy!" says Molly; but she laughs in a little pleasedway and pats his hand. Next to being praised herself, the sweetestthing to a woman is to have her dress praised. "Not I. Well, no matter;they may crush me if they please with their designs by Worth, but Idefy them to have a prettier ring than mine, " smiling at her new toy asit still lies in the middle of her hand. "Is Herst very large, Teddy?How shall I remember my own room? It will be so awkward to be foreverrunning into somebody else's, won't it?"

"Your maid will manage all that for you. "

"My maid?" coloring slowly, but still with her eyes on his. "And--supposing I have no maid?"

"Well, then, " says Tedcastle, who has been bred in the belief that awoman without her maid is as lost as a babe without its mother, "why, then, I suppose, you would borrow one from your nearest neighbor. CecilStafford would lend you hers. I know my sisters were only allowed onemaid between each two; and when they spent the autumn in differenthouses they used to toss up which should have her. "

"What does a maid do for one, I wonder?" muses independent Molly. 

"I should fancy you could better answer that than I. "

"No, --because I never had one. "

"Well, neither had I, " says Luttrell; at which they both laugh. 

"I am afraid, " says Molly, in a rather dispirited tone, "I shall feelrather strange at Herst. I wish you could manage to be there the veryday I arrive, --could you, Teddy? I would not be so lonely if I knew forcertain you would be on the spot to welcome me. It is horrible goingthere for--that is--to be inspected. "

"I will surely be there a day or two after, but I doubt if I could bethere on the twenty-seventh. You may trust me to do my best. "

"I suppose it is--a very grand place, " questions Molly, growing moreand more depressed, "with dinner-parties every day, and butlers, andfootmen, and all the rest of it? And I shall be there, a stranger, withno one to care whether I enjoy myself or not. "

"You forget me, " says Luttrell, quietly. 

"True, " returns she, brightening; "and whenever you see me sitting bymyself, Teddy, you are to come over to me, no matter how engaged youmay be, and sit down beside me. If I have any one else with me, ofcourse you need not mind it. "

"I see. " Rather dryly. "Two is company, three is trumpery. "

"Have I vexed you? How foolish you are! Why, if you are jealous inimagination, how will it be in reality? There will be many men atHerst; and perhaps--who knows----"

"What?"

"I may fall in love with some of them. "

"Very likely. " With studied coolness. 

"Philip Shadwell, for instance?"

"It may be. "

"Or your Mr. Potts?"

"There is no accounting for tastes. "

"Or any one else that may happen to please me?"

"I see nothing to prevent it. "

"And what then?"

"Why, then you will forget me, and like him, --until you like some oneelse better. "

"Now, if I were a dignified young lady, " says Molly, "I should feelinsulted; but, being only Molly Bawn, I don't. I forgive you; and Iwon't fall in love with any one; so you may take that thunder-cloud offyour brow as soon as it may please your royal highness. "

"What do you gain by making me unhappy?" asks he, impetuously seizingthe hand she has extended to him with all the air of an offended butgracious queen. 

"Everything. " Laughing. "I delight in teasing you, you look sodeliciously miserable all through; it is never time thrown away uponyou. Now, if you could only manage to laugh at my sallies or tease meback again, I dare say I should give in in a week and let you rest inpeace ever after. Why don't you?"

"Perhaps because I can't. All people are not gifted with your fertileimagination. Or because it would give _me_ no pleasure to see_you_ 'deliciously miserable. '"

"Oh, you _wouldn't_ see that, " says Molly, airily. "All you couldsay would not suffice to bring even the faintest touch of misery intomy face. Angry I might be, but 'miserable, ' never!"

"Be assured, Molly, I shall never put your words to the test. Yourhappiness means mine. "

"See how the diamonds flash!" says Molly, presently, recurring to hertreasure. "Is this the engagement-finger? But I will not let it staythere, lest it might betray me. "

"But every one knows it now. "

"Are John and Letty every one? At Herst they are still in blissfulignorance. Let them remain so. I insist on our engagement being keptsecret. "

"But why?"

"Because if it was known it would spoil all my fun. I have noticed thatmen avoid a _fiancée_ as they would a--a rattlesnake. "

"I cannot see why being engaged should spoil your fun. "

"But it would for all that. Come now, Ted, be candid: how often wereyou in love before you met me?"

"Never. " With the vehemence of a thousand oaths. 

"Well, then, to put it differently, how many girls did you like?"

"Like?" Reluctantly. "Oh, as for that, I suppose I did fancy I liked afew girls. "

"Just so; and I should like to like a few men, " says Miss Massereene, triumphantly. 

"You don't know what you are talking about, " says Tedcastle, hotly. 

"Indeed I do. That is just one of the great points which the defendersof women's rights forget to expatiate upon. A man may love as often ashe chooses, while a woman must only love once, or he considers himselfvery badly used. Why not be on an equal footing? Not that I want tolove any one, " says Molly; "only it is the injustice of the thing Iabhor. "

"Love any one you choose, " says Tedcastle, passionately, springing tohis feet, "Shadwell or any other fellow that comes in your way, Ishan't interfere. It is hardly necessary for you to say you don't 'wantto love one. ' Your heart is as cold as ice. It is high time thisengagement--this farce--should come to an end. "

"If you wish it, " says Molly, quietly, in a subdued tone, yet as shesays it she moves one step--no more--closer to him. 

"But I do not wish it; that is my cruel fate!" cries the young man, taking both her hands and laying them over his heart with a despairingtenderness. "There are none happy save those incapable of knowing alasting affection. Oh, Molly!"--remorsefully--"forgive me. I amspeaking to you as I ought not. It is all my beastly temper; though Iused not to be ill-tempered, " says he, with sad wonder. "At home andamong our fellows I was always considered rather easy-going thanotherwise. I think the knowledge that I must part from you on Thursday(though only for a short time) is embittering me. "

"Then you are really sorry to leave me?" questions Molly, peering up athim from under her straw hat. 

"You know I am. "

"But very sorry, --desperately so?"

"Yes. " Gravely, and with something that is almost tears in his eyes. "Why do you ask me, Molly? Is it not palpable enough?"

"It is not. You look just the same as ever, --quite as'easy-going'"--with a malicious pout--"as either your 'home' or your'fellows' could desire. I quite buoyed myself up with the hope that Ishould see you reduced to a skeleton as the last week crept to itsclose, and here you are robust and well to do as usual. I call itunfeeling, " says Miss Massereene, reproachfully, "and I don't believeyou care a pin about me. "

"Would you like to see me 'reduced to a skeleton'?" asks Luttrell, reproachfully. "You talk as though you had been done out of something;but a man may be horribly cut up about a thing without letting all theworld know of it. "

"You conceal it with great skill, " says Molly, placing her hand beneathhis chin, under a pretense of studying his features, but in reality tocompel him to look at her; and, as it is impossible for any one to gazeinto another's eyes for any length of time without showing emotion ofsome kind, presently he laughs. 

"Ah!" cries she, well pleased, "now I have made you laugh, your littleattack of the spleens will possibly take to itself wings and fly away. "

All through the remainder of this day and the whole of the next--whichis his last--she is sweetness itself to him. Whatever powers oftormenting she possesses are kept well in the background, while shebetrays nothing but a very successful desire to please. 

She wanders with him contentedly through garden and lawn; she sitsbeside him; at dinner she directs swift, surreptitious smiles at himacross the flowers; later on she sings to him his favorite songs; andwhy she scarcely knows. Perhaps through a coquettish desire to make theparting harder; perhaps to make his chains still stronger; perhaps tosoothe his evident regret; perhaps (who can say?) because she too feelsthat same regret. 

And surely to-night some new spirit is awake within her. Never has shesung so sweetly. As her glorious voice floats through the dimly-lightedroom and out into the more brilliant night beyond, Luttrell, andLetitia, and John sit entranced and wonder secretly at the great giftthat has been given her. 

 "If ever words are sweet, what, what is song When lips we love the melody prolong!"

Molly in every-day life is one thing; Molly singing divinely isanother. One wonders curiously, when hearing her, how anything so gay, so _debonnaire_ as she, can throw such passion into words, suchthrilling tenderness, such wild and mournful longing. 

"Molly, " cries John impatiently from the balcony, "I cannot bear tohear you sing like that. One would think your heart was broken. Don'tdo it, child. "

And Molly laughs lightly, and bursts into a barcarolle that utterlyprecludes the idea of any deep feeling; after which she gives them herown "Molly Bawn, " and then, shutting down the piano, declares she istired, and that evidently John doesn't appreciate her, and so she willsing no more. 

Then comes the last morning, --the cruel moment when farewell must besaid. 

The dog-cart is at the door; John is good-naturedly busy about theharness; and, Letitia having suddenly and with suspicious hasterecollected important commands for the kitchen, whither she withdrawsherself, the lovers find themselves alone. 

"Hurry, man; you will barely catch it, " cries John, from outside, meaning the train; having calculated to a nicety how long it would takehim to give and receive a kiss, now that he has been married for moreyears than he cares to count. 

Luttrell, starting at his voice, seizes both Molly's hands. 

"Keep thinking of me always, " he says, in a low tone, "always, lest atany moment you forget. "

Molly makes him no answer, but slowly raises to him eyes wet withunshed tears. It is more than he has hoped for. 

"Molly, " he cries, hurriedly, only too ready to grasp this small bud ofa longed-for affection, "you will be sorry for me? There are tears inyour eyes, --you will _miss_ me? You love me, surely, --a little?"

Once more the lovely dewy eyes meet his; she nods at him and smilesfaintly. 

"A little, " he repeats, wistfully. (Perhaps he has been assuringhimself of some more open encouragement, --has dreamed of spokentenderness, and feels the disappointment. ) "Some men, " he goes on, softly, "can lay claim to all the great treasure of their love's heart, while I--see how eagerly I accept the bare crumbs. Yet, darling, believe me, your sweet coldness is dearer to me than another woman'swarmest assertion. And later--who knows?--perhaps----"

"Yes, perhaps, " says Molly, stirred by his emotion or by some otherstronger sentiment lying deep at the bottom of her heart, "by and by Imay perhaps bore you to death by the violence of my devotion. Meantime"--standing on tiptoe, and blushing just enough to make hereven more adorable than before, and placing two white hands on hisshoulders--"you shall have one small, wee kiss to carry away with you. "

Half in doubt he waits until of her own sweet accord her lips do verilymeet his; and then, catching her in his arms, he strains her to him, forgetful for the moment of the great fact that neither time nor tidewaits for any man. 

"You are not going, I suppose?" calls John, his voice breaking inrudely upon the harrowing scene. "Shall I send the horse back to thestables? Here, James, "--to the stable boy, --"take round Rufus; Mr. Luttrell is going to stay another month or two. "

"Remember, " says Luttrell, earnestly, still holding her as though loathto let her go. 

"You remind me of Charles the First, " murmurs she, smiling through hertears. "Yes, I will remember _you_, and all you have _said_, and--_everything_. And more, I shall be longing to see you again. Now go. " Giving him a little push. 

Presently--he hardly knows how--he finds himself in the dog-cart, withJohn, oppressively cheerful, beside him, and, looking back as theydrive briskly up the avenue, takes a last glance at Brooklyn, withMolly on the steps, waving her hand to him, and watching his retreatingform with such a regretful countenance as gives him renewed courage. 

In an upper window is Letitia, more than equal to the occasion, armedwith one of John's largest handkerchiefs, that bears a strongresemblance to a young sheet as it flutters frantically hither andthither in the breeze; while below the two children, Daisy andRenee, --under a mistaken impression that the hour is festive, --throwafter him a choice collection of old boots much the worse for wear, which they have purloined with praiseworthy adroitness from under theirnurse's nose. 

"Oh, Letty, I do feel so honestly lonely, " says Molly, half an hourlater, meeting her sister-in-law on the stairs. 

"Do you, dearest?" admiringly. "That is very nice of you. Never mind;you know you will soon see him again. And let us come and consult aboutthe dresses you ought to wear at Herst. "

"Yes, do let us, " returns Miss Massereene, brightening with suspiciousalacrity, and drawing herself up as straight as a young tree out of thedespondent attitude she has been wearing. "That will pass the timebetter than anything. "

Whereupon Letitia chuckles with ill-suppressed amusement and gives itas her opinion that "dear Molly isn't as bad as she thinks herself. "

 * * * * *

John has done his duty, has driven the melancholy young man to thestation, and very nearly out of his wits--by insisting on carrying on along and tedious argument that lasts the entire way, waitingpertinaciously for a reply to every one of his questions. 

This has taken some time, more especially as the train was late and theback drive hilly; yet when at length he reaches his home he finds hiswife and Molly still deep in the mysteries of the toilet. 

"Well?" says his sister, as he stands in the doorway regarding themsilently. As she speaks she allows the dejected expression of two hoursago to return to her features, her lids droop a little over her eyes, her forehead goes up, the corners of her mouth go down. She is in oneinstant a very afflicted Molly. "Well?" she says. 

"He isn't well at all, " replies John, with a dismal shake of the headand as near an imitation of Molly's rueful countenance as he can manageat so short a notice; "he is very bad. I never saw a worse case in mylife. I doubt if he will last out the day. I don't know how you regardit, but I call it cruelty to animals. "

"You need not be unfeeling, " says Molly, reproachfully, "and I won'tlisten to you making fun of him behind his back. You wouldn't beforehis face. "

"How do you know?" As though weighing the point. "I never saw him funnyuntil to-day. He was on the verge of tears the entire way. It was luckyI was beside him, or he would have drenched the new cushions. Forshame's sake he refrained before me, but I know he is in floods bythis. "

"He is not, " says Molly, indignantly. "Crying, indeed! What an idea! Heis far too much of a man for that. "

"I am a man too, " says John, who seems to find a rich harvest ofdelight in the contemplation of Luttrell's misery. "And once, before wewere married, when Letitia treated me with disdain, I gave way to myfeelings to such an extent that----"

"Really, John, " interposes his wife, "I wish you would keep your stupidstories to yourself, or else go away. We are very busy settling aboutMolly's things. "

"What things? Her tea-things, --her playthings? Ah! poor little Molly!her last nice new one is gone. "

"Letty, I hope you don't mind, dear, " says Molly, lifting a daintychina bowl from the table near her. "Let us trust it won't break; but, whether it does or not, I must and will throw it at John. "

"She should at all events have one pretty new silk dress, " murmursLetitia, vaguely, whose thoughts "are with her heart, and that is faraway, " literally buried, so to speak, in the depths of her wardrobe. "She could not well do without it. Molly, "--with suddeninspiration, --"you shall have mine. That dove-color always looks prettyon a girl, and I have only worn it once. It can easily be made to fityou. "

"I wish, Letitia, you would not speak to me like that, " says Molly, almost angrily, though there are tears in her eyes. "Do you suppose Iwant to rob you? I have no doubt you would give me every gown youpossess, if I so willed it, and leave yourself nothing. Do remember Iam going to Herst more out of spite and curiosity than anything else, and don't care in the least how I look. It is very unkind of you to saysuch things. "

"You are the kindest soul in the world, Letty, " says John from thedoorway; "but keep your silk. Molly shall have one too. " After which hedecamps. 

"That is very good of John, " says Molly. "The fact is, I haven't apenny of my own, --I never have a week after I receive my allowance, --soI must only do the best I can. If I don't like it, you know, I can comehome. It is a great thing to know, Letty, that _you_ will be gladto have me, whether I am well dressed or very much the reverse. "

"Exactly. And there is this one comfort also, that you look well inanything. By the bye, you must have a maid. You shall take Sarah, andwe can get some one in until you come back to us. That"--with asmile--"will prevent your leaving us too long to our own devices. Youwill understand without telling what a loss the fair Sarah will be. "

"You are determined I shall make my absence felt, " says Molly, with ahalf-smile. "Really, Letty, I don't like----"

"But I do, " says Letty. "I don't choose you to be one whit behind anyone else at Herst. Without doubt they will beat you in the matter ofclothes; but what of that? I have known many titled people have a finedisregard of apparel. "

"So have I, " returns Molly, gayly. "Indeed, were I a man, possessedwith a desire to be mistaken for a lord, I would go to the meanest 'oldclo' shop and purchase there the seediest garments and the mostdilapidated hat (with a tendency toward greenness), and a pair of bootswith a patch on the left side, and, having equipped myself in them, saunter down the 'shady side of Pall Mall' with a sure and certainconviction that I was 'quite the thing. ' Should my ambitious longingssoar as high as a dukedom, I would add to the above costume a patch onthe right boot as well, and--questionable linen. "

"Well, " says Letitia, with a sigh, "I hope Marcia is a nice girl, andthat she will be kind to you. "

"So do I, "--with a shrug, --"but from her writing I am almost sure sheisn't. "

CHAPTER X. 

"What a dream was here!Methought a serpent ate my heart, And you sat smiling at his cruel prey. "

 --_Midsummer Night's Dream. _

Long, low terraces bathed in sunshine; a dripping, sobbing fountain;great masses of glaring flowers that mix their reds and yellows inhideous contrast and sicken the beholder with a desire for change;emerald lawns that grow and widen as the eye endeavors vainly to graspthem, thrown into bold relief by the rich foliage, all brown, andgreen, and red, and bronze-tinged, that spreads behind them; whilebeyond all these, as far as sight can reach, great swelling parks showhere and there, alive with deer, that toss and fret their antleredheads, throwing yet another charm into the already glorious scene. 

Such is Herst Royal, as it stands, a very castle in its pride of birth. On one side the "new wing" holds prominence, so called, although fullya century has passed since mason's hand has touched it; on the other isa suspicion of heavy Gothic art. Behind, the taste of the Elizabethanera holds full sway; in front (forgetful of time) uprears itself theancient tower that holds the first stones in all its strength andstately dignity; while round it the sympathetic ivy clings, and, pressing it in its long arms, whispers, "Courage. "

Upon the balcony the sleepy peacocks stand, too indolent to unfurltheir gorgeous plumage, looking in their quiet like statues placed atintervals between the stone vases of scarlet geraniums and droopingferns that go to adorn it. 

There is a dead calm over all the house; no sound of life beyond theindistinct hum of irrepressible nature greets the ear; all isprofoundly still. 

The click of high-heeled shoes, the unmistakable rustle of silk, andthe peacocks, with a quick flutter, raise their heads, as though toacknowledge the approach of their mistress. 

Stepping from one of the windows, thereby displaying to the unobservantair an instep large but exquisitely arched, Marcia Amherst comes slowlyup to where the lazy fowl are dreaming. Almost unconsciously (becauseher face is full of troubled thought), or perhaps a little vengefully, she flicks the one nearest to her with the handkerchief she carriesloosely in her hand, until, with a discordant scream, it rouses itself, and, spreading its tail to its fullest, glances round with consciouspride. 

"That is all you are good for, " says Marcia out loud, contemptuously. 

Her voice is singularly clear, but low and _trainante_. She istall and very dark, with rich wavy black hair and eyes of the same hue, deep and soft as velvet. Her nose is Grecian; her lips a trifle thin. She is distinctly handsome, but does not so much as border on thebeautiful. 

As she turns from the showy bird with a little shrug of disdain at itsvanity or of disgust at its odious cry, she finds herself face to facewith a young man who has followed almost in her footsteps. 

He, too, is tall and dark, and not altogether unlike her. But his faceshows the passion that hers rather conceals than lacks, and, thoughsufficiently firm, is hardly as determined as hers. There is also acertain discontent about the lower part of the jaw in which she iswanting, and there are two or three wrinkles on his forehead, of whichher broad, low brow is innocent. 

"Well, Philip?" she says, anxiously, as he reaches her side. 

"Oh, it is of no use, " he replies, with a quick frown, "I could not getup my courage to the sticking-point, and if I had I firmly believe itwould only have smashed my cause the more completely. Debt is his oneabhorrence, or rather--he has so many--his deepest. To ask for that twothousand pounds would be my ruin. "

"I wish I had it to give you, " she says, gently, laying her hand--avery beautiful hand, but not small--upon his arm. 

"Thank you, my dear, " replies he, lightly, "but your good wishes do notget me out of my hobble. Money I must have within seven days, and moneyI have not. And if our grandfather discovers my delinquencies it willbe all UP with me. By the bye, Marcia, I can hardly expect you tosympathize with me, as that would be so much the better for you, eh?"

"Nothing the better, " says Marcia, calmly; "it would be always the samething. I should share with you. "

"What a stake it is to play for!" says the young man, wearily, with adistasteful gesture. "Is even twenty thousand pounds a year worthit?--the perpetual paying court, every day, and all day long? SometimesI doubt it. "

"It is well worth it, " says Marcia, firmly. "How can you doubt it? Allthe good this world contains might be written under the name of'money. ' There is no happiness without it. "

"There is love, however, and contentment. "

"Don't believe it. Love may be purchased; and as for contentment, thereis no such thing. It is a dream, a fable, a pretty story that babes mayswallow. "

"Yet they tell us money is the root of all evil. "

"Not money, but the love of it, " replies she, quickly. "Do not loseheart, Philip; he cannot last forever; and this week how ill he hasbeen!"

"So he has, poor old wretch, " her companion interrupts her hastily. "Well, I have just one clear week before me, and then, --I suppose I hadbetter have recourse to my friends, the Jews. That will be a riskything, if you like, under the circumstances. Should he find thatout----"

"How can he? They are always so secret, so safe. Better do it than eatyour heart out. And who is to betray you?"

"You. " With a laugh. 

"Ay, tremble!" says she, gayly; then softly, "If that is all you haveto fear, Philip, you are a happy man. And when you have got the twothousand pounds, will you be free?"

"No, but comparatively easy for awhile. And who knows, by thattime----"

"He may die?"

"Or something may turn up, " exclaims he, hurriedly, not looking at her, and therefore unable to wonder at the stolidity and utter unconcern ofher expression. 

At this moment a querulous, broken voice comes to them from some innerroom. "Marcia, Marcia!" it calls, with trembling impatience; and, witha last flick at the unoffending peacock, she turns to go, yet lingers, as though loath to leave her companion. 

"Good-bye, --for awhile, " she says. 

"Good-bye, " replies he, and, clasping her lightly round the waist, presses a kiss upon her cheek, --not upon her lips. 

"You will be here when I return?" asks she, turning a face slightlyflushed by his caress toward him as she stands with one foot placedupon the bow-window sill preparatory to entering the room beyond. Thereis hope fully expressed in her tone. 

"No, I think not, " replies he, carelessly. "The afternoon is fine; Iwant to ride into Longley, for----" But to the peacocks alone is theexcuse made known, as Marcia has disappeared. 

 * * * * *

Close to a fire, although the day is oppressively warm, and wrapped ina flannel dressing-gown, sits an old man, --old, and full of thesnarling captiousness that makes some white hairs hideous. A tall man, with all the remains of great beauty, but a singularly long nose (as arule one should always avoid a person with a long nose), that perhapsonce might have added a charm to the bold, aristocratic face itadorned, but now in its last days is only suggestive of birds of prey, being peaky and astonishingly fine toward the point. Indeed, looking atit from a side-view, one finds one's self instinctively wondering howmuch leaner it can get before kindly death steps in to put a stop toits growth. And yet it matches well with the lips, which, curvingdownward, and thin to a fault, either from pain or temper, denote onlyill-will toward fellow-man, together with a certain cruelty that takesits keenest pleasure in another's mental suffering. 

Great piercing eyes gleam out from under heavy brows, and, lookingstraight at one, still withhold their inmost thoughts. Intellect(wrongly directed, it may be, yet of no mean order) and a fatal desirefor power sparkle in them; while the disappointment, the terribleself-accusing sadness that must belong to the closing of such a life ascomes of such a temperament as his, lingers round his mouth. He ismeagre, shrunken, --altogether unlovely. 

Now, as he glances up at Marcia, a pettishness, born of the sicknessthat has been consuming him for the past week, is his all-prevailingexpression. Raising a hand fragile and white as a woman's, he beckonsher to his side. 

"How you dawdle!" he says, fretfully. "Do you forget there are otherpeople in the world besides yourself? Where have you been?"

"Have I been long, dear?" says Marcia, evasively, with the tenderestair of solicitude, shaking up his pillows and smoothing the crumpleddressing-gown with careful fingers. "Have you missed me? And yet only afew minutes have really passed. "

"Where have you been?" reiterates he, irritably, taking no notice ofher comfortable pats and shakes. 

"With Philip. "

"Ay, 'with Philip. ' Always Philip. I doubt me the course of your loveruns too smoothly to be true. And yet it was a happy thought to keepthe old man's money well together. " With a sneer. 

"Dear grandpapa, we did not think of money, but that we love eachother. "

"Love--pish! do not talk to me of it. I thought you too shrewd, Marcia, to be misled by a mirage. It is a myth, --no more, --a sickening, mawkishtale. Had he no prospects, and were you penniless, I wonder how far'love' would guide you?"

"To the end, " says Marcia, quickly. "What has money to do with it? Itcan neither be bought nor sold. It is a poor affection that wouldwither under poverty; at least it would have no fears for us. "

"Us, --us, " returns this detestable old pagan, with a malicious chuckle. "How sure we are! how positive! ready to risk our all upon our lover'struth! Yet, were I to question this faithful lover upon the samesubject, I fear me that I should receive a widely different answer. "

"I hope not, dear, " says Marcia, gently, speaking in her usual soft, low tone. Yet a small cold finger has been laid upon her heart. A dimforeboding crushes her. Only a little pallor, so slight as to beimperceptible to her tormentor, falls across the upper part of her faceand tells how blood has been drawn. Yet it is hardly the mere piercingof the skin that hurts us most; it is in the dark night hours when thewound rankles that our agony comes home to us. 

"When is this girl coming?" asks the old man, presently, in a peevishtone, vexed that, as far as he can tell, his arrow has overshot themark. "I might have known she would have caught at the invitation. "

"On the twenty-seventh, --the day you mentioned. She must be anxious tomake your acquaintance, as she has not lost an hour, " says Marcia, in atone that might mean anything. "But"--sweetly--"why distress yourself, dear, by having her at all? If it disturbs your peace in the veryleast, why not write to put her off, at all events until you feelstronger? Why upset yourself, now you are getting on so nicely?" As shespeaks she lets her clear, calm eyes rest fully upon the hopeless wreckof what once was strong before her. No faintest tinge of insinceritymars the perfect kindliness of her tone. "Why not let us three remainas we are, alone together?"

"What!" cries Mr. Amherst, angrily, and with excitement, raisinghimself in his chair, "am I to shut myself up within these four wallswith nothing to interest me from day to day beyond your inane twaddle?No, I thank you. I will have the house full, --full--do you hear, Marcia?--and that without delay? Do you want me to die of _ennui_in this bare barrack of a place?"

"Well, do not make yourself ill, dear, " says Marcia, with an admirablyexecuted sigh. "It shall be as you wish, of course. I only spoke foryour good, --because--I suppose (being the only near relative I have onearth besides my mother), I--love you. "

"You are very good, " replies the old man, grimly, utterly untouched byall this sweetness, "but I will have my own way. And don't you 'dear'me again. Do you hear, Marcia? I won't have it: it reminds me of mywife. Pah!"

 * * * * *

The days fade, the light wanes, and night's cold dewy mantle fallsthickly on the longing earth. 

Marcia, throwing wide her casements, stretches out her arms to themoonlight and bathes her white face and whiter neck in the cool floodthat drenches all the quiet garden. 

There is peace everywhere, and rest, and happy sleep, but not forMarcia; for days, for weeks, she has been haunted by the fear thatPhilip's affection for her is but a momentary joy, that, swiftly as theminutes fly, so it dwindles. To-night this fear is strong upon her. 

Not by his word, not by his actions, but by the subtle nothings that, having no name, yet are, and go to make up the dreaded whole, has thisthought been forced upon her. The cooling glance, the suppressedrestlessness, the sudden lack of conversation, the kind but unlovingtouch, the total absence of a lover's jealousy, --all go to prove thehateful truth. And now her grandfather's sneer of the morning comesback to torture her and make assurance doubly sure. Yet hardly threemonths have passed since Philip Shadwell asked her to be his wife. 

"Already his love wanes, " she murmurs, turning up her troubled face andeyes, too sad for tears, to the starry vault above her, where the smallluminous bodies blink and tremble and take no heed of a ridiculouslove-tale, more or less. Her tone is low and despairing; and as shespeaks she beats her hands together slowly, noiselessly, yet none theless passionately. 

In vain she tries to convince herself her doubts are groundless, tocompel herself to believe her arms are full, when in her heart sheknows she but presses to her bosom an empty, fleeting shadow. Thenight's dull vapors have closed upon her, and, while exaggerating hermisery, still open her eyes with kind cruelty to the end that surelyawaits her. 

So she sits hugging her fears until the day breaks, and early morning, peeping in at her, wafts her a kiss as it flies over the lawn and fieldand brooklet. Then, wearied by her watching, she flings herself uponher bed, and, gaining a short but dreamless sleep, wakens refreshed, tolaugh at her misgivings of the night before, --at her grandfather'shints, --at aught that speaks to her of Philip's falseness. 

Despair follows closely upon night. Hope comes in the train of day. AndMarcia, standing erect before her glass, with her beautiful figuredrawn to its full height and her handsome head erect, gazes long andearnestly at the reflection therein. At last the deep flush ofsatisfaction dyes her cheeks; all her natural self-reliance anddetermination return to her; with a little laugh at her own image (onwhich she builds her hopes), she defies fate, and, running down thestaircase with winged feet, finds herself on the last step, almost inPhilip's arms. 

"Abroad so early!" he says, with a smile; and the kindliness of histone, the more than kindness of his glance, confirm her hopes of themorning. She is looking very pretty, and Philip likes pretty women, hence the kindly smile. And yet, though he might have done so withoutrebuke (perhaps because of that), he forgot to kiss her. "You are theearly bird, and you have caught me, " he says. "I can only hope you willnot make your breakfast off me. See, "--holding out to her an unclosedletter, --"the deed is done. I have written to my solicitor to get methe money from Lazarus and Harty. "

"Oh, Philip! I have been thinking, " she says, following him into thelibrary, "and now it seems to me a risk. You know his horror ofJews, --you know how he speaks of your own father and his unfortunatedealings with them. Yesterday I felt brave, and advised you, as I fear, wrongly; to-day----"

"I have been thinking it over too, "--lighting the taper on the table, and applying the sealing-wax to the flame, --"and now it seems to me theonly course left open. And yet"--speaking gayly, but pausing as the waxfalls upon the envelope--"perhaps--who knows?--I may be sealing my ownfate. "

"You make me superstitious. Why imagine horrors? Yet if you have anydoubts, Philip, "--laying one shapely white finger upon the letter, --"donot send it. Something tells me to warn you. And, besides, are youquite sure they will lend you the money?"

"They will hardly refuse a paltry two thousand to the heir of HerstRoyal. "

"But you are not the heir. "

"In the eyes of the world I am. "

"And yet they know it can be left to any one else. "

"To you, for instance. "

"That would hardly alter your position, except that you would be then, not heir, but master, " she says, smiling sweetly at him. "No, I wassupposing myself also disinherited. This cousin that iscoming, --Eleanor Massereene, --she, too, is his grandchild. "

As a rule, when speaking of those we hate, quite as much as whenspeaking of those we love, we use the pronoun alone. Mr. Amherst is"he" always to his relatives. 

"What! Can you believe it possible a little uneducated country girl, with probably a snub nose, thick boots, and no manners to speak of, cancut you out? Marcia, you grow modest. Why, even I, a man, can see herin my mind's eye, with a freckled complexion (he hates freckles), and afrightened gasp between each word, and a wholesome horror of wine, anda general air of hoping the earth will open presently to swallow herup. "

"But how if she is totally different from all this?"

"She won't be different. Her father was a wild Irishman. Besides, Ihave seen her sort over and over again, and it is positive cruelty toanimals to drag the poor creatures from their dull homes into the verycentre of life and gayety. They never can make up their minds whetherthe butler that announces dinner is or is not the latest arrival; andthey invariably say, 'No, thank you, ' when asked to have anything. Tothem the fish-knife is a thing unknown and afternoon tea the wildestdissipation. "

"Well, I can only hope and trust she will turn out just what you say, "says Marcia, laughing. 

Four days later, meeting her on his way to the stables, he throws her aletter from his solicitor. 

"It is all right, " he says, and goes on a step or two, as thoughhurried, while she hastily runs her eyes over it. 

"Well, and now your mind is at rest, " she calls after him, as she seesthe distance widening between them. 

"For the present, yes. "

"Well, here, take your letter. "

"Tear it up; I don't want it, " he returns, and disappears round theangle of the house. 

Her fingers form themselves as though about to obey him and tear thenote in two. Then she pauses. 

"He may want it, " she says to herself, hesitating. "Business lettersare sometimes useful afterward. I will keep it for him. "

She slips it into her pocket, and for the time being thinks no more ofit. That night, as she undresses, finding it again, she throws itcarelessly into a drawer, where it lies for many days forgotten. 

 * * * * *

It is the twentieth of August: in seven days more the "little countrygirl with freckles and a snub nose" will be at Herst Royal, longing"for the earth to open and swallow her up. "

To Philip her coming is a matter of the most perfect indifference. ToMarcia it is an event, --and an unpleasant one. 

When, some three years previously, Marcia Amherst consented to leavethe mother she so sincerely loved to tend an old and odious man, shedid so at his request and with her mother's full sanction, throughdesire of the gold that was to be (it was tacitly understood) thereward of her devotion. There was, however, another condition imposedupon her before she might come to Herst and take up permanent quartersthere. This was the entire forsaking of her mother, her people, and theland of her birth. 

To this also there was open agreement made: which agreement was inprivate broken. She was quite clever enough to manage a clandestinecorrespondence without fear of discovery; but letters, howeverfrequent, hardly make up for enforced absence from those we love, andMarcia's affection for her Italian mother was the one pure sentiment inher rather scheming disposition. Yet the love of riches, that is innatein all, was sufficiently strong in her to bear her through with hertask. 

But now the fear that this new-comer, this interloper, may, after allher detested labor, by some fell chance become a recipient of the spoil(no matter in how small a degree), causes her trouble. 

Of late, too, she has not been happy. Philip's coldness has been on theincrease. He himself, perhaps, is hardly aware of the change. But whatwoman loving but feels the want of love? And at times her heart isracked with passionate grief. 

Now, as she and her lip-love stand side by side in the oriel windowthat overlooks the graveled path leading into the gardens, the disliketo her cousin's coming burns hotly within her. 

Outside, in his bath chair, wheeled up and down by a long-sufferingattendant, goes Mr. Amherst, in happy ignorance of the four eyes thatwatch his coming and going with such distaste. 

Up and down, up and down he goes, his weakly head bent upon his chest, his fierce eyes roving restlessly to and fro. He is still invalidenough to prefer the chair to the more treacherous aid of his stick. 

"He reminds me of nothing so much as an Egyptian mummy, " says Philip, presently: "he looks so hard, and shriveled, and unreal. Toothless, too. "

"He ought to die, " says Marcia, with perfect calmness, as though shehad suggested the advisability of his going for a longer drive. 

"Die!" With a slight start, turning to look at her. "Ah! yes, ofcourse. But"--with a rather forced laugh--"he _won't_, take myword for it. Old gentlemen with unlimited means and hungry heirs liveforever. "

"He has lived long enough, " says Marcia, still in the same slow, calculating tone. "Of what use is he? Who cares for him? What good doeshe do in each twenty-four hours? He is merely taking up valuableroom, --keeping what should by right be yours and mine. And, Philip, "laying her hand upon his arm to insure his attention, --"I understandthe mother of this girl who is coming was his favorite daughter. "

"Well, " surprised at her look and tone, which have both grownintense, --"that is not my fault. You need not cast such an upbraidingglance on me. "

"What if he should alter his will in her favor? More unlikely thingshave happened. I cannot divest myself of fear when I think of her. Should he at this late hour repent him of his injustice toward his deaddaughter, he might----" She pauses. "But rather than that----" Here shepauses again; and her lids falling somewhat over her eyes, leave themsmall but wonderfully deep. 

"What, Marcia?" asks Philip, with a sudden anxiety he would willinglysuppress, were it not for his strong desire to learn what her thoughtsmay be. 

For a full minute she makes him no reply, and then, as though hardlyaware of his question, goes on meditatively. 

"Philip, how frail he is!" she says, almost in a whisper, as the chairgoes creaking beneath the window. "Yet what a hold he has on life! Andit is _I_ give him that hold, --_I_ am the rope to which heclings. At night, when sleep is on him and lethargy succeeds to sleep, mine is the duty to rouse him and minister such medicines as charm himback to life. Should I chance to forget, his dreams might end in death. Last night, as I sat by his bedside, I thought, were I to forget, --whatthen?"

"Ay, what then? Of what are you thinking?" cries her companion, in atone of suppressed horror, resisting by a passionate movement the spellshe had almost cast upon him by the power of her low voice and deep, dark eyes. "Would you kill the old man?"

"Nay, it is but to forget, " replies she, dreamily, her whole mindabsorbed in her subject, unconscious of the effect she is producing. She has not turned her eyes upon him (else surely the terrible fear andshrinking in his must have warned her to go no further), but has hergaze fixed rather on the hills and woods and goodly plains for whichshe is not only willing but eager to sell all that is best of her. "Toremain passive, and then"--straightening her hand in the direction ofthe glorious view that spreads itself before them--"all this would beours. "

"Murderess!" cries the young man, in a low, concentrated tone, hisvoice vibrating with disgust and loathing as he falls back from her astep or two. 

The word thrills her. With a start she brings herself back to thepresent moment, turns to look at him, and, looking slowly, learns thetruth. The final crash has come, her fears are realized; she has losthim forever. 

"What is it, Philip? what word have you used?" she asks, with nervousvehemence, as though only half comprehending; "why do you look at me sostrangely? I have said nothing, --nothing that should make you shrinkfrom me. "

"You have said enough, "--with a shiver, "too much; and your face saidmore. I desire you never to speak to me on the subject again. "

"What! you will not even hear me?"

"No; I am only thankful I have found you out in time. "

"Say rather for this lucky chance I have afforded you of breaking off adetested engagement, " cries she, with sudden bitterness. "Hypocrite!how long have you been awaiting it?"

"You are talking folly, Marcia. What reason have I ever given you thatyou should make me such a speech? But for what has just nowhappened, --but for your insinuations----"

"Ay, "--slowly, --"you shrink from hearing your thoughts put into words. "

"Not _my_ thoughts, " protests he, vehemently. 

"No?" searchingly, drawing a step nearer him. "Are you _sure_?Have you never wished our grandfather dead?"

"I may have wished it, " confesses he, reluctantly, as though compelledto frankness, "but to compass my wish--to----"

"If you have wished it you have murdered, " returns she, withconviction. "You have craved his death: what is that but unutteredcrime? There is little difference; it is but one step the more in thesame direction. And I, --in what way am I the greater sinner? I have butsaid aloud what you whisper to your heart. "

"Be silent, " cries he, fiercely. "All your sophistry fails to make me apartner in your guilt. "

"I am the honester of the two, " she goes on, rapidly, unheeding hisanger. "As long as the accursed thing is unspoken, you see no harm init; once it makes itself heard, you start and sicken, because it hurtsyour tender susceptibilities. Yet hear me, Philip. " Suddenly changingher tone of passionate scorn to one of entreaty as passionate, "Do notcast me off for a few idle words. They have done no harm. Let us be aswe were. "

"Impossible, " replies he coldly, unloosing her fingers from his arm, all the dislike and loathing of which he is capable compressed into theword. "You have destroyed my trust in you. "

A light that means despair flashes across Marcia's face as she standsin all her dark but rather evil beauty before him; then suddenly shefalls upon her knees. 

"Philip, have pity on me!" she cries painfully. "I love you, --I haveonly you. Here in this house I am alone, a stranger in my own land. Donot you too turn from me. Ah! you should be the last to condemn, for ifI dreamed of sin it was for your sake. And after all, what did I say?The thought that this girl's coming might upset the dream of yearsagitated me, and I spoke--I--but I meant nothing--nothing. " She dragsherself on her knees nearer to him and attempts to take his hand. "Darling, do not be so stern. Forgive me. If you cast me off, Philip, you will kill not only my body, but all that is good in me. "

"Do not touch me, " returns he, harshly, the vein of brutality in himcoming to the surface as he pushes her from him and with slightviolence unclasps her clinging fingers. 

The action is in itself sufficient, but the look that accompaniesit--betraying as it does even more disgust than hatred--stings her toself-control. Slowly she rises to her feet. As she does so, a spasm, acontraction near her heart, causes her to place her hand involuntarilyagainst her side, while a dull gray shadow covers her face. 

"You mean, " she says, speaking with the utmost difficulty, "thatall--is at an end--between us. "

"I do mean that, " he answers, very white, but determined. 

"Then beware!" she murmurs, in a low, choked voice. 

CHAPTER XI. 

"You stood before me like a thought, A dream remembered in a dream. "

 --Coleridge. 

It is five o'clock in the afternoon, and Herst is the richer by onemore inmate. Molly has arrived, has been received by Marcia, haspressed cheeks with her, has been told she is welcome in a palpablylying tone, and finally has been conducted to her bedroom. Such awonder of a bedroom compared with Molly's snug but modest sanctum athome, --a very marvel of white and blue, and cloudy virginal muslins, and filled with innumerable luxuries. 

Molly, standing in the centre of it, --unaware that she is putting allits other beauties to shame--gazes round her in silent admiration, appreciates each pretty trifle to its fullest, and finally feels avague surprise at the curious sense of discontent that pervades her. 

Her reception so far has not been cordial. Marcia's cold unloving eyeshave pierced her and left a little cold frozen spot within her heart. She is chilled and puzzled, and with all her strength is wishingherself home again at Brooklyn, with John and Letty, and all the merry, tormenting, kindly children. 

"What shall I do for you now, Miss Molly?" asks Sarah, presentlybreaking in upon these dismal broodings. This antiquated but devotedmaiden has stationed herself at the farthest end of the big room closeto Molly's solitary trunk (as though suspicious of lurking thieves), and bears upon her countenance a depressed, not to say dejected, expression. "Like mistress, like maid, " she, too, is filled with thegloomiest forebodings. 

"Open my trunk and take out my clothes, " says Molly, making no effortat disrobing, beyond a melancholy attempt at pulling off her gloves, finger by finger. 

Sarah does as she is bidden. 

"'Tis a tremenjous house, Miss Molly. "

"Very. It is a castle, not a house. "

"There's a deal of servants in it. "

"Yes, " absently. 

"Leastways as far as I could judge with looking through the corners ofmy eyes as I came along them big passages. From every door a'most therepopped a head bedizened with gaudy ribbons, and I suppose the bodieswas behind 'em. "

"Let us hope so, Sarah. " Rising, and laughing rather hysterically. "Thebare idea that those mysterious heads should lack a decent finish fillsme with the liveliest horror. " Then, in a brighter tone, "Why, what isthe matter with you, Sarah? You look as if you had fallen into the verylowest depths of despair. "

"Not so much that as lonesome, miss; they all seem so rich and grandthat I feel myself out of place. "

Molly smiles a little. After all, in spite of the difference in theirpositions, it is clear to her that she and her maid share pretty muchthe same fears. 

"There was a very proud look about the set of their caps, " says Sarah, waxing more and more dismal. "Suppose they were to be uncivil to me, Miss Molly, on account of my being country-reared and my gowns notbeing, as it were, in the height of the fashion, what should I do? Itis all this, miss, that is weighing me down. "

"Suppose, on the contrary, " says her mistress, with a little defiantring in her tone, stepping to the glass and surveying her beautifulface with eager scrutiny, "you were to make a sensation, and cut outall these supercilious dames in your hall, how would it be then? Come, Sarah, let me teach you your new duties. First take my hat, now myjacket, now----"

"Shall I do your hair, Miss Molly?"

"No, " with a laugh, --"I think not. I had one trial of you in thatrespect; it was enough. "

"But all maids do their young ladies' hair, don't they, miss? I doubtthey will altogether look down upon me when they find I can't do eventhat. "

"I shall ring for you every day when I come to dress for dinner. Oncein my room, who shall know whether you do my hair or not? And Ifaithfully promise you, Sarah, to take such pains with the performancemyself as shall compel every one in the house to admire it and envy memy excellent maid. 'See Miss Massereene's hair!' they will say, intearful whispers. 'Oh, that I too could have a Sarah!' By the bye, callme Miss Massereene for the future, not Miss Molly, --at least until weget home again. "

"Yes, Miss--Massereene. Law! it do sound odd, " says Sarah, with alittle respectful laugh, "but high-sounding too, I think. I do hope Ishan't forget it, Miss Molly. Perhaps you will be good enough to remindme when I go wrong?"

A knock at the door prevents reply. Molly cries out, "Come in, " and, turning, finds herself face to face with a fine old woman, who standserect, and firm, in spite of her many years, in the doorway. She isclad in a sombre gown of brown silk, and has an old-fashioned chainround her neck that hangs far below her waist, which is by no means themost contemptible portion of her. 

"I beg your pardon, Miss Massereene; I could not resist coming to seeif you were quite comfortable, " she says, respectfully. 

"Quite, thank you, " replies Molly, in a degree puzzled. "Youare"--smiling--"the housekeeper?"

"I am. And you, my dear, "--regarding her anxiously, --"are every inch anAmherst, in spite of your bonny blue eyes. You will forgive the freedomof my speech, " says this old dame, with an air that would not havedisgraced a duchess, "when I tell you I nursed your mother. "

"Ah! did you?" says Molly, flushing a little, and coming up to hereagerly, with both hands extended, to kiss the fair old face that issmiling so kindly on her. "But how could one think it? You are yet sofresh, so good to look at. "

"Tut, my dear, " says the old lady, mightily pleased nevertheless. "I amold enough to have nursed your grandmother. And now can I do anythingfor you?"

"You can, " replies Molly, turning toward Sarah, who is regarding themwith an expression that might at any moment mean either approval ordispleasure. "This is my maid. We are both strangers here. Will you seethat she is made happy?"

"Come with me, Sarah, and I will make you acquainted with ourhousehold, " says Mrs. Nesbitt, promptly. 

As the door closes behind them, leaving her to her own society, arather unhappy shade falls across Molly's face. 

A sensation of isolation--loneliness--oppresses her. Indeed, herdiscouraging reception has wounded her more than she cares to confesseven to her own heart. If they did not want her at Herst, why had theyinvited her? If they did want her, surely they might have met her withmore civility; and on this her first visit her grandfather at leastmight have been present to bid her welcome. 

Oh, that this hateful day were at an end! Oh, for some way of makingthe slow hours run hurriedly!

With careful fingers she unfastens and pulls down all her lovely hairuntil it falls in rippling masses to her waist. As carefully, aslingeringly, she rolls it up again into its usual artistic knot at theback of her head. With still loitering movements she bathes the dust oftravel from her face and hands, adjusts her soft gray gown, putsstraight the pale-blue ribbon at her throat, and now tells herself, with a triumphant smile, that she has got the better of at least halfan hour of this detested day. 

Alas! alas! the little ormolu ornament that ticks with such provoking_empressement_ upon the chimney-piece assures her that her robinghas occupied exactly ten minutes from start to finish. 

This will never do. She cannot well spend her evening in her own room, no matter how eagerly she may desire to do so; so, taking heart ofgrace, she makes a wicked _moue_ at her own rueful countenance inthe looking-glass, and, opening her door hastily, lest her courage failher, runs down the broad oak staircase into the hall beneath. 

Quick-witted, as women of her temperament always are, she remembers thesituation of the room she had first entered, and, passing by all theother closed doors, goes into it, to find herself once more in Marcia'spresence. 

"Ah! you have come, " says Miss Amherst, looking up languidly from her_macrame_, with a frozen smile that owes its one charm to itsbrevity. "You have made a quick toilet. " With a supercilious glance atMolly's Quakerish gown, that somehow fits her and suits her toperfection. "You are not fatigued?"

"Fatigued?" Smiling, with a view to conciliation. "Oh, no; it is such alittle journey. "

"So it is. How strange this should be our first meeting, living soclose to each other as we have done! My grandfather's peculiardisposition of course accounts for it: he has quite a morbid horror ofaliens. "

"Is one's granddaughter to be considered an alien?" asks Molly, with alaugh. "The suggestion opens an enormous field for reflection. If so, what are one's nephews, and one's nieces, and cousins, first, second, and third? Poor third-cousins! it makes one sad to think of them. "

"I think perhaps Mr. Amherst's incivility toward you arose from hisdislike to your mother's marriage. You don't mind my speaking, do you?It was more than good of you to come here at all, considering thecircumstances, --I don't believe I could have been so forgiving, --but Iknow he felt very bitterly on the subject, and does so still. "

"Does he? How very absurd! Amhersts cannot always marry Amhersts, norwould it be a good thing if they could. I suppose, however, even he canbe forgiving at times. Now, for instance, how did he get over yourfather's marriage?"

Marcia raises her head quickly. Her color deepens. She turns a glancefull of displeased suspicion upon her companion, who meets it calmly, and with such an amount of innocence in hers as might have disarmed aMachiavelli. Not a shadow of intention mars her expression; herwidely-opened blue eyes contain only a desire to know; and Marcia, angry, disconcerted, and puzzled, lets her gaze return to her work. Adim idea that it will not be so easy to ride rough-shod over thiscountry-bred girl as she had hoped oppresses her, while a still moreunpleasant doubt that her intended snubbing has recoiled upon her ownhead adds to her discontent. Partly through policy and partly with aview to showing this recreant Molly the rudeness of her ways, sherefuses an answer to her question and starts a different topic in astill more freezing tone. 

"You found your room comfortable, I hope, and--all that?"

"Quite all that, thank you, " cordially. "And such a pretty room too!"(She is unaware as she speaks that it is one of the plainest the housecontains. ) "How large everything seems! When coming down through allthose corridors and halls I very nearly lost my way. Stupid of me wasit not? But it is an enormous house, I can see. "

"Is it? Perhaps so. Very much the size of most country houses, I shouldsay. And yet, no doubt, to a stranger it would seem large. Your ownhome is not so?"

"Oh, no. If you could only see poor Brooklyn in comparison! It is theprettiest little place in all the world, I think; but then it _is_little. It would require a tremendous amount of genius to lose one'sself in Brooklyn. "

"How late it grows!" says Marcia, looking at the clock and rising. "Thefirst bell ought to ring soon. Which would you prefer, --your tea hereor in your own room? I always adopt the latter plan when the house isempty, and take it while dressing. By the bye, you have not seen--Mr. Amherst?"

"My grandfather? No. "

"Perhaps he had better be told you are here. "

"Has he not yet heard of my arrival?" asks Molly, impulsively, somefaint indignation stirring in her breast. 

"He knew you were coming, of course; I am not sure if he remembered theexact hour. If you will come with me, I will take you to the library. "

Across the hall in nervous silence Molly follows her guide until theyreach a small anteroom, beyond which lies the "chamber of horrors, " as, in spite of all her efforts to be indifferent, Molly cannot helpregarding it. 

Marcia knocking softly at the door, a feeble but rasping voice bidsthem enter; and, throwing it widely open, Miss Amherst beckons hercousin to follow her into the presence of her dreaded grandfather. 

Although looking old, and worn, and decrepit, he is still evidently inmuch better health than when last we saw him, trundling up and down theterraced walk, endeavoring to catch some faint warmth from the burningsun. 

His eyes are darker and fiercer, his nose a shade sharper, his temperevidently in an uncorked condition; although he may be safely said tobe on the mend, and, with regard to his bodily strength, in a verypromising condition. 

Before him is a table covered with papers, from which he looks upungraciously, as the girls enter. 

"I have brought you Eleanor Massereene, " says Marcia, without preamble, in a tone so kind and gentle as makes Molly even at this awful momentmarvel at the change. 

If it could be possible for the old man's ghastly skin to assume apaler hue, at this announcement, it certainly does so. With suppressedbut apparent eagerness he fixes his eyes upon the new grandchild, andas he does so his hand closes involuntarily upon the paper beneath it;his mouth twitches; a shrinking pain contracts his face. Yes, she isvery like her dead mother. 

"How long has she been in my house?" he asks, presently, after a pausethat to Molly has been hours, still with his gaze upon her, thoughbeyond this prolonged examination of her features he has vouchsafed herno welcome. 

"She came by the half-past four train. Williams met her with thebrougham. "

"And it is nearly six. Pray why have I been kept so long in ignoranceof her arrival?" Not once as he speaks does he look at Marcia, or atanything but Molly's pale, pretty, disturbed face. 

"Dear grandpapa, you have forgotten. Yesterday I told you the hour weexpected her. But no doubt, with so many important matters upon yourmind, " with a glance at the littered table, "you forgot this one. "

"I did, " slowly, "so effectually as to make me doubt having ever heardit. No, Marcia, no more excuses, no more lies: you need not explain. Besatisfied that whatever plans you formed to prevent my bidding yourcousin welcome to my house were highly successful. At intrigue you area proficient. I admire proficiency in all things, --but--for the future--beso good as to remember that I _never_ forget. "

"Dear grandpapa, " with a pathetic but very distinct sigh, "it is veryhard to be misjudged!"

"Granted. Though at times one must own it has its advantages. Now, iffor instance I could only bring myself, now and again, to misjudge you, how very much more conducive to the accomplishment of your aims itwould be! Leave the room. I wish to speak to your cousin. "

Reluctant, but not daring to disobey, and always with the sameaggrieved expression upon her face, Marcia withdraws. 

As the door closes behind her, Mr. Amherst rises, and holds out onehand to Molly. 

"You are welcome, " he says, quietly, but coldly, and evidently speakingwith an effort. 

Molly, coming slowly up to him, lays her hand in his, while entertainingan earnest hope that she will not be called upon to seal the interviewwith a kiss. 

"Thank you, " she says, faintly, not knowing what else to say, andfeeling thoroughly embarrassed by the fixity and duration of hisregard. 

"Yes, " speaking again, slowly, and absently. "You are welcome--Eleanor. I am glad I have seen you before--my death. Yes--you are very like----Go!" with sudden vehemence, "leave me; I wish to be alone. "

Sinking back heavily into his arm-chair, he motions her from him, andMolly, finding herself a moment later once more in the anteroom, breathes a sigh of thankfulness that this her first strange interviewwith her host is at an end. 

 * * * * *

"Dress me quickly, Sarah, " she says, as she gains her own room abouthalf an hour later, and finds that damsel awaiting her. "And make melook as beautiful as possible; I have yet another cousin to investigate, and something tells me the third will be the charm, and that I shall geton with him. Young men"--ingenuously, and forgetting she is expressingher thoughts aloud--"are certainly a decided improvement on young women. If, however, there is really any understanding between Philip andMarcia, it will rather spoil my amusement and--still I need not tormentmyself beforehand, as that is a matter I shall learn in five minutes. "

"There's a very nice young man down-stairs, miss, " breaks in Sarah, atthis juncture, with a simper that has the pleasing effect of making oneside of her face quite an inch shorter than the other. 

"What! you have seen him, then?" cries Molly, full of her own idea, andoblivious of dignity. "Is he handsome, Sarah? Young? Describe him tome. "

"He is short, miss, and stoutish, and--and----"

"Yes! Do go on, Sarah, and take that smile off your face: it makes youlook downright imbecile. 'Short!' 'Stout!' Good gracious! of what onearth could Teddy have been thinking. "

"His manners is most agreeable, miss, and altogether he is a mostgentleman-like young man. "

"Well, of course he is all that, or he isn't anything; but stout!----"

"Not a bit stiffish, or uppish, as one might expect, considering wherehe come from. And indeed, Miss Molly, " with an irrepressible giggle, "he did say as how----"

"What!" icily. 

"As how I had a very bewidging look about the eyes. "

"Sarah, " exclaims Miss Massereene, sinking weakly into a chair, "do youmean to tell me my cousin Philip--Captain Shadwell--told you--had theimpertinence to speak to you about----"

"Law, Miss Molly, whatever are you thinking about?--Captain Shadwell!why, I haven't so much as laid eyes on him! I was only speaking of hisyoung man, what goes by the name of Peters. "

"Ridiculous!" cries Molly, impatiently; then bursting into a merrylaugh, she laughs so heartily and so long that the somewhat puzzledSarah feels compelled to join. 

"'Short, and stout, and gentlemanly'--ha, ha, ha! And so Peters saidyou were bewidging, Sarah? Ah! take care, and do not let him turn yourhead: if you _do_, you will lose all your fun, and gain little forit. Is that a bell? Oh, Sarah! come, dispatch, dispatch, or I shall belate, and eternally disgraced. "

The robing proceeds, and when finished leaves Molly standing before hermaid with (it must be confessed) a very self-satisfied smirk upon hercountenance. 

"How am I looking, Sarah? I want a candid opinion; but on no accountsay anything disparaging. "

"Lovely!" says Sarah, with comfortable haste. "There's no denying it, Miss Molly. Miss Amherst below, for all her dark hair and eyes (and Idon't say but that she is handsome), could not hold a candle to you, asthe saying is--and that's a fact. "

"Is there anything in all the world, " says Miss Massereene, "so sweetas sincere praise? Sarah, you are a charming creature. Good-bye; Igo--let us hope--to victory. But if not, --if I find the amiablerelatives refuse to acknowledge my charms I shall at least know whereto come to receive the admiration I feel I so justly deserve!"

So saying, with a little tragic flourish, she once more wends her waydown-stairs, trailing behind her her pretty white muslin gown, with itsflecks of coloring, blue as her eyes, into the drawing-room. 

The close of autumn brings to us a breath of winter. Already thedaylight has taken to itself wings and flown partially away; andthough, as yet, a good deal of it through compassion lingers, it is buta half-hearted dallying that speaks of hurry to be gone. 

The footman, a young person, of a highly morbid and sensitivedisposition, abhorrent of twilights, has pulled down all the blinds inthe sitting-rooms, and drawn the curtains closely, has lit the lamps, and poked into a blaze the fire, that Mr. Amherst has the wisdom tokeep burning all the year round in the long chilly room. 

Before the fire, with one arm on the mantel-piece, and one foot uponthe fender, stands a young man, in an attitude suggestive ofmelancholy. Hearing the rustling of a woman's garments, he looks up, and, seeing Molly, stares at her, first lazily, then curiously, thenamazedly, then----

She is quite close to him; she can almost touch him; indeed, no farthercan she go without putting him to one side; and still he has notstirred. The situation grows embarrassing, so embarrassing that, whatwith the ludicrous silence and Philip Shadwell's eyes which betray acharmed astonishment, Molly feels an overpowering desire to laugh. Shecompromises matters by smiling, and lowering her eyelids just half aninch. 

"You do not want all the fire, do you?" she asks, demurely, in a lowtone. 

"I beg your pardon, " exclaims Philip, in his abstraction, moving in adirection closer to the fire, rather than from it. "I had no idea Iwas. I"--doubtfully, "am I speaking to Miss Massereene?"

"You are. And I--I know I am speaking to Captain Shadwell. "

"Yes, " slowly. "That is my name, --Philip Shadwell. "

"We are cousins, then, " says Molly, kindly, as though desirous ofputting him at his ease. "I hope we shall be, what is far better, friends. "

"We must be; we are friends, " returns he, hastily, so full of surpriseand self-reproach as to be almost unconscious of his words. 

Is this the country cousin full of freckles and _mauvaise honte_, who was to be pitied, and lectured, and taught generally how tobehave?--whose ignorance was to draw forth groans from pit and galleryand boxes? A hot blush at his own unmeant impertinence thrills him fromhead to foot. Were she ever, by any chance, to hear what he had said. Oh, perish the thought!--it is too horrible!

A little laugh from Molly somewhat restores his senses. 

"You should not stare so, " she says, severely, with an adorable attemptat a frown. "And you need not look at me all at once, you know, because, as I am going to stay here a whole month, you will have plentyof time to do it by degrees, without fatiguing yourself. By the bye, "reproachfully, "I have come a journey to-day, and am dreadfully tired, and you have never even offered me a chair; must I get one for myself?"

"You have driven any manners I may possess out of my head, " replies he, laughing, too, and pushing toward her the coziest chair the roomcontains. "Your sudden entrance bewildered me; you came upon me like anapparition; more especially as people in this house never get to thedrawing-room until exactly one minute before dinner is announced. "

"Why?"

"Lest we should bore each other past forgiveness. Being together as weare every day, and all day long, one can easily imagine how a verylittle more pressure would smash the chains of politeness. You may haveheard of the last straw and its disastrous consequences?"

"I have. I am sorry I frightened you. To-morrow night I shall knowbetter, and shall leave you to your silent musings in peace. "

"No; don't do that!" says her companion, earnestly. "On no account dothat. I think the half-hour before dinner, sitting by the fire, alone, as we are now, the best of the whole day; that is, of course, if onespends it with a congenial companion. "

"Are you a congenial companion?"

"I don't know, " smiling. "If you will let me, I can at least try tobe. "

"Try, then, by all means. " In a moment or two, --"I should like tofathom your thoughts, " says Molly. "When I came in, there was more thanbewilderment in your face; it showed--how shall I express it? Youlooked as though you had expected something else?"

"Will you forgive me if I say I did?"

"What, then? A creature tall, gaunt, weird----?"

"No. "

"Fat, red, uncomfortable?"

This touches so nearly on the truth as to be unpleasant. He winces. 

"I will tell you what I did not expect, " he says, hastily, coloring alittle. "How should I? It is so seldom one has the good luck todiscover in autumn a rose belonging to June. "

His voice falls. 

"Am I one?" asks she, looking with dangerous frankness into the darkeyes above her, that are telling her silently, eloquently, she is thefairest, freshest, sweetest queen of flowers in all the world. 

The door opens, and Mr. Amherst enters, then Marcia. Philip straightenshimself, and puts on his usual bored, rather sulky expression. Mollysmiles upon her grumpy old host. He offers her his arm, Philip does thesame to Marcia, and together they gain the dining-room. 

It is an old, heavily wainscoted apartment, gloomy beyond words, soimmense that the four who dine in it tonight appear utterly lost in itsvast centre. 

Marcia, in an evening toilet of black and ivory, sits at the head ofthe table, her grandfather opposite to her. Philip and Molly are_vis-à-vis_ at the sides. Behind stand the footmen, as sleek andwell-to-do, and imbecile, as one can desire. 

There is a solemnity about the repast that strikes but fails to subdueMolly. It has a contrary effect, making her spirits rise, and creatingin her a very mistaken desire for laughter. She is hungry too, andsucceeds in eating a good dinner, while altogether she comes to theconclusion that it may not be wholly impossible to put in a very goodtime at Herst. 

Never does she raise her eyes without encountering Philip's dark onesregarding her with the friendliest attention. This also helps toreassure her. A friend in need is a friend indeed, and this friend ishandsome as well as kind, although there is a little something orother, a suppressed vindictiveness, about his expression, that repelsher. 

She compares him unfavorably with Luttrell, and presently lets herthoughts wander on to the glad fact that to-morrow will see the latterby her side, when indeed she will be in a position to defy fate, --andMarcia. Already she has learned to regard that dark-browed lady withdistrust. 

"Is any one coming to-morrow?" asks Mr. Amherst, _à propos_ ofMolly's reverie. "

"Tedcastle, and Maud Darley. "

"Her husband?"

"I suppose so. Though she did not mention him when writing. "

"Poor Darley!" with a sneer: "she never does mention him. Any oneelse?"

"Not to-morrow. "

"I wonder if Luttrell will be much altered, " says Philip; "browned, Isuppose, by India, although his stay there was of the shortest. "

"He is not at all bronzed, " breaks in Molly, quietly. 

"You know him?" Marcia asks, in a rather surprised tone, turning towardher. 

"Oh, yes, very well, " coloring a little. "That is, he was staying withus for a short time at Brooklyn. "

"Staying with you?" her grandfather repeats, curiously. It is evidentlya matter of wonder with them, her friendship with Tedcastle. 

"Yes, he and John, my brother, are old friends. They were at schooltogether, although John is much older, and he says----"

Mr. Amherst coughs, which means he is displeased, and turns his headaway. Marcia gives an order to one of the servants in a very distincttone. Philip smiles at Molly, and Molly, unconscious of offense, isabout to return to the charge, and give a lengthened account of hertabooed brother, when luckily she is prevented by a voice from behindher chair, which says:

"Champagne, or Moselle?"

"Champagne, " replies Molly, and forgets her brother for the moment. 

"I thought all women were prejudiced in favor of Moselle, " says Philip, addressing her hastily, more from a view to hinder a recurrence to theforbidden topic than from any overweening curiosity to learn her tastein wines. "Are not you?"

"I am hardly in a position to judge, " frankly, "as I have never tastedMoselle, and champagne only once. Have I shocked you? Is that a verylowering admission?"

Mr. Amherst coughs again. The corners of Marcia's mouth take adisgusted droop. Philip laughs out loud. 

"On the contrary, it is a very refreshing one, " he says, in aninterested and deeply amused tone, "more especially in these degeneratedays when most young ladies can tell one to a turn the precise age, price, and retailer of one's wines. May I ask when was this memorable'once'?"

"At the races at Loaminster. Were you ever there? I persuaded mybrother to take me there the spring before last, and he went. "

"We were there that year, with a large party, " says Marcia. "I do notremember seeing you on the stand. "

"We were not on it. We drove over, John and I and Letty, in the littletrap, a Norwegian, and dreadfully shaky it was, but we did not care, and we sat in it all day, and saw everything very well. Then a friendof John's, a man in the Sixty-second, came up, and asked to beintroduced to me, and afterward others came, and persuaded us to haveluncheon with them in their marquee. It was there, " nodding at Philip, "I got the champagne. We had great fun, I remember, and altogether itwas quite the pleasantest day I ever spent in my life. "

As she speaks, she dimples, and blushes, and beams all over her prettyface as she recalls that day's past glories. 

"The Sixty-second?" says Marcia. "I recollect. A very second-rateregiment I thought it. There was a Captain Milburd in it, I remember. "

"That was John's friend, " says Molly, promptly; "he was so kind to methat day. Did you like him?"

"Like him! A man all broad plaid and red tie. No, I certainly did notlike him. "

"His tie!" says Molly, laughing gayly at the vision she has conjuredup, --"it certainly _was_ red. As red as that rose, " pointing to ablood-colored flower in the centre of a huge china bowl of pricelesscost, that ornaments the middle of the table, and round which, beingopposite to him, she has to peer to catch a glimpse of Philip. "It wasthe reddest thing I ever saw, except his complexion. But I forgave him, he was so good-natured. "

"Does good-nature make up for everything?" asks Philip, dodging thebowl in his turn to meet her eyes. 

"For most things. Grandpapa, " pointing to a family portrait over thechimney-piece that has attracted her attention ever since her entrance, "whose is that picture?"

"Your grandmother's. It is like you, but, " says the old man with hisusual gracefulness, "it is ten times handsomer. "

"_Very_ like you, " thinks the young man, gazing with everincreasing admiration at the exquisite tints and shades and changes inthe living face before him, "only you are ten thousand times morebeautiful!"

Slowly, and with much unnecessary delay, the dinner drags to an end, only to be followed by a still slower hour in the drawing-room. 

Mr. Amherst challenges Philip to a game of chess, that most wearisomeof games to the on-looker, and so arranges himself that his antagonistcannot, without risking his neck, bestow so much as a glance in MissMassereene's direction. 

Marcia gets successfully through two elaborate fantasies upon thepiano, that require rather more than the correct brilliancy of hertouch to make up for the incoherency of their composition; while Mollysits apart, dear soul, and wishes with much devoutness that theinventor of chess had been strangled at his birth. 

At ten o'clock precisely Mr. Amherst rises, having lost his game, and agood deal of his temper, and expresses his intention of retiringwithout delay to his virtuous slumbers. Marcia asks Molly whether shetoo would not wish to go to her room after the day's fatigue; at whichproposition Molly grasps with eagerness. Philip lights hercandle, --they are in the hall together, --and then holds out his hand. 

"Do you know we have not yet gone through the ceremony of shakinghands?" he says, with a kindly smile, and a still more kindly pressure;which I am afraid met with some faint return. Then he wishes her a goodnight's rest, and she wends her way up-stairs again, and knows thelong-thought-of, hoped-for, much-dreaded day is at an end. 

CHAPTER XII. 

"The guests are met, the feast is set;May'st hear the merry din. "

 --_Ancient Mariner. _

"Teddy is coming to-day, " is Molly's first thought next morning, as, springing from her bed, she patters across the floor in her bare feetto the window, to see how the weather is going to greet her lover. 

"He is coming. " The idea sends through her whole frame a little thrillof protective gladness. How happy, how independent she will feel withher champion always near her! A sneer loses half its bitterness whenresented by two instead of one, and Luttrell will be a sure partisan. Apart from all which, she is honestly glad at the prospect of so soonmeeting him face to face. 

Therefore it is that with shining eyes and uplifted head she takes herplace at the breakfast-table, which gives the pleasantest meal atHerst--old Amherst being ever conspicuous by his absence at it. 

Philip, too, is nowhere to be seen. 

"It will be a _tête-à-tête_ breakfast, " says Marcia, with a viewto explanation. "Grandpapa never appears at this hour, nor--oflate--does Philip. "

"How unsociable!" says Molly, rather disappointed at the latter'sdefection. "Do they never come? All the year round?"

"Grandpapa never. But Philip, I presume, will return to his usualhabits once the house begins to fill, --I mean, when the guests arrive. "

"This poor little guest is evidently of small account, " thinks Molly, rather piqued, and, as the thought crosses her mind, the door opens andPhilip comes toward her. 

"Good-morning, " he says, cheerfully. 

"You have breakfasted?" Marcia asks, coldly, in a rather surprisedtone. 

"Long since. But I will take a cup of coffee from you now, if you willallow me. "

"I hardly think you deserve it, " remarks Molly, turning luminous, laughing eyes upon him. "Marcia has just been telling me of your badhabits. Fancy your preferring your breakfast all alone to having itwith----"

"You?" interrupts he, quickly. "I admit your argument; it was bearish;but I was particularly engaged this morning. You shall not have tocomplain of my conduct in the future, however, as I am resolved to mendmy ways. See how you have improved me already. "

"Too sudden a reformation, I fear, to be lasting. "

"No. It all hinges on the fact that the iron was hot. There is noknowing what you may not do with me before you leave, if you will onlytake the trouble to teach me. Some more toast?"

"No, thank you. "

Marcia grows a shade paler, and lets one cup rattle awkwardly againstanother. Have they forgotten her very presence?

"I have not much fancy for the _rôle_ of teacher, " goes on Molly, archly: "I have heard it is an arduous and thankless one. Besides, Ibelieve you to be so idle that you would disgrace my best efforts. "

"Do you? Then you wrong me. On the contrary, you would find me a veryapt pupil, --ambitious, too, and anxious to improve under your tuition. "

"Suppose, " breaks in Marcia, with deadly civility, "you finish your_tête-à-tête_ in the drawing-room. We have quite done breakfast, Ithink, and one wearies of staring at the very prettiest china after abit. Will you be good enough to ring the bell, Philip?"

"Our _tête-à-tête_, as you call it, must be postponed, " saysPhilip, smiling, rising to obey her order; "I am still busy, and mustreturn to my work. Indeed, I only left it to pay you a flying visit. "

Although his tone includes both women, his eyes rest alone on Molly. 

"Then you do actually work, sometimes?" says that young lady, withexaggerated surprise and uplifted lids. 

"Now and then, --occasionally--as little as I can help. "

"What a speech, coming from an ambitious pupil!" cries she, gayly. "Ah!did I not judge you rightly a moment ago when I accused you ofidleness?"

Philip laughs, and disappears, while Molly follows Marcia into a smalldrawing-room, a sort of general boudoir, where the ladies of thehousehold are in the habit of assembling after breakfast, and intowhich, sooner or later, the men are sure to find their way. 

Marcia settles down to the everlasting macrame work on which she seemsperpetually engaged, while indolent Molly sits calmly, and it must beconfessed very contentedly, with her hands before her. 

After a considerable silence, Marcia says, icily:

"I fear you will find Herst Royal dull. There is so little to amuse onein a house where the host is an invalid. Do you read?"

"Sometimes, " says Molly, studying her companion curiously, and puttingon the air of ignorance so evidently expected. 

"Yes? that is well. Reading is about the one thing we have to occupyour time here. In the library you will probably be able to suit yourself. What will you prefer? an English work? or"--superciliously--"perhapsFrench? You are without doubt a French scholar. "

"If you mean that I consider myself complete mistress of the Frenchlanguage, " says Molly, meekly, "I must say no. "

"Ah! of course not. The remote country parts in which you live afford, I dare say, few opportunities of acquiring accomplishments. "

"We have a National School, " says Molly, with increasing mildness, andan impassive countenance. 

"Ah!" says Marcia again. Her look--her tone--say volumes. 

"You are very accomplished, I suppose, " says Molly, presently, hervoice full of resigned melancholy. "You can paint and draw?"

"Yes, a little. "

"And play, and sing?"

"Well, yes, " modestly; "I don't sing much, because my chest isdelicate. "

"Thin voice, " thinks Molly to herself. 

"How fortunate you are!" she says aloud. "How I envy you! Why, there ispositively _nothing_ you cannot do! Even that macrame, which seemsto me more difficult than all the other things I have mentioned, youhave entirely mastered. Now, I could not remember all those differentknots to save my life. How clever you are! How attractive men must findyou!" Molly sighs. 

A shade crosses Marcia's face. Her eyelids quiver. Although the shaft(be it said to Molly's praise) was innocently shot, still it reachedher cousin's heart, for has she not failed in attracting the one manshe so passionately loves?

"I really hardly know, " Miss Amherst says, coldly. "I--don't go in forthat sort of thing. And you, --do you paint?"

"Oh, no. "

"You play the piano, perhaps?"

"I try to, now and then. "

("'The Annen Polka, ' and on memorable occasions 'The Battle ofPrague, '" thinks Marcia, comfortably. ) "You sing, " she says. 

"I do, " with hesitation. 

("'Rosalie the Prairie Flower, ' and the 'Christy Minstrels' generally, "concludes Marcia, inwardly. ) "That is charming, " she says out loud: "itis so long since we have had any one here with a talent for music. "

"Oh, " says Molly, biting a little bit off her nail, and then examiningher finger in an embarrassed fashion, "you must not use the wordtalented, that implies so much, and I--really you know I---- Why, "starting to her feet, and regaining all her usual impulsive gayety, "that is surely Philip walking across the lawn, and he said he was sobusy. Can we not go out, Marcia? The day is so lovely. "

"If you want Philip, I dare say one of the servants will bring him toyou, " says Marcia, insolently. 

 * * * * *

Just before luncheon the Darleys arrive. Henry Darley, tall, refined, undemonstrative; Mrs. Darley, small and silly, with flaxen hair, blueeyes, pink and white complexion, and a general wax-dollyness about her;and just such a tiny, foolishly obstinate mouth as usually goes with aface like hers. She is vain, but never ill-natured, unless it suits herpurpose; frivolous, but in the main harmless; and, although indifferentto her husband, --of whom she is utterly unworthy, --takes care to bethoroughly respectable. Full of the desire, but without the pluck, togo altogether wrong, she skirts around the edges of her pet sins, yethaving a care that all those who pass by shall see her garments free ofstain. 

"I understand my husband, and my husband understands me, " she is in thehabit of saying to those who will take the trouble to listen; which isstrictly true as regards the latter part of the speech, though perhapsthe former is not so wise an assertion. 

With her she brings her only child, a beautiful little boy of six. 

She greets Marcia with effusion, and gushes over Molly. 

"So glad, dear, so charmed to make your acquaintance. Have always feltsuch a deep interest in your poor dear mother's sad but romantic story. So out of the common as it was, you know, and delightfully odd, and--and--all that. Of course you are aware there is a sort ofcousinship between us. My father married your----" and so on, and on, and on. 

She talks straight through lunch to any one and every one withoutpartiality; although afterward no one can remember what it was she wasso eloquent about. 

"Tedcastle not come?" she says, presently, catching Marcia's eye. "Iquite thought he was here. What an adorable boy he was! I do hope he isnot changed. If India has altered him, it will be quite too bad. "

"He may come yet, " replies Marcia; "though I now think it unlikely. When writing he said to-day, or to-morrow; and with him that alwaysmeans to-morrow. He is fond of putting off; his second thoughts arealways his best. "

"Always, " thinks Molly, angrily, feeling suddenly a keen sense of suredisappointment. What does she know about him? After all he said onparting he must, he _will_ come to-day. 

Yet somehow, spite of this comforting conclusion, her spirits sink, hersmile becomes less ready, her luncheon grows flavorless. Somethingwithin compels her to believe that not until the morrow shall she seeher lover. 

When they leave the dining-room she creeps away unnoticed, and, donningher hat, sallies forth alone into the pleasant wood that surrounds thehouse. 

For a mile or two she walks steadily on, crunching beneath her feetwith a certain sense of vicious enjoyment those early leaves thatalready have reached death. How very monotonous all through is a bigwood! Trees, grass, sky overhead! Sky, grass, trees. 

She pulls a few late wild flowers that smile up at her coaxingly, andturns them round and round within her fingers, not altogether tenderly. 

What a fuss poets, and painters, and such-like, make about flowers, wild ones especially! When all is said, there is a terrible samenessabout them; the same little pink ones here, the same little blue onesthere; here the inevitable pale yellow, there the pure warm violet. Well, no doubt there is certainly a wonderful variety--but still----

Looking up suddenly from her weak criticism, she sees coming quicklytoward her--very close to her--Teddy Luttrell. 

With a glad little cry, she flings the ill-treated flowers from her andruns to him with hands outstretched. 

"You have come, " she cries, "after all! I _knew_ you would;although she said you wouldn't. Oh, Teddy, I had _quite_ given youup. "

Luttrell takes no notice of this contradictory speech. With his armsround her, he is too full of the intense happiness of meeting afterseparation the beloved, to heed mere words. His eyes are fastened onher perfect face. 

How more than fair she is! how in his absence he has misjudged herbeauty! or is it that she grows in excellence day by day? Not in allhis lover's silent raptures has he imagined her half as lovely as shenow appears standing before him, her hands clasped in his, her faceflushed with unmistakable joy at seeing him again. 

"Darling, darling!" he says, with such earnest delight in his tonesthat she returns one of his many kisses, out of sheer sympathy. Forthough glad as she is to welcome him as a sure ally at Herst, shehardly feels the same longing for the embrace that he (with his heartfull of her alone) naturally does. 

"You look as if you were going to tell me I have grown tall, " she says, amused at his prolonged examination of her features. "John always does, when he returns from London, with the wild hope of keeping me down. Have I?"

"How can I tell? I have not taken my eyes from your face yet. "

"Silly boy, and I have seen all the disimprovements in you long ago. Ihave also seen that you are wearing an entirely new suit of clothes. Such reckless extravagance! but they are very becoming, and I am fondof light gray, so you are forgiven. Why did you not come sooner? I havebeen _longing_ for you. Oh, Teddy, I don't like Marcia orgrandpapa a bit; and Philip has been absent nearly all the time; yousaid you would come early. "

"So I did, by the earliest train; you could hardly have left the housewhen I arrived, and then I started instantly to find you. My own deardarling, " with a sigh of content, "how good it is to see you again, andhow well you are looking!"

"Am I?" laughing. "So are you, disgracefully well. You haven't aparticle of feeling, or you would be emaciated by this time. Nowconfess you did not miss me at all. "

"Were I to speak forever, I could not tell you how much. Are you not'the very eyes of me'?" says the young man, fondly. 

"That is a very nonsensical quotation, " says Molly, gayly. "Were you tosee with my eyes, just consider how different everything would appear. Now, for instance, _I_ would never have so far forgotten myself asto fall so idiotically and ridiculously in love, as you did, withbeautiful Molly Massereene!"

At this little touch of impertinence they both laugh merrily. Afterwhich, with some hesitation, and a rather heightened color, Tedcastledraws a case from his pocket, and presents it to her. 

"I brought you a--a present, " he says, "because I know you are fond ofpretty things. "

As she opens the case and sees within it, lying on its purple velvetbed, a large dull gold locket, with a wreath of raised forget-me-notsin turquoises and enamel on one side, she forms her lips into a round"Oh!" of admiration and delight, more satisfactory than any words. 

"Do you like it? I am so glad! I saw it one day, quite accidentally, ina window, and at once it reminded me of you. I thought it would exactlysuit you. Do you remember down by the river-side that night, after ourfirst important quarrel, when I asked you to marry me?"

"I remember, " softly. 

"You had forget-me-nots in your hands then, and in your dress. I cannever forget you, as you looked at that moment; and those flowers willever be associated with you in my mind. Surely they are the prettiestthat grow. I call them 'my sweet love's flower. '"

"How fond you are of me!" she says, wistfully, something like moisturein her eyes, "and, " turning her gaze again upon his gift, "you are toogood: you are always thinking how to please me. There is only one thingwanting to make this locket perfect, " raising her liquid eyes to hisagain, "and that is your face inside it. "

At which words, you may be sure, Luttrell is repaid over and over againall the thought and care he has expended on the choosing of thetrinket. 

"And so you are not in love with Herst?" he says, presently, as theymove on through the sweet wood, his arm around her. 

"With Herst? No, I have no fault to find with Herst; the place isbeautiful. But I confess I do not care about my grandfather or Marcia:of the two I prefer my grandfather, but that is saying very little. Philip alone has been very nice to me, --indeed, more than kind. "

"More! What does Marcia say to that?"

"Oh, there is nothing between them; I am sure of that. They either hateeach other or else familiarity has bred contempt between them, and theyavoid each other all they can, and never speak unless compelled. Forinstance, she says to him, 'Tea or coffee, Philip?' and he makes her apolite reply; or he says to her, 'Shall I stir the fire for you?' andshe makes _him_ a polite reply. But it can hardly be called afrantic attachment. "

"Like ours?" laughing and bending his tall slight figure to look intoher face. 

"In our case you have all the franticness to yourself, " she says; butas she says it she puts her own soft little hand over the one thatencircles her waist, to take the sting out of her words; though why shesaid it puzzles even herself: nevertheless there is great truth, in herremark, and he knows it. 

"Then Philip is handsome, " she says: "it is quite a pleasure to look athim. And I admire him very much. "

"He _is_ a good-looking fellow, " reluctantly, and as though itwere a matter of surprise nature's having bestowed beauty upon PhilipShadwell, "but surly. "

"'Surly!' not to me. "

"Oh, of course not to you! A man must be a brute to be uncivil to awoman. And I don't say he is that, " slowly, and as though it were yetan undecided point whether Philip should be classed with the lowercreation or not. "Do not let your admiration for him go too far, darling; remember----"

"About that, " interrupts she, hurriedly, "you have something toremember also. Your promise to keep our engagement a dead secret. Youwill not break it?"

"I never, " a little stiffly, "break a promise. You need not havereminded me of this one. "

Silence. 

Glancing up at her companion stealthily, Molly can see his lips are ina degree compressed, and that for the first time since their reunionhis eyes are turned determinedly from her. Her heart smites her. Sogood as he is to her, she has already hurt and wounded him. 

With a little caressing, tender movement, she rubs her cheek up anddown against his sleeve for a moment or two, and then says, softly:

"Are you cross with me, Teddy? Don't then. I am so glad, so happy, tohave you with me again. Do not spoil this one good hour by putting anasty unbecoming little frown upon your forehead. Come, turn your faceto me again: when you look at me, I know you will smile, for my sake. "

"My own darling, " says Luttrell, passionately. 

 * * * * *

The morrow brings new faces, and Herst is still further enlivened bythe arrival of two men from some distant barracks, --one so tall, andthe other so diminutive, as to call for an immediate joke about "thelong and the short of it. "

Captain Mottie is a jolly, genial little soul, with a perpetual look onall occasions as though he couldn't help it, and just one fault, afatal tendency toward punning of the weakest description with which hehopes in vain to excite the risibility of his intimates. Having a mindabove disappointment, however, he feels no depression on marking theinvariable silence that follows his best efforts, and, with aperseverance worthy of a better cause, only nerves himself for freshfailures. 

Nature, having been unprodigal to him in the matter of height, makes upfor it generously in the matter of breadth, with such lavish generosity, indeed, that he feels the time has come when, with tears in his eyes, hemust say "no" to his bitter beer. 

His chum, Mr. Longshanks (commonly called "Daddy Longlegs, " on accountof the length of his lower limbs), is his exact counterpart, being assilent as the other is talkative; seldom exerting himself, indeed, toshine in conversation, or break the mysterious quiet that envelops him, except when he faithfully (though unsmilingly) helps out his friend'sendeavors at wit, by saying "ha! ha!" when occasion calls for it. Hehas a red nose that is rather striking and suggests expense. He hasalso a weakness for gaudy garments, and gets himself up like a showycommercial traveler. 

They are both related in some far-off manner to their host, though how, I believe, both he and they would be puzzled to explain. Still, therelationship beyond dispute is there, which is everything. _Enfin_they are harmless beings, such as come in useful for padding purposesin country houses during the winter and autumn seasons, being, according to their friends' account, crack shots, "A1 at billiards, "and "beggars to ride. "

It is four o'clock. The house is almost deserted. All the men have beenshooting since early morning. Only Molly and Marcia remain inpossession of the sitting-room that overlooks the graveled walk, Mrs. Darley having accompanied Mr. Amherst in his customary drive. 

The sound of wheels coming quickly down the avenue compels Molly toglance up from the book she is enjoying. 

"Somebody is coming, " she says to Marcia; and Marcia, rising with morealacrity than is her wont, says, "It must be Lady Stafford, " and goesinto the hall to receive her guest. Molly, full of eager curiosity tosee this cousin of Tedcastle's whose story has so filled her withinterest, rises also, and cranes her neck desperately round the cornerof the window to try and catch a glimspe of her, but in vain, theunfriendly porch prevents her, and, sinking back into her seat, she isfain to content herself by listening to the conversation that is goingon in the hall between Marcia and the new arrival. 

"Oh, Marcia, is that you?" says a high, sweet voice, with a littlecomplaining note running through it, and then there is a pause, evidently filled up by an osculatory movement. "How odiously cool andfresh you do look! while I--what a journey it has been! and how out ofthe way! I really don't believe it was nearly so far the last time. Have the roads lengthened, or have they pushed the house farther on? Inever felt so done up in my life. "

"You do look tired, dear. Better go to your room at once, and let mesend you up some tea. "

"Not tea, " says the sweet voice; "anything but _that_. I am quitetoo far gone for _tea_. Say sherry, Marcia, or--no, --Moselle. Ithink it is Moselle that does me good when I am fatigued to death. "

"You shall have it directly. Matthews, show Lady Stafford her room. "

"One moment, Marcia. Many people come yet? Tedcastle?"

"Yes, and Captain Mottie, with his devoted attendant, and the Darleys. "

"Maudie? Is she as fascinating as ever? I do hope, Marcia, you have gother young man for her this time, as she was simply unbearable lastyear. "

"I have not, " laughing: "it is a dead secret, but the fact is, he_wouldn't come_. "

"I like that young man; though I consider he has sold us shamefully. Any one else?"

"My cousin, Eleanor Massereene. "

"_The_ cousin! I am so glad. Anything new is such a relief. And Ihave heard she is beautiful: is she?"

"Beauty is in the eye of the beholder, " quotes Marcia, in a low tone, and with a motion of her hand toward the open door inside which sitsMolly, that sends Lady Stafford up-stairs without further parley. 

"Is it Lady Stafford?" asks Molly, as Marcia re-enters the room. 

"Yes. "

"She seems very tired. "

"I don't know, really. She thinks she is, --which amounts to the samething. You will see her in half an hour or so as fresh as thoughfatigue were a thing unknown. "

"How does she do it?" asks Molly, curiously, who has imagined LadyStafford by her tone to be in the last stage of exhaustion. 

"How can I say? I suppose her maid knows. "

"Why? Does she--paint?" asks Molly, with hesitation, who has beentaught to believe that all London women are a mixture of false hair, rouge, pearl powder, and belladonna. 

"Paint!" with a polite disgust, "I should hope not. If you are a judgein that matter you will be able to see for yourself. I know nothing ofsuch things, but I don't think respectable women paint. "

"But, " says Molly, who feels a sudden anger at her tone, and as suddena desire to punish her for her insolence, opening her blue eyesinnocently wide, "_you_ are respectable, Marcia?"

"What do you mean by that?" growing pale with anger, even through thatdelicate _soupçon_ of color that of late she has been compelled touse to conceal her pallor. "Do you mean to insinuate that _I_paint?"

"I certainly thought you did, " still innocent, still full of wonder:"you said----"

"I would advise you for the future to restrain such thoughts:experience will teach you they show want of breeding. In the meantime, I beg you to understand that I do _not_ paint. "

"Oh, Marcia!"

"You are either extremely impertinent or excessively ignorant, orboth!" says Marcia, rising to her full height, and turning flashingeyes upon her cousin, who is regarding her with the liveliest reproach. "I insist on knowing what you mean by your remarks. "

"Why, have you forgotten all about those charming water-color sketchesin the small gallery up-stairs?" exclaims Molly, with an airyirrepressible laugh. "There, don't be angry: I was only jesting; no onewould for a moment suspect you of such a disreputable habit. "

"Pray reserve your jests for those who may appreciate them, " says MissAmherst, in a low angry tone: "I do not. They are as vulgar as they areill-timed. "

"But I took a good rise out of her all the same, " says Molly toherself, as she slips from the room full of malicious laughter. 

Before dinner--not sooner--Lady Stafford makes her appearance, andquite dazzles Molly with her beauty and the sweetness of her manner. She seems in the gayest spirits, and quite corroborates all Marcia hassaid about her exhibiting no symptoms of fatigue. Her voice, indeed, still retains its sad tone, but it is habitual to her, and does notinterfere with the attractive liveliness of her demeanor, but only addsanother charm to the many she already possesses. 

She is taller than Tedcastle has led Molly to believe, and looks evensmaller than she really is. Her eyelids droop at the corners, and giveher a pensive expression that softens the laughter of her blue eyes. Her nose is small and clever, her mouth very merry, her skin exquisite, though devoid of the blue veins that usually go with so delicate awhite, and her hair is a bright, rich gold. She is extremely lovely, and, what is far better, very pleasing to the eye. 

"I am much better, " she says, gayly, addressing Marcia, and then, turning to Molly, holds out to her a friendly hand. 

"Miss Massereene, I know, " she smiles, looking at her, and letting apleased expression overspread her features as she does so. "Marcia toldme of your arrival; I have heard of you also from other people; buttheir opinion I must reserve until I have become your friend. At allevents, they did not lie in their description. No, you must notcross-examine me; I will not tell what they said. "

She is a decided addition to the household; they all find her so. EvenMr. Longshanks brightens up, and makes a solitary remark at dinner;but, as nobody catches it, he is hardly as unhappy as otherwiseassuredly he would have been. 

After dinner she proves herself as agreeable in the drawing-room(during that wretched half-hour devoid of men) as she had been whensurrounded by them, and chatters on to Marcia and Molly of all thingspossible and impossible. 

Presently, however, the conversation drifting toward people of whoseexistence Molly has hitherto been unaware, she moves a little apartfrom the other two, and amuses herself by turning over a book ofByron's beauties; while wishing heartily those stupid men would wearyof their wine, --vain wish!

By degrees the voices on the other sofa wax fainter and fainter, thenrise with sudden boldness, as Marcia, secure in her French--says inthat language, evidently in answer to some remark, "No; just conceiveit, --she is totally uneducated, that is, in the accepted meaning of theword. The very morning after her arrival she confessed to me she knewnothing of French, nothing to signify of music, nothing, in fact, ofanything. "

"But her air, her whole bearing, --it is inconceivable, " says LadyStafford. "She must have had some education surely. "

"She spoke of a National School! Consider the horror of it! I expecther brother must be a very low sort of person. If she can read andwrite it is as much as we need hope for. That is the worst of living inone of those petty villages, completely out of society. "

"What a pity, with her charming face and figure!" says Lady Stafford, also (I regret to say) so far forgetting herself as to speak in thelanguage she believes falsely to be unknown to Molly. 

"Yes, she is rather pretty, " admits Marcia, against her will; "butbeauty when attached to ignorance is only a matter of regret, as itseems to me. "

"True, " says Lady Stafford, pityingly, letting her eyes fall on Molly. 

The latter, whose own eyes have been fixed vacantly on some distant andinvisible object outside in the dark garden, now rises, humming softly, and going toward the window presses her forehead against one of thecool panes. So stationed, she is out of sight and hearing. 

The door opens, and the men come in by twos. Luttrell makes straightfor Molly, and as an excuse for doing so says out loud:

"Miss Massereene, will you sing us something?"

"I don't sing, " returns Molly, in a distinct and audible tone, --audibleenough to make Marcia raise her shoulders and cast an "I told you so"glance at Cecil Stafford. 

Luttrell, bewildered, gazes at Molly. 

"But----" he commences, rashly. 

"I tell you I don't sing, " she says, again, in a lower, more imperativetone, although even now she repents her of the ill-humor that hasbalked her of a revenge so ready to her hand. To sing a French song, with her divine voice, before Marcia! A triumph indeed!

All night long the conversation between her cousin and Lady Staffordrankles in her mind. What a foolish freak it was her ever permittingMarcia to think of her as one altogether without education! Instinctmight have told that her cousin would not scruple about applying suchknowledge to her disadvantage. And yet why is Marcia her enemy? How hasshe ever injured her? With what purpose does she seek to make her visitunpleasant to her?

And to speak contemptuously of her to Lady Stafford, of all people, whom already she likes well enough to covet her regard in return, --itis too bad. Not for worlds would she have had her think so poorly ofher. 

At all events she will lose no time in explaining, on the morrow; andwith this determination full upon her she retires to rest, with somesmall comfort at her heart. 

CHAPTER XIII. 

"Music hath charms. "

"May I come in?" says Molly, next day, knocking softly at LadyStafford's door. 

"By all means, " returns the plaintive voice from within; and Molly, opening the door, finds Cecil has risen, and is coming forward eagerlyto meet her. 

"I knew your voice, " says the blonde, gayly. "Come in and sit down, do. I am _ennuyée_ to the last degree, and will accept it as apositive charity if you will devote half an hour to my society. "

"But you are sure I am not in the way?" asks Molly, hesitating; "youare not--busy?"

"Busy! Oh, what a stranger I am to you, my dear, " exclaims Cecil, elevating her brows: "it is three long years since last I was busy. Iam sure I wish I were: perhaps it might help me to get through thetime. I have spent the last hour wondering what on earth brought me tothis benighted spot, and I really don't know yet. "

"Grandpapa's invitation, I suppose, " says Molly, laughing. 

"Well, yes, perhaps so; and something else, --something that I verilybelieve brings us all!--the fact that he has untold money, and canleave it where he pleases. There lies the secret of our yearlyvisitations. We outsiders don't of course hope to be the heir, --Philipis that, or Marcia, or perhaps both; but still there is a good deal ofready money going, and we all hope to be 'kindly remembered. ' Each timewe sacrifice ourselves by coming down here, we console ourselves by thereflection that it is at least another hundred tacked on to ourlegacy. "

"What if you are disappointed?"

"I often think of that, " says her ladyship, going off into a perfectpeal of laughter. "Oh, the fun it would be! Think of our expressions. Iassure you I spend whole hours picturing Maud Darley's face under thecircumstances; you know she takes those long drives with him every dayin the fond hope of cutting us all out and getting the lion's share. "

"Poor woman! it is sad if she has all her trouble for nothing. I do notthink I should like driving with grandpapa. "

"I share your sentiments: neither should I. Still, there is a charm inmoney. Every night before going to bed I tot up on my fingers theamount of the bequest I feel I ought to receive. It has reached twothousand pounds by this. Next visit will commence a fresh thousand. "

"You are sanguine, " says Molly. "I wonder if I shall go on hoping likeyou, year after year. "

"I request you will not even insinuate such a thing, " cries LadyStafford in pretended horror. "'Year after year!' Why, how long do youmean him to live? If he doesn't die soon, I shall certainly throw up mychance and cut his acquaintance. " Then, with sudden self-reproach, "Poor old fellow, " she says, "it is a shame to speak of him like thiseven in jest. He may live forever, as far as I am concerned. Now tellme something about yourself, and do take a more comfortable chair: youdon't look half cozy. "

"Don't make me too comfortable, or perhaps I shall bore you to deathwith the frequency of my visits. You will have me again to-morrow ifyou don't take care. "

"Well, I hope so. Remember you have _carte blanche_ to come herewhenever you choose. I was fast falling into the blues when I heard youknock, so you may fancy how welcome you were, almost as welcome as mycousin. "

"Marcia?" asks Molly, feeling slightly disappointed at the "almost. "

"Oh, dear, no, --not Marcia; she and I don't get on a bit too welltogether, and she was excessively disagreeable all this morning: she isher grandfather's own child. I am sure she need not visit Philip'sdefection on me; but she has a horrible temper, and that's the truth. No, I meant Tedcastle; he is my cousin also. I do so like Tedcastle:don't you?"

"Very much indeed, " coloring faintly. "But, " hastily, "I have not yettold you what brought me here to-day. "

"Do you mean to tell me you had an object in coming?" cries herladyship, throwing up her little white jeweled hands in affectedreproach. "That something keener than a desire for my society hasbrought you to my boudoir? You reduce me to despair! I did for oneshort quarter of an hour believe you 'loved me for myself alone. '"

"No, " laughing, and blushing, too, all through her pale clear skin, "Iconfess to the object. I--the fact is--I have felt a little deceitfulever since last night. Because--in spite of Marcia's superiorinformation on the subject, I have had some slight education, and I_do_ know a little French!"

"Ah!" cries Lady Stafford, rising and blushing herself, a vividcrimson: "you heard, you understood all. Well, " with a sudden revival, and a happy remembrance of her own words, "I didn't say anything bad, did I?"

"No, no: I would not have come here if you had. You said all there wasof the kindest. You were _so_ kind. I could not bear to deceiveyou or let you retain a false opinion of me. Marcia, indeed, outdidherself, though I am guiltless of offense toward her. She is evidentlynot aware of the fact that one part of my life was spent in London withmy aunt, my father's sister, and that while with her I had the bestmasters to be found. I am sorry for Marcia, but I could not bringmyself to speak just then. "

Cecil burst into a merry, irresistible laugh. 

"It is delicious!" cries she, wickedly. "A very comedy of errors. If wecould but manage some effective way of showing Marcia her mistake. Canyou, " with sudden inspiration, "sing?"

"I can, " says Molly, calmly. 

"You can. That sounds promising. I wonder you don't say 'a little, ' asall young ladies do, more especially when they sing a good deal morethan any one wants them to! Come here, and let me see what you mean bythat uncompromising 'can. '"

Opening a small cottage piano at the other end of her prettysitting-room, she motions Molly to the instrument. 

"Play for me, " Molly says, bent on doing her very best. "I can singbetter standing. "

"What, then?"

"This, " taking up a song of Sullivan's, after a rapid survey of thepile of music lying on one side. 

She sings, her lovely voice thrilling and sobbing through the room, sings with a passionate desire to prove her powers, and well succeeds. For a minute after she has finished, Cecil does not speak, and thengoes into raptures, as "is her nature to. "

"Oh that I had your voice!" cries she, with genuine tears in her eyes. "I would have the world at my feet. What a gift! a voice for a goddess!Molly--may I call you so?--I absolutely pity Marcia when I think of herconsternation. "

"She deserves it, " says Molly, who feels her cousin's conduct deeply. "I will sing to-night, if you will get Marcia to ask me. "

So the two conspirators arrange their little plan, Cecil Stafford beingquite mischievous enough to enjoy the thought of Miss Amherst'sapproaching discomfiture, while Molly feels all a woman's desire torestore her hurt vanity. 

 * * * * *

Dinner is half over; and so far it has been highly successful. Mr. Amherst's temper has taken this satisfactory turn, --he absolutelyrefuses to speak to any of his guests. 

Under these circumstances every one feels it will be the better part ofvalor not to address him, --all, that is, except Mrs. Darley, who, believing herself irresistible, goes in for the doubtful task ofsoothing the bear and coaxing him from his den. 

"I am afraid you have a headache, dear Mr. Amherst, " she says, beamingsweetly upon him. 

"Are you, madam? Even if I were a victim to that foolish disorder, Ihardly see why the fact should arouse a feeling of terror in yourbreast. Only weak-minded girls have headaches. "

A faint pause. Conversation is languishing, dying, among the otherguests; they smell the fight afar, and pause in hungry expectation ofwhat is surely coming. 

"I pity any one so afflicted, " says Mrs. Darley, going valiantly to herdeath: "I am a perfect martyr to them myself. " Here she gives way to alittle sympathetic sigh, being still evidently bent on believing himweighed down with pain heroically borne. 

"Are you?" says Mr. Amherst, with elaborate politeness. "You astonishme. I should never have thought it. Rheumatism, now, I might. But howold are you, madam?"

"Well, really, " says Mrs. Darley, with a pretty childish laugh whichshe rather cultivates, being under the impression that it isfascinating to the last degree, "asking me so suddenly puts the preciseday I was born out of my head. I hardly remember--exactly--when----"

Conversation has died. Every one's attention is fixed; by experiencethey know the end is nigh. 

"Just so; I don't suppose you could, it happened such a long time ago!"says this terrible old man, with an audible chuckle, that falls upon asilent and (must it be said?) appreciative audience. 

Mrs. Darley says no more; what is there left to say? and conversationis once more taken up, and flows on as smoothly as it can, wheneverybody else is talking for a purpose. 

"_Is_ she old?" Molly asks Philip, presently, in a low tone, whenthe buzz is at its highest; "very old, I mean? She looks so babyish. "

"How old would you say?" speaking in the same guarded tone as her own, which has the effect of making Luttrell and Marcia believe them deep ina growing flirtation. 

"About twenty-two or three. "

"She does it uncommonly well then, " says Philip, regarding Mrs. Darleywith much admiration, --"uncommonly well; her maid must be a treasure. "

"But why? Is she older than that?"

"I don't know, I am sure, " says Philip, unkindly, with an amused smile. "She used to be my age, but I haven't the faintest idea in the worldwhat she is--now!"

After one or two more playful sallies on the part of their host, --forhaving once found his tongue he takes very good care to use it, andappears fatally bent on making his hearers well aware of itsrestoration, --the ladies adjourn to the drawing-room, where Mrs. Darleyinstantly retires behind her handkerchief and gives way to a gentlesob. 

"That detestable old man!" she says, viciously; "how I hate him! Whathave I done, that he should treat me with such exceeding rudeness? Onewould think I was as old as--as--Methuselah! Not that his mentioning myage puts me out in the least, --why should it?--only his manner is sooffensive!"

And as she finishes she rolls up the corners of her handkerchief into alittle point, and carefully picks out, one by one, the two tears thatadorn her eyes, lest by any chance they should escape, and, runningdown her cheeks, destroy the evening's painting. 

"Don't distress yourself about it, Maud, " says Lady Stafford, kindly, although strongly divided between pity for the angry Maud and a growingdesire to laugh; "nobody minds him: you know we all suffer in turn. Something tells me it will be my turn next, and then you will indeedsee a noble example of fortitude under affliction. "

There is no time for more; the door opens and the men come in, morespeedily to-night than is their wont, no doubt driven thereto by theamiability of Mr. Amherst. 

Maud suppresses the tell-tale handkerchief, and puts on such a sweetsmile as utterly precludes the idea of chagrin. The men, with the usualamount of bungling, fall into their places, and Cecil seizes theopportunity to say to Marcia, in a low tone:

"You say Miss Massereene sings. Ask her to give us something now. It isso slow doing nothing all the evening, and I feel Mr. Amherst is benton mischief. Besides, it is hard on you, expecting you to play all thenight through. "

"I will ask her if you wish it, " Marcia says, indifferently, "butremember, you need not look for a musical treat. I detest bad singingmyself. "

"Oh, anything, anything, " says Cecil, languidly sinking back into herchair. 

Thus instigated, Marcia does ask Molly to sing. 

"If you will care to hear me, " Molly answers, coldly rather thandiffidently, and rising, goes to the piano. 

"Perhaps there may be something of mine here that you may know, " Marciasays, superciliously, pointing to the stand; but Molly, declaring thatshe can manage without music, sits down and plays the opening chords ofGounod's "Berceuse. "

A moment later, and her glorious voice, rarely soft, and sweet as achild's, yet powerful withal, rings through the room, swells, faints, every note a separate delight, falling like rounded pearls from herlips. 

A silence--truest praise of all--follows. One by one the talkers ceasetheir chatter; the last word remains a last word; they forget thethought of a moment before. 

A dead calm reigns, while Molly sings on, until the final note dropsfrom her with lingering tenderness. 

Even then they seem in no hurry to thank her; almost half a minuteelapses before any one congratulates her on the exquisite gift that hasbeen given her. 

"You have been days in the house, and never until now have let us hearyou, " Philip says, leaning on the top of the piano; he is an enthusiastwhere music is concerned. "How selfish! how unkind! I could hardly havebelieved it of you. "

"Was I ever asked before?" Molly says, raising her eyes to his, whileher fingers still run lightly over the notes. 

"I don't know. I suppose it never occurred to us, and, as you may havenoticed, there is a dearth of graciousness among us. But for you tokeep such a possession a secret was more than cruel. Sing again. "

"I must not monopolize the piano: other people can sing too. "

"Not like you. " He pauses, and then says, slowly, "I used to thinknature was impartial in the distribution of her gifts, --that, as arule, we all received pretty much the same amount of good at her hands;to one beauty, to another talent, and so on; but I was wrong: she hasher favorites, it appears. Surely already you had had more than yourshare, without throwing in your perfect voice. "

Molly lowers her eyes, but makes no reply; experience has taught herthat this is one of the occasions on which "silence is golden. "

"You sing yourself, perhaps?" she says, presently, when she has tiredof waiting for him to start a subject. 

"Occasionally. Will you sing this with me?" taking up a celebrated duetand placing it before her. "Do you know it?"

"Yes, Mr. Luttrell and I used to sing it often at Brooklyn: it was agreat favorite of ours. "

"Oh, that! Indeed!" laying it aside with suspicious haste. "Shall wetry something else?"

"And why something else?" composedly. "Does that not suit your voice?If it does, I will sing it with you with pleasure. "

"Really?" regarding her closely, with what is decidedly more thanadmiration in his gaze. "Are there no recollections hidden in thatsong?"

"How can I tell? I never saw that particular edition before. Open it, and let us see, " returns Molly, with a merry laugh. "Who knows what wemay find between the pages?"

"If I might only believe you, " he says, earnestly, still only halfconvinced. "Do you mean to tell me Luttrell spent an entire month withyou, and left you heart-whole? I cannot believe it. "

"Then don't, " still laughing. 

At this instant, Luttrell, who has with moody eyes been watchingPhilip's eager face from the other end of the room, saunters up, andseeing the old well-remembered duet lying open before Molly, suddenlythinks it may be there for him, and cheering up, says pleasantly:

"Are you going to sing it with me?"

"Not to-night, " Molly replies, kindly; "Philip has just asked me tosing it with him. Some other time. "

"Ah!" says Luttrell, more wounded than he cares to confess; for is notthat very song endeared to him by a thousand memories? and turning onhis heel, he walks away. 

With a little impulsive gesture Molly rises from the piano-stool, and, without again looking at Philip, moves across the room to the seat shehad originally vacated. As she does so she passes close by Marcia, who, ever since her cousin's voice first sounded in her ears, has beensitting silent, now pale, now red. 

She stays Molly by a slight movement of the hand, and says, coldly:

"I thought you told me you could neither sing nor understand French?"

"I don't think I could have said quite that, " Molly replies, quietly;"I told you I sang a little; it is not customary to laud one's ownperformances. "

"You are a clever actress, " says Marcia, so low as to be unheard by allbut Molly: "with such a voice as yours, and such masterly command ofall emotion and expression, you should make the stage your home. "

"Perhaps I shall find your hint useful in the future, " says Molly, witha slight shrug of her shoulders: "when one is poor it is always well toknow there is something one can put one's hand to when things come tothe worst; but at present I feel sufficiently at home where I am. I amglad, " calmly, "my singing pleased you, --if, indeed, it did. "

"You sing magnificently, " Marcia says, aloud, giving her meed of praisejustly, but unwillingly. 

"And such a charming song as that is!" breaks in Mrs. Darley: "Iremember hearing it for the first time, just after my marriage; indeed, while we were yet enjoying our wedding tour. Do you remember it, dearest?" As she murmurs the tender words, she turns upon her lord twoazure eyes so limpid and full of trust and love that any man ignorantof the truth would have sworn by all his gods her desire was with herhusband, whereas every inch of heart she possesses has long since beenhanded over to a man in the Horse Guards Blue. 

"Humph!" says Henry Darley, eloquently; and without further rejoindergoes on with the game of chess he is playing with Mr. Amherst. 

"Let us have something else, Eleanor, " her grandfather says, looking upfor an instant from his beloved queens and kings and castles; "anothersong. "

This is such a wonderful request coming from Mr. Amherst, who is knownto abhor Marcia's attempts, that every one looks surprised. 

"Willingly, grandpapa, " says Molly, and, going once more to the piano, gladly puts the obnoxious duet away, feeling sure its appearance hascaused Tedcastle's annoyance. "Though if he is going to be jealous soearly in the game as this, " thinks she, "I don't fancy I shall have analtogether festive time of it. "

"What shall it be?" she asks, aloud. 

"Nothing Italian, at all events, " says Mr. Amherst (all Marcia'sendeavors are in that language); "I like something I can understand, and I hate your runs and trills. "

"I will sing you my own song, " says Molly, gayly, and gives them "MollyBawn" deliciously. 

"How pretty that is!" says Lady Stafford; "and so wild, --quite Irish!But your name, after all, is Eleanor, is it not?"

"There is, I believe, a tradition in the family to that effect, " saysMolly, smiling, "but it is used up, and no one now pays to it the leastattention. I myself much prefer Molly. I am always called Molly Bawn athome. "

Her voice lingers on the word "home. " In an instant, amidst all theluxuries and charms of this beautiful drawing-room at Herst, her mindgoes back to the old, homely, beloved sanctum at Brooklyn, where shesees John, and Letty, and all the happy, merry, good-hearted children, harmoniously mixed up together. 

"It is a pity, " says Mr. Amherst, purposely, seeing an opening for oneof his cheerful remarks, "that everything about Ireland should be sowretchedly low. "

"It _is_ swampy, " replies Miss Molly, promptly. 

At this dangerous moment the door is thrown wide open, and a servantannounces "Mr. Potts. "

The effect is electric. Everybody looks up, and pleased, and glad;while the owner of this euphonious name comes forward, and, havingshaken hands with Marcia, turns to old Amherst. 

"How d'ye do, sir?" he says, heartily. "I hope you are better. "

"Do you?" says Mr. Amherst, unamiably, feeling still a keen regret thatthe neat retort intended for Molly must wait another occasion. "I wouldbelieve you if I could, but it isn't in human nature. Yes, I am better, thank you; much better. I dare say with care I shall last this winter, and probably the next, and perhaps outlive a good many of you. " Hechuckles odiously as he winds up this pleasing speech. 

Mr. Potts, rather taken aback, mutters something inaudible, and turnsto Lady Stafford, who receives him warmly. 

He is a young man of about twenty-four (though he might, in appearance, be any age from that to forty-four), and is short rather than tall. Hiseyes are gray, small, and bright, and full of fun, bespeakingimperturbable good humor. 

His hair is red. It is hair that admits of no compromise; it is neitherauburn, golden, nor light brown--it is a distinct and fiery red. Hisnose is "poor, but honest, " and he has a thorough and most apparentappreciation of himself. 

As I said before, Lady Stafford greets him warmly; he is one of herspecial pets. 

"How are you getting on?" he asks, mysteriously, when the firstquestions and answers have been gone through. "Old boy evidently worsethan ever. The wine theory would not suit his case; age does anythingbut improve him. He has gone to the bad altogether. I suppose you'vebeen putting in an awful bad time of it?"

"We have, indeed, " says Lady Stafford; "he has been unbearable allthrough dinner, though he was pretty well yesterday. I think myself itmust be gout; every twinge brings forth a caustic speech. "

By this time every one had shaken hands with the newcomer, and welcomedhim heartily. He seems specially pleased to see Tedcastle. 

"Luttrell! you here? Never had a hint of it. So glad to see you, oldman! Why, you're looking as fit as even your best friend could wishyou. "

"Meaning yourself, " says Luttrell. "Now, let's have a look at you. Why, Planty, what an exquisite get up! New coat and--etc. Latest tie, anddiamonds _ad lib_. Quite coquettish, upon my word. Who gave youthe diamonds, Potts? Your mother?"

"No; I got tired of hinting there, " says Potts, ingenuously, "so gaveit up, and bought 'em myself. They are fetching, I take it. Luttrell, who is the girl at the piano? Never saw anything so lovely in all mylife. "

"Miss Massereene. "

"Indeed! Been received, and all that? Well, there's been nothing thisseason to touch on her. Introduce me, Ted, do!"

He is introduced. And Molly, smiling up at him one of her ownbrightest, kindliest smiles, makes him then and there her slaveforever. On the spot, without a second's delay, he falls head over earsin love with her. 

By degrees he gets back to Lady Stafford, and sinks upon the sofabeside her. I say "sinks" unadvisedly; he drops upon the sofa, and verynearly makes havoc of the springs in doing so. 

"I want to tell you who I saw in town the day before I left--a weekago, " he says, cautiously. 

"A week ago! And have you been ever since getting here?"

"No; I did it by degrees. First, I went down to the Maplesons', andspent two days there--very slow, indeed; then I got on to the Blouts', and found it much slower there; finally, I drove to Talbot Lowry'snight before last, and stayed there until this evening. You know helives only three miles from here. "

"He is at home now, then?"

"Yes. He always _is_ at home, I notice, when--you are here!"

"No!" says Cecil, with a little faint laugh. "You don't say so! what aremarkable coincidence!"

"An annual coincidence. But you don't ask me who it was I saw inLondon. Guess. "

"The Christy Minstrels, without doubt. They never perform out ofLondon, so I suppose are the only people in it now. "

"Wrong. There was one other person--Sir Penthony Stafford!"

"Really!" says Cecil, coloring warmly, and sitting in a more uprightposition. "He has returned, then? I thought he was in Egypt. "

"So he was, but he has come back, looking uncommon well, too--as brownas a berry. To my thinking, as good a fellow to look at as there is inEngland, and a capital fellow all round into the bargain!"

"Dear me!" says Cecil. "What a loss Egypt has sustained! And what apartisan you have become! May I ask, " suppressing a pretended yawnbehind her perfumed fan, "where your _rara avis_ is at presenthiding?"

"I asked him, " says Mr. Potts, "but he rather evaded the question. "

 * * * * *

"And is _that_ your Mr. Potts?" asks Molly, finding herself closeto Tedcastle, speaking with heavy and suspicious emphasis. 

"Yes, " Tedcastle admits, coloring slightly as he remembers the glowingterms in which he has described his friend. "Don't you--eh, don't youlike him?"

"Oh! like him? I cannot answer that yet; but, " laughing, "I certainlydon't admire him. "

And indeed Mr. Potts's beauty is not of the sort to call forth rapturesat first sight. 

"I have seen many different shades of red in people's hair, " saysMolly, "but I have never seen it rosy until now. Is it dyed? It is themost curious thing I ever looked at. "

As indeed it is. When introduced to poor Potts, when covering him witha first dispassionate glance, one thinks not of his pale gray orbs, hislarge good-humored mouth, his freckles, or his enormous nose, but onlyof his hair. Molly is struck by it at once. 

"He is a right good fellow, " says Luttrell, rather indignantly, beingscarcely in the mood to laugh at Molly's sarcasms. 

"He may be, " is her calm reply, "but if I were he, rather than gothrough life with that complexion and that unhappy head, I would commitsuicide. "

Then there is a little more music. Marcia plays brilliantly enough, butit is almost impossible to forget during her playing that she has hadan excellent master. It is not genuine, or from the heart. It isclever, but it is acquired, and falls very flatly after Molly's perfectsinging, and no one in the room feels this more acutely than Marciaherself. 

Then Luttrell, who has a charming voice, sings for them somethingpathetic and reproachful, you may be sure, as it is meant for Molly'sears; and then the evening is at an end, and they all go to their ownrooms. 

What a haven of rest and security is one's own room! How instinctivelyin grief or joy one turns to it, to hide from prying eyes one's inmostthoughts, one's hopes, and despairs!

To-night there are two sad hearts at Herst; Marcia's, perhaps, thesaddest, for it is full of that most maddening, most intolerable of allpains, jealousy. 

For hours she sits by her casement, pondering on the cruelty of herfate, while the unsympathetic moon pours its white rays upon her. 

"Already his love is dead, " she murmurs, leaning naked arms upon thewindow-sill, and turning her lustrous southern eyes up to the skiesabove her. "Already. In two short months. And how have I fallen short?how have I lost him? By over-loving, perhaps. While she, who does notvalue it, has gained my all. "

A little groan escapes her, and she lets her dark head sink upon heroutstretched arms. For there is something in Philip's eyes as they reston Molly, something undefined, hardly formed, but surely there, thatbetrays to Marcia the secret feeling, of which he himself is scarcelyyet aware. 

One hardly knows how it is, but Molly, with a glance, a gesture, threelittle words pointed by a smile from the liquid eyes, can draw him toher side. And when a man of his cold, reserved nature truly loves, besure it is a passion that will last him his life. 

Tedcastle, too, is thoroughly unhappy to-night. His honest, unpryingmind, made sharp by "love's conflict, " has seen through Philip'sinfatuation, and over his last cigar before turning in (a cigar thatto-night has somehow lost half its soothing properties) makes out witha sinking of the heart what it all means. 

He thinks, too, yet upbraids himself for so thinking, that MissMassereene must see that Philip Shadwell, heir to Herst and twentythousand pounds a year, is a better catch than Teddy Luttrell, withonly his great love for her, and a paltry six hundred pounds a year. 

Is it not selfish of him to seek to keep her from what is so evidentlyto her advantage? Perhaps he ought to throw up his engagement, and, passing out of her life, leave her to reap the "good the gods provide. "

In vain he tries to argue himself into this heroic frame of mind. Themore he tries, the more obnoxious grows the idea. He cannot, he willnot give her up. 

"Faint heart, " says Teddy, flinging the remnant of his cigar withfierce determination into the grate, "never won fair lady; she is mine, so far, the fairest darling that ever breathed, and be it selfish orotherwise, keep her I will if I can. "

But he sighs as he utters the word "can, " and finds his couch, when atlength he does seek it, by no means a bed of roses. 

While Molly, the pretty cause of all this heart-burning, lies inslumber, soft and sweet, and happy as can be, with her "red, red" lipsapart and smiling, her breathing pure and regular as a little child's, and all her "nut-brown" hair like a silken garment round her. 

Cecil Stafford, walking leisurely up and down her apartment, is feelinghalf frightened, half amused, at the news conveyed to her by Mr. Potts, of her husband's arrival in England. Now, at last, after these threeyears, she may meet him at any moment face to face. 

Surely never was a story so odd, so strange as hers! A bride unknown, awife whose face has never yet been seen!

"Well, " thinks Cecil, as she seats herself while her maid binds up herlong fair hair, "no use troubling about it beforehand. What must bemust be. And at all events the dreaded interview cannot be too soon, asuntil my return to town I believe I am pretty safe from him here. "

But in saying this she reckons without her host in every sense of theword. 

CHAPTER XIV. 

"Oh, beware, my lord, of jealousy;It is the green-eyed monster who doth mockThe meat it feeds on. "

 --_Othello. _

Next day at luncheon Mr. Amherst, having carefully mapped out one ofhis agreeable little surprises, and having selected a moment when everyone is present, says to her, with a wicked gleam of anticipativeamusement in his cunning old eyes:

"Sir Penthony is in England. "

Although she has neither hint nor warning of what is coming, LadyStafford is a match for him. Mr. Potts's intelligence of the eveningbefore stands her now in good stead. 

"Indeed!" she says, without betraying any former knowledge, turningeyes of the calmest upon him; "you surprise me. Tired so soon ofEgyptian sphinxes! I always knew he had no taste. I hope he is quitewell. I suppose you heard from him?"

"Yes. He is well, but evidently pines for home quarters and oldfriends. Thinking you would like to see him after so long a separation, I have invited him here. You--you don't object?"

"I?" says her ladyship, promptly, reddening, but laughing too verysuccessfully. "Now, why should I object? On the contrary, I shall becharmed; he will be quite an acquisition. If I remember rightly, "--witha little affected drooping of the lids, --"he is a very handsome man, and, I hear, amusing. "

Mr. Amherst, foiled in his amiable intention of drawing confusion onthe head of somebody, subsides into a grunt and his easy-chair. To havegone to all this trouble for nothing, to have invited secretly thisman, who interests him not at all, in hopes of a little excitement, andto have those hopes frustrated, disgusts him. 

Yet, after all, there will, there must be some amusement in store forhim, in watching the meeting between this strange pair. He at least maynot prove as cool and indifferent as his pretty wife. 

"He will be here to dinner to-day, " he says, grumpishly, knowing thatall around him are inwardly rejoicing at his defeat. 

This is a thunder-bolt, though he is too much disheartened by his firstdefeat to notice it. Lady Stafford grows several shades paler, and--luncheon being at an end--rises hurriedly. Going toward the door, she glances back, and draws Molly by a look to her side. 

"Come with me, " she says; "I must speak to some one, and to you beforeany of the others. "

When they have reached Cecil's pretty sitting-room, off which herbedroom opens, the first thing her ladyship does is to subside into aseat and laugh a little. 

"It is like a play, " she says, "the idea of his coming down here, tofind _me_ before him. It will be a surprise; for I would swearthat horrible old man never told him of my being in the house, or hewould not have come. Am I talking Greek to you, Molly? You know mystory, surely?"

"I have heard something of it--not much--from Mr. Luttrell, " saysMolly, truthfully. 

"It is a curious one, is it not? and one not easily matched. It allcame of that horrible will. Could there be anything more stupid thanfor an old man to depart this life and leave behind him a documentbinding two young people in such a way as makes it 'do or die' withthem? I had never seen my cousin in all my life, and he had never seenme; yet we were compelled at a moment's notice to marry each other orforfeit a dazzling fortune. "

"Why could you not divide it?"

"Because the lawyers said we couldn't. Lawyers are always aggressive. My great-uncle had particularly declared it should not be divided. Itwas to be all or none, and whichever of us refused to marry the othergot nothing. And there was so much!" says her ladyship, with anexpressive sigh. 

"It was a hard case, " Molly says, with deep sympathy. 

"It was. Yet, as I managed it, it wasn't half so bad. Now, I dare saymany women would have gone into violent hysterics, would have driventheir relations to the verge of despair and the shivering bridegroom tothe brink of delirious joy, and then given in, --married the man, livedwith him, and been miserable ever after. But not I. "

Here she pauses, charmed at her own superior wisdom, and, leaning backin her chair, with a contented smile, puts the tips of her fingerstogether daintily. 

"Well, and you?" says Molly, feeling intensely interested. 

"I? I just reviewed the case calmly. I saw it was a great deal ofmoney, --too much to hesitate about, --too much also to make it likely aman would dream of resigning it for the sake of a woman more or less. So I wrote to my cousin explaining that, as we had never known eachother, there could be very little love lost between us, and that I sawno necessity why we ever _should_ know each other, --and that I wasquite willing to marry him, and take a third of the money, if he wouldallow me to be as little to him in the future as I was in the present, by drawing up a formal deed of separation, to be put in force at thechurch-door, or the door of any room where the marriage ceremony shouldbe performed. "

"Well?"

"Well, I don't know how it would have been but that, to aid my request, I inclosed a photograph of our parlormaid (one of the ugliest women ithas ever been my misfortune to see), got up in her best black silk, minus the cap, and with a flaming gold chain round her neck, --you knowthe sort of thing, --and I never said who it was. "

"Oh, Cecil, how could you?"

"How couldn't I? you mean. And, after all, my crime was of the passiveorder; I merely sent the picture, without saying anything. How could Ihelp it if he mistook me for Mary Jane? Besides, I was fighting fordear life, and all is fair in love and war. I could not put up with thewhims and caprices of a man to whom I was indifferent. "

"Did you know he had whims and caprices?"

"Molly, " says Lady Stafford, slowly, with a fine show of pity, "you aredisgracefully young: cure yourself, my dear, as fast as ever you can, and as a first lesson take this to heart: if ever there was a mortalman born upon this earth without caprices it must have been in the yearone, because no one that I have met knows anything about him. "

"Well, for the matter of that, " says Molly, laughing, "I don't supposeI should like a perfect man, even if I did chance to meet him. By allaccounts they are stilted, disagreeable people, with a talent formaking everybody else seem small. But go on with your story. What washis reply?"

"He agreed cordially to all my suggestions, named a very handsome sumas my portion, swore by all that was honorable he would never interferewith me in any way, was evidently ready to promise anything, and--sentme back my parlor-maid. Was not that insulting?"

"But when he came to marry you he must have seen you?"

"Scarcely. I decided on having the wedding in our drawing-room, andwrote again to say it would greatly convenience my cousin and myself (Ilived with an old cousin) if he would not come down until the verymorning of the wedding. Need I say he grasped at this proposition also?I was dressed and ready for my wedding by the time he arrived, andshook hands with him with my veil down. You may be sure I had secured avery thick one. "

"Do you mean to tell me, " says Molly, rising in her excitement, "thathe never asked you to raise your veil?"

"Never, my dear. I assure you the 'best man' he brought down with himwas by far the more curious of the two. But then, you must remember, Sir Penthony had seen my picture. " Here Cecil goes off into a heartyburst of laughter. "If you had seen that maid once, my dear, you wouldnot have been ambitious of a second view. "

"Still I never heard of anything so cold, so unnatural, " says MissMassereene, in high disgust. "I declare I would have broken off withhim then and there, had it been me. "

"Not if you lived with my cousin Amelia, feeling yourself a dependenton her bounty. She was a startling instance of how a woman _can_worry and torment. The very thought of her makes my heart sore in mybody and chills my blood to this day. I rejoice to say she is no more. "

"Well, you got married?"

"Yes, in Amelia's drawing-room. I had a little gold band put on mythird finger, I had a cold shake-hands from my husband, a sympatheticone from his groomsman, and then found myself once more alone, with atitle and plenty of money, and--that's all. "

"What was his friend's name?"

"Talbot Lowry. He lives about three miles from here, and"--with an airylaugh--"is rather too fond of me. "

"What a strange story!" says Molly, regarding her wistfully. "Do younever wish you had married some one you loved?"

"I never do, " gayly. "Don't look to me for sentiment, Molly, because Iam utterly devoid of it. I know I suffer in your estimation by thisconfession, but it is the simple truth. I don't wish for anything. Andyet"--pausing suddenly--"I do. I have been wishing for something eversince that old person down-stairs tried to take me back this morning, and failed so egregiously. "

"And your wish is----"

"That I could make my husband fall madly in love with me. Oh, Molly, what a revenge that would be! And why should he not, indeed?" Goingover to a glass and gazing earnestly at herself. "I am pretty, --verypretty, I think. Speak, Molly, and encourage me. "

"You know you are lovely, " says Molly, in such good faith that Cecilkisses her on the spot. "But what if you should fall in love with him?"

"Perhaps I have done so long ago, " her ladyship replies, in a toneimpossible to translate, being still intent on the contemplation of hermany charms. Then, quickly, "No, no, Molly, I am fire-proof. "

"Yet any day you may meet some one to whom you must give your love. "

"Not a bit of it. I should despise myself forever if I once foundmyself letting my pulse beat half a second faster for one man than foranother. "

"Do you mean to tell me you have never loved?"

"Never, never, never. And, indeed, to give myself due credit, I believethe fact that I have a husband somewhere would utterly prevent anythingof the sort. "

"That is a good thing, if the idea lasts. But won't you feel awkward inmeeting him this evening?"

"I? No, but I dare say he will; and I hope so too, " says her ladyship, maliciously. "For three long years he has never been to see whether Iwere well or ill--or pining for him, " laughing. "And yet, Molly, I dofeel nervous, awfully, ridiculously nervous, at the bare idea of our sosoon coming face to face. 

"Is he handsome?"

"Ye--es, pretty well. Lanky sort of man, with a good deal of nose, youknow, and very little whisker. On my word, now I think of it, I don'tthink he had any at all. "

"Nose?"

"No, whisker. He was clean-shaven, all but the moustache. I suppose youknow he was in Ted's regiment for some time?"

"So he told me. "

"I wonder what he _hasn't_ told you? Shall I confess, Molly, thatI know your secret, and that it was I chose that diamond ring upon yourfinger? There, do not grudge me your confidence; I have given you mineand anything I have heard is safe with me. Oh, what a lovely blush, andwhat a shame to waste such a charming bit of color upon me! Keep it fordessert. "

"How will Sir Penthony like Mr. Lowry's close proximity?" Molly asks, presently, when she has confessed a few interesting little facts to herfriend. 

"I hope he won't like it. If I thought I could make him jealous I wouldflirt with poor Talbot under his nose, " says Cecil, with eloquentvulgarity. "I feel spitefully toward him somehow, although ourseparation was my own contrivance. "

"Have you a headache, dear?" Seeing her put her hand to her head. 

"A slight one, --I suppose from the nerves. I think I will lie down foran hour or two before commencing the important task of arming forconquest. And--are you going out, Molly? Will you gather me a few freshflowers--anything white--for my hair and the bosom of my dress?"

"I will, " says Molly, and, having made her comfortable with pillows andperfumes, leaves her to her siesta. 

"Anything white. " Molly travels the gardens up and down in search ofall there is of the loveliest. Little rosebuds, fresh though late, anddainty bells, with sweet-scented geraniums and drooping heaths, --a pureand innocent bouquet. 

Yet surely it lacks something, --a little fleck of green, to throw outits virgin fairness. Above, high over her head, a creeping rosebushgrows, bedecked with palest, juiciest leaves. 

Reaching up her hand to gather one of the taller branches, a mote, abit of bark--some hateful thing--falls into Molly's right eye. Instantagony is the result. Tears stream from the offended pupil; the othereye joins in the general tribulation; and Molly, standing in the centreof the grass-plot, with her handkerchief pressed frantically to herface, and her lithe body swaying slightly to and fro through force ofpain, looks the very personification of woe. 

So thinks Philip Shadwell as, coming round the corner, he unperceivedapproaches. 

"What is it?" he asks, trying to see her face, his tones absolutelytrembling from agitation on her behalf. "Molly, you are in trouble. CanI do anything for you?"

"You can, " replies Miss Massereene, in a lugubrious voice; though, inspite of her pain, she can with difficulty repress an inclination tolaugh, so dismal is his manner. "Oh! you _can_. "

"Tell me what. There is nothing--_Speak_, Molly. "

"Well, I'm not exactly weeping, " says Miss Massereene, slowlywithdrawing one hand from her face, so as to let the best eye rest uponhim; "it is hardly mental anguish I'm enduring. But if you can get thisawful thing that is in my eye out of it I shall be intensely grateful. "

"Is that all?" asks Philip, much relieved. 

"And plenty, too, I think. Here, do try if you can see anything. "

"Poor eye!"--pathetically--"how inflamed it is! Let mesee--there--don't blink--I won't be able to get at it if you do. Now, turn your eye to the right. No. Now to the left. Yes, there is, "excitedly. "No, it isn't, " disappointedly. "Now let me look below; it_must_ be there. "

Just at this delicate moment who should turn the corner but Luttrell!Oh, those unlucky corners that will occur in life, bringing people uponthe scene, without a word of warning, at the very time when they areleast wanted!

Luttrell, coming briskly onward in search of his ladylove, sees, marks, and comes to a dead stop. And this is what he sees. 

Molly in Philip's--well, if not exactly in his embrace, something verynear it; Philip looking with wild anxiety into the very depths ofMolly's lovely eyes, while the lovely eyes look back at Philip full ofdeep entreaty. Tableau!

It is too much. Luttrell, stung cruelly, turns as if to withdraw, butafter a step or two finds himself unable to carry out the dignifiedintention, and pauses irresolutely. His back being turned, however, heis not in at the closing act, when Philip produces triumphantly on thetip of his finger such a mere atom of matter as makes one wonder how itcould ever have caused so much annoyance. 

"Are you better now?" he asks, anxiously, yet with pardonable pride. 

"I--am--thank you. " Blinking thoughtfully, as though not yet assured ofthe relief. "I am so much obliged to you. And--yes, I _am_ better. Quite well, I think. What should I have done without you?"

"Ah, that I could believe myself necessary to you at any time!" Philipis beginning, with fluent sentimentality, when, catching sight ofTedcastle, he stops abruptly. "Here is Luttrell, " he says, in aninjured tone, and seeing no further prospect of a _tête-à-tête_, takes his departure. 

Molly is still petting her wounded member when Luttrell reaches herside. 

"What is the matter with you?" he asks, with odious want of sympathy. "Have you been crying?"

"No, " replies Molly, indignant at his tone, --so unlike Shadwell's. "Whyshould you think so?"

"Why? Because your eyes are red; and certainly as I came up, Shadwellappeared to be doing his utmost to console you. "

"Anything the matter with you, Teddy?" asks Miss Massereene, withsuspicious sweetness. "You seem put out. "

"Yes, "--sternly, --"and with cause. I do not relish coming upon yousuddenly and finding you in Shadwell's arms. "

"Where?"

"Well, if not exactly in his arms, very nearly there, " says Tedcastle, vehemently. 

"You are forgetting yourself. " Coldly. "If you are jealous of Philip, say so, but do not disgrace yourself by using coarse language. Therewas a bit of bark in my eyes. I suppose you think it would have beenbetter for me to endure torments than allow Philip--who was verykind--to take it out? If you do, I differ from you. "

"I am not speaking alone of this particular instance in which you seemto favor Shadwell, " says the young man, moodily, his eyes fixed uponthe sward beneath him. "Every day it grows more palpable. You scarcelycare to hide your sentiments now. "

"You mean"--impatiently--"you would wish me to speak to no one exceptyou. You don't take into account how slow this would be for me. " Shesays this cruelly. "I care no more for Philip than I do for any otherman. "

"Just so. I am the other man, no doubt. I have never been blind to thefact that you do not care for me. Why take the trouble of acting a partany longer?"

"'Acting a part'! Nonsense!" says Molly. "I always think that the mostabsurd phrase in the world. Who does not act a part? The thing is toact a good one. "

"Is yours a good part?" Bitterly. 

"You are the best judge of that, " returns she, haughtily. "If you donot think so, why keep to our engagement? If you wish to break it, youneed fear no opposition from me. " So saying, she sweeps past him andenters the house. 

Yet in spite of her anger and offended pride, her eyes are wet and herhands trembling as she reaches Cecil's room and lays the snow-whiteflowers upon her table. 

Cecil is still lying comfortably ensconced among her pillows, but hassufficient wakefulness about her to notice Molly's agitation. 

"You have been quarreling, _ma belle_, " she says, raising herselfon her elbow; "don't deny it. Was it with Marcia or Tedcastle?"

"Tedcastle, " Molly replies, laughing against her will at the other'sshrewdness, and in consequence wiping away a few tears directlyafterward. "It is nothing; but he is really intolerably jealous, and Ican't and won't put up with it. "

"Oh, that some one was jealous about me!" says Cecil, with a prolongedsigh. "Go on. "

"It was nothing, I tell you. All because Philip kindly picked a littlebit of dust out of my eye. "

"How good of Philip! considering all the dust you have thrown into hisof late. And Ted objected?"

"Yes, and was very rude into the bargain. I wouldn't have believed itof him. "

"Well, you know yourself you have been going on anyhow with Philipduring the past few days. "

"Oh, Cecil, how can you say so? Am I to turn my back on him when hecomes to speak to me? And even supposing I had flirted egregiously withhim (which is not the case), is that a reason why one is to be scoldedand abused and have all sorts of the most dreadful things said to one?"(I leave my readers to deplore the glaring exaggeration of thisspeech. ) "He looked, too, as if he could have eaten me then and there. I know this, I shan't forgive him in a hurry. "

"Poor Ted! I expect he doesn't have much of a time with you, " saysCecil, shaking her head. 

"Are you laughing at me?" cries Molly, wrathfully. "Then make ready fordeath. " And, taking the smaller Cecil in her arms, she most unkindlylifts her from among her cozy cushions and deposits her upon the floor. "There! Now will you repent? But come, Cecil, get up, and prepare foryour husband's reception. I will be your maid to-night, if you will letme. What will you wear?"

"Pale blue. It suits me best. See, that is my dress. " Pointing to alight-blue silk, trimmed with white lace, that lies upon the bed. "Willyou really help me to dress? But you cannot do my hair?"

"Try me. "

She does try, and proves so highly satisfactory that Cecil is temptedto offer splendid wages if she will consent to come and live with her. 

The hair is a marvel of artistic softness. Every fresh jewel lends agrace; and when at length Cecil is attired in her blue gown, she is allthat any one could possibly desire. 

"Now, honestly, how do I look?" she asks, turning round to face Molly. "Anything like a housemaid?" With a faint laugh that has somethingtremulous about it. 

"I never saw you half so charming, " Molly answers, deliberately. "Oh, Cecil! what will he say when he finds out--when he discovers how youhave deceived him?"

"Anything he likes, my dear!" exclaims Cecil, gayly giving a last touchto the little soft fair locks near her temples. "He ought to bepleased. It would be a different thing altogether, and a realgrievance, if, being like the housemaid, I had sent him a photo ofVenus. He might justly complain then; but now---- There, I can do nomore!" says her ladyship, with a sigh, half pleased, half fearful. "IfI weren't so shamefully nervous I would do very well. "

"I don't believe you are half as frightened for yourself at this momentas I am for you. If I were in your shoes I should faint. It is to me anawful ordeal. "

"I am so white, too, " says Cecil, impatiently. "You haven't--I suppose, Molly--but of course you haven't----"

"What, dear?"

"Rouge. After all, Therese was right. When leaving town she asked meshould she get some; and, when I rejected the idea with scorn, saidthere was no knowing when one might require it. Perhaps afterward shedid put it in. Let us ring and ask her. "

"Never mind it. You are no comparison prettier without it. Cecil, "--doubtingly, --"I hope when it comes to the last moment you willhave nerve. "

"Be happy, " says Cecil. "I am always quite composed at last moments;that is one of my principal charms. I never create sensations throughvulgar excitement. I shall probably astonish you (and myself also) bymy extreme coolness. In the meantime I"--smiling--"I own I should likea glass of sherry. What o'clock is it, Molly?"

"Just seven. "

"Ah! he must be here now. How I wish it was over!" says Lady Stafford, with a little sinking of the heart. 

"And I am not yet dressed. I must run, " exclaims Molly. "Good-bye, Cecil. Keep up your spirits, and remember above all things how wellyour dress becomes you. "

Two or three minutes elapse, --five, --and still Cecil cannot bringherself to descend. She is more nervous about this inevitable meetingthan she cares to own. Will he be openly cold, or anxious toconciliate, or annoyed? The latter she greatly fears. What if he shouldsuspect her of having asked Mr. Amherst to invite him? This ideatorments her more than all the others, and chains her to her room. 

She takes up another bracelet and tries it on. Disliking the effect, she takes it off again. So she trifles, in fond hope of cheating time, and would probably be trifling now had not the handle of her door beenboldly turned, the door opened, and a young man come confidentlyforward. 

His confidence comes to an untimely end as his astonished eyes rest onCecil. 

"I beg your pardon, I'm sure, " he says, beating a hasty retreat back tothe landing outside. "I had no idea--I'm awfully sorry--but this roomused to be mine. "

"It is mine now, " says Cecil, accepting the situation at a glance, recognizing Sir Penthony without hesitation. 

He is a tall young man, --"lanky, " as she has herself expressedhim, --with thick brown hair, closely cropped. He has handsome darkeyes, with a rather mocking expression in them, and has a trick ofshutting them slightly if puzzled or annoyed. His voice is extremelycharming, though it has a distinct croak (that can hardly be calledhusky or hoarse) that is rather fascinating. His short upper lip iscovered by a heavy brown moustache that hides a laughing mouth. He isaristocratic and good-looking, without being able to lay claim toactual beauty. 

Just now he is overwhelmed with confusion, as Cecil, feeling compelledthereto, steps forward, smiling, to reassure him. 

"You have made a mistake, --you have lost your way, " she says, in a tonethat trembles ever such a little in spite of her efforts to be calm. 

"To my shame I confess it, " he says, laughing, gazing withill-concealed admiration at this charming azure vision standing beforehim. "Foolishly I forgot to ask for my room, and ran up the stairs, feeling certain that the one that used to be mine long ago must be sostill. Can you forgive me?"

"I think I can. Meantime, if you are Sir Penthony Stafford, your roomlies there, " pointing to the last door opening on the corridor. 

"Thank you, " yet making no haste to reach the discovered shelter. "MayI not know to whom I am indebted for so much kindness?"

"I dare say you will be introduced in proper form by and by, " saysCecil, demurely, making a movement as though to leave him. "When youare dressed you shall be formally presented. "

"At least, " he asks, hastily, with a view to detaining her, "do me onemore service before you go. If you know me so well, perhaps you cantell me if any of my friends are staying here at present?"

"Several. Teddy Luttrell for one. "

"Indeed! And----"

"The Darleys. You know them?"

"Little woman, --dolly, --bizarre in manner and dress?"

"A most accurate description. And there is another friend, --one whoought to be your dearest: I allude to Lady Stafford. "

"Lady Stafford!"

"Yes, your wife. You don't seem over and above pleased at my news. "

"Is a man always pleased at his wife's unexpected appearance?" asks SirPenthony, recovering himself with a rather forced laugh. "I had no ideashe was here. I---- Is she a friend of yours?"

"The dearest friend I have. I know no one, " declares her ladyship, fervently, "I love so fondly. "

"Happy Lady Stafford! I almost think I would change places with herthis moment. At all events, whatever faults she may possess, she hasrare taste in friends. "

"You speak disparagingly. Has she a fault?"

"The greatest a woman can have: she lacks that one quality that wouldmake her a 'joy forever. '"

"Your severity makes you unkind. And yet, do you know she is greatlyliked. Nay, she has been _loved_. Perhaps when you come to knowher a little better (I do not conceal from you that I have heardsomething of your story), you will think more tenderly of her. Remember, 'beauty is only skin deep. '"

"Yes, "--with a light laugh, --"But 'ugliness goes to the bone. '"

"That is the retort discourteous. I see it is time wasted to plead myfriend's cause. Although, perhaps, "--reproachfully, --"not blessed withactual beauty, still----"

"No, there's _not_ much beauty about her, " says Sir Penthony, withsomething akin to a groan. Then, "I beg your pardon, " he murmurs; "prayexcuse me. Why should I trouble a stranger with my affairs?" He standsaside, with a slight bow, to let her pass. "And you won't tell me yourname?" he cannot resist saying before losing sight of her. 

"Make haste with your dressing; you shall know then, " glancing back athim, with a bewitching smile. 

"Be sure I shall waste no time. If, in my hurry, I appear to lessadvantage than usual to-night, you must not be the one to blame me. "

"A very fair beginning, " says Cecil, as she slips away. "Now I must befirm. But, oh dear, oh dear! he is much handsomer even than I thought. "

CHAPTER XV. 

"If I am not worth the wooing, I surely am not worth the winning. "

 --_Miles Standish. _

The minutes, selfishly thoughtless of all but themselves, fly rapidly. Cecil makes her way to the drawing-room, where she is followedpresently by Molly, then by Luttrell; but, as these two latter refuseto converse with each other, conversation is rather one-sided. 

Mr. Amherst, contrary to his usual custom, appears very early on thefield, evidently desirous of enjoying the fray to its utmost. He looksquite jubilant and fresh for him, and his nose is in a degree sharperthan its wont. He opens an animated discourse with Cecil; but LadyStafford, although _distrait_ and with her mind on the stretch, listening for every sound outside, replies brilliantly, and, woman-like, conceals her anxiety with her tongue. 

At length the dreaded moment comes. There is a sound of footfalls, nearer--nearer still--then, "clearer, deadlier than before, " and thedoor opens, to discover Sir Penthony upon the threshold. 

Lady Stafford is sitting within the embrasure of the window. 

"Fortune favors me, " she says hurriedly to Molly, alluding to the otherguests' non-appearance. 

"Your wife is staying with me, " Mr. Amherst begins, complacently; and, pointing to Cecil, "Allow me to introduce you to----"

"Lady Stafford, " Cecil interrupts, coming forward while a good deal ofrich crimson mantles in her cheeks. She is looking lovely fromexcitement; and her pretty, rounded, graceful figure is shown off tothe best advantage by the heavy fall of the red draperies behind her. 

Sir Penthony gazes, spell-bound, at the gracious creature before him;the color recedes from his lips and brow; his eyes grow darker. Luttrell with difficulty suppresses a smile. Mr. Amherst is almostsatisfied. 

"You are welcome, " Cecil says, with perfect self-possession, puttingout her hand and absolutely taking his; for so stunned is he by herwords that he even forgets to offer it. 

Drawing him into a recess of the window, she says, reproachfully, "Whydo you look so astonished? Do you not know that you are gratifying thatabominable old man? And will you not say you are glad to see me afterall these long three years?"

"I don't understand, " Sir Penthony says, vaguely. "Are there two LadyStaffords? And whose wife are you?"

"Yours! Although you don't seem in a hurry to claim me, " she says, witha rarely pretty pout. 

"Impossible!"

"I am sorry to undeceive you, but it is indeed the truth I speak. "

"And whose picture did I get?" he asks, a faint glimmer of the realfacts breaking in upon him. 

"The parlor-maid's, " says Cecil, now the strain is off her, laughingheartily and naturally, --so much so that the other occupants of theroom turn to wonder enviously what is going on behind the curtains. "The parlor-maid! And such a girl as she was! Do you remember her nose?It was celestial. When that deed on which we agreed was sealed, signed, and delivered, without hope of change, I meant to send you my realphoto, but somehow I didn't. I waited until we should meet; and now wehave met and---- Why do you look so disconsolate? Surely, surely, I aman improvement on Mary Jane?"

"It isn't that, " he says, "but--what a fool I have been!"

"You have indeed, " quickly. "The idea of letting that odious old mansee your discomfiture! By the bye, does my 'ugliness go to the bone, 'Sir Penthony?"

"Don't! When I realize my position I hate myself. "

"Could you not even see my hair was yellow, whilst Mary Jane's wasblack, --a sooty black?"

"How could I see anything? Your veil was so thick, and, besides, Inever doubted the truth of----"

"Oh, that veil! What trouble I had with it!" laughs Cecil. "First Idoubled it, and then nearly died with fright lest you should imagine methe Pig-faced Lady, and insist on seeing me. "

"Well, and if I had?"

"Without doubt you would have fallen in love with me, " coquettishly. 

"Would not that have been desirable? Is it not a good thing for a manto fall in love with the woman he is going to marry?"

"Not unless the woman falls in love with him, " with a little expressivenod that speaks volumes. 

"Ah! true, " says Sir Penthony, rather nettled. 

"However, you showed no vulgar curiosity on the occasion, although Ithink Mr. Lowry, who supported you at the last moment, suggested theadvisability of seeing your bride. Ah, that reminds me he lives nearhere. You will be glad to renew acquaintance with so particular afriend. "

"There was nothing particular about our friendship; I met him by chancein London at the time, and--er--he did as well as any other fellow. "

"Better, I should say. He is a particular friend of mine. "

"Indeed! I shouldn't have thought him your style. Like Cassius, he usedto have a 'lean and hungry look. '"

"Used he? I think him quite good-looking. "

"He must have developed, then, in body as in intellect. Three years agohe was a very gaunt youth indeed. "

"Of course, Stafford, " breaks in Mr. Amherst's rasping voice, "we canall make allowances for your joy on seeing your wife again after such along absence. But you must not monopolize her. Remember she is the lifeof our party. "

"Thank you, Mr. Amherst. What a delightful compliment!" says Cecil, with considerable _empressement_. "Sir Penthony was just tellingme what an enjoyable voyage he had; and I was congratulating him. Thereis nothing on earth so depressing or so humiliating as sea-sickness. Don't you agree with me?"

Mr. Amherst mutters something in which the word "brazen" is distinctlyheard; while Cecil, turning to her companion, says hastily, holding outher hand, with a soft, graceful movement:

"We are friends?"

"Forever, I trust, " he replies, taking the little plump white handwithin his own, and giving it a hearty squeeze. 

 * * * * *

To some the evening is a long one, --to Luttrell and Molly, forinstance, who are at daggers drawn and maintain a dignified silencetoward each other. 

Tedcastle, indeed, holds his head so high that if by chance his gazeshould rest in Molly's direction, it must perforce pass over herwithout fear of descending to her face. (This is wise, because to lookat Molly is to find one's self disarmed. ) There is an air of settledhostility about him that angers her beyond all words. 

"What does he mean by glowering like that, and looking as though hecould devour somebody? How different he used to be in dear oldBrooklyn! Who could have thought he would turn out such a Tartar? Well, there is no knowing any man; and yet---- It is a pity not to give himsomething to glower about, " thinks Miss Massereene, in an access ofrage, and forthwith deliberately sets herself out to encourage Shadwelland Mr. Potts. 

She has a brilliant success, and, although secretly sore at heart, manages to pass her time agreeably, and, let us hope, profitably. 

Marcia, whose hatred toward her rival grows with every glance cast ather from Philip's eyes, turns to Tedcastle and takes him in hand. Hervoice is low, her manner subdued, but designing. Whatever she may besaying is hardly likely to act as cure to Teddy's heart-ache; at leastso thinks Cecil, and, coming to the rescue, sends Sir Penthony acrossto talk to him, and drawing him from Marcia's side, leads him into alengthened history of all those who have come and gone in the oldregiment since he sold out. 

The _ruse_ is successful, but leaves Cecil still indignant withMolly. "What a wretched little flirt she is!" She turns an enragedglance upon where Miss Massereene is sitting deep in a discussion withMr. Potts. 

"Have you any Christian name?" Molly is asking, with a beaming smile, fixing her liquid Irish eyes upon the enslaved Potts. "I hear youaddressed as Mr. Potts, --as Potts even--but never by anything thatmight be mistaken for a first name. "

"Yes, " replies Mr. Potts, proudly. "I was christened Plantagenet. Goodsound, hasn't it? Something to do with the Dark Ages and Pinnock, onlyI never remember clearly what. Our fellows have rather a low way ofabbreviating it and bringing it down to 'Planty. ' And--would youbelieve it?--on one or two occasions they have so far forgottenthemselves as to call me 'the regular Plant. '"

"What a shame!" says Miss Massereene, with deep sympathy. 

"Let 'em, " says Mr. Potts, heroic, if vulgar, shaking his crimson head. "It's fun to them, and it's by no means 'death' to me. It does no harm. But it's a nuisance to have one's mother put to the trouble ofconcocting a fine name, if one doesn't get the benefit of it. "

"I agree with you. Were I a man, and rejoiced in such a name asPlantagenet, I would insist upon having every syllable of it distinctlysounded, or I'd know the reason why. 'All or nothing' should be mymotto. "

"I never think of it, I don't see my wife's cards, " says Mr. Potts, whohas had a good deal of champagne, and is rather moist about the eyes. "'Mrs. Plantagenet Potts' would look well, wouldn't it?"

"Very aristocratic, " says false Molly, with an admiring nod. "I almostthink, --I am not quite sure, --but I almost think I would marry a man tobear a name like that. "

"Would you?" cries Mr. Potts, his tongue growing freer, whileenthusiasm sparkles in every feature. "If I only thought that, MissMolly----"

"How pretty Mrs. Darley is looking to-night!" interrupts Molly, adroitly; "what a clear complexion she has!--just like a child's. "

"Not a bit of it, " says Mr. Potts. "Children don't require 'cream ofroses' and 'Hebe bloom' and--and all that sort of thing, you know--toget 'emselves up. "

"Ah! my principal pity for her is that she doesn't seem to haveanything to say. "

"Englishwomen never have, as a rule; they are dull to the last degree. Now, you are a singular exception. "

"English! I am not English, " says Molly, with exaggerated disgust. "Donot offend me. I am Irish--altogether, thoroughly Irish, --heart andmind a Paddy. "

"No! are you, by Jove?" says Mr. Potts. "So am I--at least, partly so. My mother is Irish. "

So she had been English, Welsh, and Scotch on various occasions; thereis scarcely anything Mrs. Potts had _not_ been. There was even onememorable occasion on which she had had Spanish blood in her veins, and(according to Plantagenet's account) never went out without a lacemantilla flowing from her foxy head. It would, indeed, be rash to fixon any nationality to which the venerable lady might not lay claim, when her son's interests so willed it. 

"She came from--er--Galway, " he says now; "good old familytoo--but--out at elbows and--and--that. "

"Yes?" Molly says, interested. "And her name?"

"Blake, " replies he, unblushingly, knowing there never was a Blake thatdid not come out of Galway. 

"I feel quite as though I had known you forever, " says Molly, muchpleased. "You know my principal crime is my Hibernian extraction, whichperhaps makes me cling to the fact more and more. Mr. Amherst cannotforgive me--my father. "

"Yet he was of good family, I believe, and all that?" questioningly. 

"Beyond all doubt. What a question for you to ask! Did you ever hear ofan Irishman who wasn't of good family? My father"--with a mischievoussmile--"was a direct descendant of King O'Toole or Brian Boru, --I don'tknow which; and if the king had only got his own, my dear brother wouldat this moment be dispensing hospitality in a palace. "

"You terrify me, " said Mr. Potts, profoundly serious. "Why, the bloodof all the Howards would be weak as water next to yours. Not that thereis anything to be surprised at; for if over there was any one in theworld who ought to be a princess it is----"

"Molly, will you sing us something?" Lady Stafford breaks in, impatiently, at this juncture, putting a stop to Mr. Potts'shalf-finished compliment. 

 * * * * *

"Molly, I want to speak to you for a moment, " Luttrell says next day, coming upon her suddenly in the garden. 

"Yes?" coldly. "Well, hurry, then; they are waiting for me in thetennis-ground. "

"It seems to me that some one is always waiting for you now when I wantto speak to you, " says the young man, bitterly. 

"For me?" with a would-be-astonished uplifting of her straight brows. "Oh, no, I am not in such request at Herst. I am ready to listen to youat any time; although I must confess I do not take kindly tolecturing. "

"Do I lecture you?"

"Do not let us waste time going into details: ask me this all-importantquestion and let me be gone. "

"I want to know"--severely, yet anxiously--"whether you really meantall you said yesterday morning?"

"Yesterday morning!" says Miss Massereene, running all her ten littlewhite fingers through her rebellious locks, and glancing up at himdespairingly. "Do you really expect me to remember all I may have saidyesterday morning? Think how long ago it is. "

"Shall I refresh your memory? You gave me to understand that if ourengagement came to an end you would be rather relieved than otherwise. "

"Did I? How very odd! Yes, by the bye, I do recollect something of thekind. And you led up to it, did you not?--almost asked me to say it, Ithink, by your unkind remarks. "

"Let us keep to the truth, " says Luttrell, sternly. "You know such anidea would never cross my mind. While you--I hardly know what to think. All last night you devoted yourself to Shadwell. "

"That is wrong; he devoted himself to me. Besides, I spoke a little toMr. Potts. "

"Yes, I suppose you could not be satisfied to let even an idiot likePotts go free. "

"Idiot! Good gracious! are you talking of your friend Mr. Potts? Why, Iwas tired to death of hearing his praises sung in my ears morning, noon, and night at Brooklyn; and now, because I am barely civil to him, he must be called an idiot! That is rather severe on him, is it not?"

"Never mind Potts. I am thinking principally of Shadwell. Of course, you are quite at liberty to spend your time with whom you choose, butat all events I have the right to know what you mean seriously to do. You have to decide between Shadwell and me. "

"I shall certainly not be rude to Philip, " Molly says, decisively, leaning against the trunk of a flowering tree, and raising defiant, beautiful violet eyes to his. "You seem to pass your time veryagreeably with Marcia. I do not complain, mind, but I like fairness inall things. "

"I thought little country girls like you were all sweetness, andfreshness, and simplicity, " says Luttrell, with sudden vehemence. "Whatlies one hears in one's lifetime! Why, you might give lessons incoquetry and cruelty to many a town-bred woman. "

"Might I? I am glad you appraise me so highly. I am glad I have escapedall the 'sweetness, and freshness, ' and general imbecility the orthodoxvillage maiden is supposed to possess. Though why a girl mustnecessarily be devoid of wit simply because she has spent her time ingood, healthy air, is a thing that puzzles me. Have you delayed me onlyto say this?"

"No, Molly, " cries Luttrell, desperately, while Molly, with coolfingers and a calm face, plucks a flower to pieces, "it is impossibleyou can have so soon forgotten. Think of all the happy days atBrooklyn, all the vows we interchanged. Is there inconstancy in thevery air at Herst?"

His words are full of entreaty, his manner is not. There is an acidityabout the latter that irritates Molly. 

"All Irish people are fickle, " she says recklessly, "and I amessentially Irish. "

"All Irish people are kind-hearted, and you are not so, " retorts he. "Every hour yields me an additional pang. For the last two days youhave avoided me, --you do not care to speak to me, --you----"

"How can I, when you spend your entire time upbraiding me and accusingme of things of which I am innocent?"

"I neither accuse nor upbraid; I only say that----"

"Well, I don't think you can say much more, "--maliciously, --"because--Isee Philip coming. "

He has taken her hand, but now, stung by her words and her evidentdelight at Shadwell's proximity, flings it furiously from him. 

"If so, it is time I went, " he says, and turning abruptly from her, walks toward the corner that must conceal him from view. 

A passing madness seizes Molly. Fully conscious that Luttrell is stillwithin hearing, fatally conscious that it is within her power to woundhim and gain a swift revenge for all the hard words she chooses tobelieve he has showered down on her, she sings, --slightly altering theideas of the poet to suit her own taste, --she sings, as though to theapproaching Philip:

 "He is coming, my love, my sweet! Was it ever so airy a tread, My heart would know it and beat, Had it lain for a century dead. "

She smiles coquettishly, and glances at Shadwell from under her longdark lashes. He is near enough to hear and understand; so is Luttrell. With a suppressed curse the latter grinds his heel into the innocentgravel and departs. 

CHAPTER XVI. 

"Love is hurt with jar and fret, Love is made a vague regret, Eyes with idle tears are wet. "

 --_The Miller's Daughter. _

It is evening; the shadows are swiftly gathering. Already thedusk--sure herald of night--is here. Above in the trees the birds arecrooning their last faint songs and ruffling their feathers on theirnight-perches. 

How short the days have grown! Even into the very morning of sweetSeptember there has fallen a breath of winter, --a chill, cold breaththat tells us summer lies behind. 

Luttrell, with downcast eyes and embittered heart, tramples through thesame green wood (now, alas, fuller of fallen leaves) where first, atHerst, he and Molly re-met. 

With a temperament as warm but less hopeful than hers, he sees theimaginary end that lies before him and his beloved. She has forsakenhim, she is the bride of another, --that other is Shadwell. She is happywith him. This last thought, strange to say, is the unkindest cut ofall. 

He has within his hand a stout stick he took from a tree as he walkedalong; at this point of the proceeding he breaks it in two and flingsit to one side. Happy! away from him, with perhaps only a jestingrecollection of all the sweet words, the tender thoughts he hasbestowed upon her! The thought is agony; and, if so, what will thereality be?

At all events he need not witness it. He will throw up his commission, and go abroad, --that universal refuge for broken hearts; though why wemust intrude our griefs and low spirits and general unpleasantnessesupon our foreign neighbors is a subject not yet sufficiently canvassed. It seems so unkind toward our foreign neighbors. 

A rather shaky but consequently picturesque bridge stretches across alittle stream that slowly, lovingly babbles through this part of thewood. Leaning upon its parapet, Luttrell gives himself up a prey togloomiest forebodings, and with the utmost industry calls up before himall the most miserable possibilities. He has reached the verge ofsuicide, --in a moment more (in his "mind's eye") he will be over, whena delicious voice behind him says, demurely:

"May I pass, please?"

It is Molly: such a lovely Molly!--such a naughty unrepentant, winsomeMolly, with the daintiest and widest of straw hats, twined with wildflowers, thrown somewhat recklessly toward the back of her head. 

"I am sorry to disturb you, " says this apparition, gazing at himunflinchingly with big, innocent eyes, "but I do not think there isroom on this bridge for two to pass. "

Luttrell instantly draws his tall, slight, handsome figure to itsfullest height, and, without looking at her, literally crushes himselfagainst the frail railing behind him, lest by any means he should touchher as she passes. But she seems in no hurry to pass. 

"It is my opinion, " she says, in a matter-of-fact tone of warning, "that those wooden railings have seen their best days; and if you trythem much harder you will find, if not a watery grave, at all events anexceedingly moist coat. "

There is so much truth in this remark that Luttrell sees the wisdom ofabstaining from further trial of their strength, and, falling into aneasier position, makes as though he too would leave the bridge by theside from which she came on it. This brings them nearly face to face. 

Now, dear reader, were you ever in the middle of a crossing, eager toreach the other side of the street? And did you ever meet anybodycoming toward you on that crossing, also anxious to reach his otherside of the street? And did you ever find yourself and that personpolitely dancing before each other for a minute or so, debarring eachother's progress, because, unhappily, both your thoughts led you in thesame direction? And did you ever feel an irresistible desire to stopshort and laugh aloud in that person's face? Because now all thishappens to Molly and Luttrell. 

Each appears full of a dignified haste to quit the other's society. Molly steps to the right, so does Luttrell to the left, at the verysame instant; Luttrell, with angry correction of his first movement, steps again to his first position, and so, without pausing, does Molly. Each essay only leaves them as they began, looking fair into eachother's eyes. When this has happened three times, Molly stops short andbursts into a hearty laugh. 

"Do try to stay still for one second, " she says, with a smile, "andthen perhaps we shall manage it. Thank you. "

Then, being angry with herself, for her mistaken merriment, like a truewoman she vents her displeasure upon him. 

"I suppose you knew I was coming here this evening, " she exclaims, withridiculous injustice, "and followed to spoil any little peace I mighthave?"

"I did not know you were coming here. Had I known it----"

A pause. 

"Well, "--imperiously, --"why do you hesitate? Say the unkind thing. Ihate innuendoes. Had you known it----"

"I should certainly have gone the other way. " Coldly: "Meanly as youmay think of me, I have not fallen so low that I should seek to annoyyou by my presence. "

"Then without doubt you have come to this quiet place searching forsolitude, in which to think out all your hard thoughts of me. "

"I never think hardly of you, Molly. "

"You certainly were not thinking kindly. "

Now, he might easily have abashed her at this point by asking "wherewas the necessity to think of her at all?" but there is an innatecourtesy, a natural gentleness about Luttrell that utterly forbids him. 

"And, " goes on his tormentor, the more angry that she cannot induce himto revile her, "I do not wish you to call me 'Molly' any more. Onlythose who--who love me call me by that name. Marcia and my grandfather(two people I detest) call me Eleanor. You can follow their example forthe future. "

"There will not be any future. I have been making up my mind, and--Ishall sell out and go abroad immediately. "

"Indeed!" There was a slight, a very slight, tremble in her saucytones. "What a sudden determination! Well, I hope you will enjoyyourself. It is charming weather for a pleasure-trip. "

"It is. "

"You shouldn't lose much more time, however. Winter will soon be here;and it must be dismal in the extreme traveling in frost and snow. "

"I assure you"--bitterly--"there is no occasion to hurry me. I am asanxious to go as ever you could desire. "

"May I ask when you are going, and where?"

"No, you may not, " cries he, at length fiercely goaded past endurance;"only, be assured of this: I am going as far from you as steam can takeme; I am going where your fatal beauty and heartlessness cannot touchme; where I shall not be maddened day by day by your coquetry, andwhere perhaps--in time--I may learn to forget you. "

His indignation has made him appear at least two inches taller than hisordinary six feet. His face is white as death, his lips are compressedbeneath his blonde moustache, his dark blue eyes--not unlike Molly'sown--are flashing fire. 

"Thank you, " says his companion, with exaggerated emphasis and agraceful curtsey; "thank you very much, Mr. Luttrell. I had no idea, when I lingered here for one little moment, I was going to hear so manyhome truths. I certainly do not want to hear any more. "

"Then why don't you go?" puts in Luttrell, savagely. 

"I would--only--perhaps you may not be aware of it, but you have yourfoot exactly on the very end of my gown. "

Luttrell raises his foot and replaces it upon the shaking planks withsomething that strongly resembles a stamp, --so strongly as to make thetreacherous bridge quake and tremble; while Molly moves slowly awayfrom him until she reaches the very edge of their uncertainresting-place. 

Here she pauses, glances backward, and takes another step, only topause again, --this time with decision. 

"Teddy, " she says, softly. 

No answer. 

"Dear Teddy, " more softly still. 

No answer. 

"_Dearest_ Teddy. "

Still no answer. 

"Teddy--_darling_!" murmurs Molly, in the faintest, fondest tone, using toward him for the first time this tenderest of all tender lovewords. 

In another moment his arms are around her, her head is on his breast. He is vanquished, --routed with slaughter. 

In the heart of this weak-minded, infatuated young man there lingersnot the slightest thought of bitterness toward this girl who has causedhim so many hours of torment, and whose cool, soft cheek now restscontentedly against his. 

"My love, --my own, --you do care for me a little?" he asks, in tonesthat tremble with gladness and sorrow, and disbelief. 

"Of course, foolish boy. " With a bright smile that revives him. "Thatis, at times, when you do not speak to me as though I were the felldestroyer of your peace or the veriest shrew that ever walked theearth. Sometimes, you know, "--with a sigh, --"you are a veryuncomfortable Teddy. "

She slips a fond warm arm around his shoulder and caresses the back ofhis neck with her soft fingers. Coquette she may be, flirt she is toher finger-tips, but nothing can take away from her lovableness. ToLuttrell she is at this moment the most charming thing on which the sunever shone. 

"How can you be so unkind to me, " he says, "so cold? Don't you know itbreaks my heart?"

"_I_ cold!" With reproachful wonder. "_I_ unkind! Oh, Teddy!and what are you? Think of all you said to me yesterday and thismorning; and now, now you called me a coquette! What could be worsethan that? To say it of me, of all people! Ted, "--with muchsolemnity, --"stare at me, --stare _hard_, --and see do I look the_very least bit_ in the world like a coquette?"

He does stare hard, and doing so forgets the question in hand, remembering only that her eyes, her lips, her hair are all the mostperfect of their kind. 

"My beloved, " he whispers, caressingly. 

"It is all your own fault, " goes on Circe, strong in argument. "When Iprovoke you I care nothing for Philip Shadwell, or your Mr. Potts, orany of them: but when you are uncivil to me, what am I to do? I amdriven into speaking to some one, although I don't in the least carefor general admiration, as you well know. "

He does not know; common sense forbids him to know; but she is tellingher fibs with so much grace of feature and voice that he refuses to seeher sin. He tries, therefore, to look as if he agreed with her, andsucceeds very fairly. 

"Then you did not mean anything you said?" he asks, eagerly. 

"Not a syllable, " says Molly. "Though even if I did you will forgiveme, won't you? You always do forgive me, don't you?"

It would be impossible to describe the amount of pleading, sauciness, coaxing she throws into the "won't you?" and "don't you?" holding upher face, too, and looking at him out of half-shut, laughing, violeteyes. 

"I suppose so, " he says, smiling. "So abject a subject have I becomethat I can no longer conceal even from myself the fact that you canwind me round your little finger. "

He tightens his arm about her, and considering, I dare say, she oweshim some return for so humble a speech--stoops as though to put hislips to hers. 

"Not yet, " she says, pressing her fingers against his mouth. "I havemany things to say to you yet before---- For one, I am not a coquette?"

"No. "

"And you are not going abroad to--forget me? Oh, Teddy!"

"If I went to the world's end I could not compass that. No, I shall notgo abroad now. "

"And"--half removing the barring fingers--"I am the dearest, sweetest, best Molly to be found anywhere?"

"Oh, darling! don't you know I think so?" says Luttrell, withpassionate fondness. 

"And you will never forgive yourself for making me so unhappy?"

"Never. "

"Very well, "--taking away her hand, with a contented sigh, --"now youmay kiss me. "

So their quarrel ends, as all her quarrels do, by every one being inthe wrong except herself. It is their first bad quarrel; and althoughwe are told "the falling out of faithful friends is but the renewal oflove, " still, believe me, each angry word creates a gap in the chain oflove, --a gap that widens and ever widens more and more, until at lengthcomes the terrible day when the cherished chain falls quite asunder. Asecond coldness is so much easier than a first!

CHAPTER XVII. 

"One silly cross Wrought all my loss. O frowning fortune!"

 --_The Passionate Pilgrim. _

It was an unfortunate thing, --nay, more, it was an unheard-of thing(because for a man to fall in love with his own wife has in it all theelements of absurdity, and makes one lose faith in the wise saws andsettled convictions of centuries), --but the fact remained. From themoment Sir Penthony Stafford came face to face with his wife in thecorridor at Herst he lost his heart to her. 

There only rested one thing more to make the catastrophe complete, andthat also came to pass: Cecil was fully and entirely aware of hissentiments with regard to her. 

What woman but knows when a man loves her? What woman but knows (inspite of all the lies she may utter to her own heart) when a man hasceased to love her? In dark moments, in the cruel quiet of midnight, has not the terrible certainty of her loss made her youth grow deadwithin her?

Cecil's revenge has come, and I hardly think she spares it. Scrupulously, carefully, she adheres to her _rôle_ of friend, never for an instant permitting him to break through the cold barricadeof mere good-fellowship she has raised between them. 

Should he in an imprudent moment seek to undermine this barrier, by aword, a smile, sweet but chilling, she expresses either astonishment oramusement at his presumption (the latter being perhaps the moremurderous weapon of the two, as ridicule is death to love), and sochecks him. 

To her Sir Penthony is an acquaintance, --a rather amusing one, butstill an acquaintance only, --and so she gives him to understand; whilehe chafes and curses his luck a good deal at times, and--growsdesperately jealous. 

The development of this last quality delights Cecil. Her flirtationwith Talbot Lowry, --not that it can be called a flirtation, being avery one-sided affair, the affection Talbot entertains for her beingthe only affection about it, --carefully as he seeks to hide it, irritates Sir Penthony beyond endurance, and, together with her markedcoldness and apparent want of desire for his society, renders himthoroughly unhappy. 

All this gratifies Cecil, who is much too real a woman not to findpleasure in seeing a man made miserable for love of her. 

"I wish you could bring yourself to speak to me now and then withoutputting that odious 'Sir' before my name, " he says to her one day. "Anybody would say we were utter strangers. "

"Well, and so we are, " Cecil replies, opening wide her eyes in affectedastonishment. "How can you dispute it? Why, you never even saw me untila few days ago. "

"You are my wife at all events, " says the young man, slightlydiscomfited. 

"Ay, more's the pity, " murmurs her ladyship, with such a sudden, bewitching, aggravating smile as entirely condones the incivility ofher speech. Sir Penthony smiles too. 

"Cecil--Cis, --a pretty name. --It rhymes with kiss, " he says, rathersentimentally. 

"So it does. And Penthony, --what does that rhyme with? Tony--money. Ah!that was our stumbling block. "

"It might have been a worse one. There are more disagreeable things thanmoney. There was once upon a time a stubborn mare, and even she was madeto go by this same much-abused money. By the bye, "--thoughtfully, --"youdon't object to your share of it, do you?"

"By no means. I purchased it so dearly I have quite a veneration forit. "

"I see. I don't think my remark called for so ungracious a reply. Tolook at you one could hardly imagine a cruel sentiment coming from yourlips. "

"That shows how deceitful appearances can be. Had you troubled yourselfto raise my veil upon your wedding-day you might have made yourselfmiserable for life. Really, Sir Penthony, I think you owe me a debt ofgratitude. "

"Do you? Then I confess myself _un_grateful. Oh, Cecil, had I onlyknown----" Here he pauses, warned by the superciliousness of herbearing, and goes on rather lamely. "Are you cold? Shall I get you ashawl?" They are standing on the veranda, and the evening is closingin. 

"Cold? No. Who could feel cold on so divine an evening? It reminds oneof the very heart of summer, and---- Ah!" with a little start and apleased smile, "here is Mr. Lowry coming across the grass. "

"Lowry! It seems to me he always is coming across the grass. " Testily. "Has he no servants, no cook, no roof over his head? Or what on earthbrings him here, morning, noon, and night?"

"I really think he must come to see me, " says Lady Stafford, withmodest hesitation. "He was so much with me in town, off and on, that Idare say he misses me now. He was very attentive about bringing meflowers and--and that. "

"No doubt. It is amazing how thoughtful men can be on occasions. Youlike him very much?"

"Very much indeed. He is amiable, good-natured, and has such kind browneyes. "

"Has he?" With exaggerated surprise. "Is he indeed all that you say? Itis strange how blind a man can be to his neighbor's virtues, whateverhe may be to his faults. Now, if I had been asked my opinion of TalbotLowry, I would have said he was the greatest bore and about the ugliestfellow I ever met in my life. "

"Well, of course, strictly speaking, no one could call him handsome, "Cecil says, feeling apologetic on the score of Mr. Lowry; "but he hasexcellent points; and, after all, with me, good looks count for verylittle. " She takes a calm survey of her companion's patrician featuresas she speaks; but Sir Penthony takes no notice of her examination, ashe is looking straight before him at nothing in the world, as far asshe can judge. 

"I never meet him without thinking of Master Shallow, " he says, ratherwitheringly. "May I ask how he managed to make himself so endurable toyou?"

"In many ways. Strange as it may appear to you, he can read poetryreally charmingly. Byron, Tennyson, even Shakespeare, he has read to meuntil, " says Cecil, with enthusiasm, "he has actually brought the tearsinto my eyes. "

"I can fancy it, " says Sir Penthony, with much disgust, adjusting hiseyeglass with great care in his right eye, the better to contemplatethe approach of this modern hero. "I can readily believe it. He seemsto me the very personification of a 'lady's man, '--a thorough-pacedcarpet knight. When, " says Sir Penthony, with careful criticism, "Itake into consideration the elegant slimness of his lower limbs and thecadaverous leanness of his under-jaw, I can almost see him writingsonnets to his mistress's eyebrow. "

"If"--severely--"there is one thing that absolutely repels me, it issarcasm. Don't you be sarcastic. It doesn't suit you. I merely said Mr. Lowry probably feels at a loss, now his mornings are unoccupied, as hegenerally spent them with me in town. "

"Happy he. Were those mornings equally agreeable to you?"

"They were indeed. But, as you evidently don't admire Talbot, you canhardly be expected to sympathize with my enjoyment. "

"I merely hinted I thought him a conceited coxcomb; and so I do. Ah, Lowry, how d'ye do? Charmed to see you. Warm evening, is it not?"

"You are come at last, Mr. Lowry, " Cecil says, with sweet meaning inher tone, smiling up at him as he stands beside her, with no eyes butfor her. "What a glorious day we have had! It makes one sad to think itcannot continue. I do so hate winter. "

"Poor winter!" says Lowry, rather insipidly. "It has my most sinceresympathy. As for the day, I hardly noticed its beauties: I found itlong. "

"The sign of an idler. Did you find it _very_ long?"

"Very, " says Lowry, with a look that implies his absence from her sidewas the sole cause of its tedium, and such an amount of emphasis asawakens in Sir Penthony a mad desire to horsewhip him. Though how, inthese degenerate days, _can_ one man horsewhip another because hemakes use of that mild word "very"?

It certainly is a delicious evening. Five o'clock has crept on themalmost insensibly, and tea has been brought out to the veranda. Within, from the drawing-room, a roaring fire throws upon the group outsidewhite arms of flame, as though petitioning them to enter and accept itswarm invitation. 

Marcia, bending over the tea-tray, is looking tall and handsome, andperhaps a degree less gloomy than usual. Philip, too, is present, alsotall and handsome; only he, by way of contrast, is looking rather moremoody than usual. Molly is absent; so is Luttrell. 

Mr. Potts, hovering round the tea-table, like an over-grown clumsy bee, is doing all that mortal man can do in the way of carrying cups andupsetting spoons. There are few things more irritating than the clatterof falling spoons, but Mr. Potts is above irritation, whatever hisfriends may be, and meets each fresh mishap with laudable equanimity. He is evidently enjoying himself, and is also taking very kindly tosuch good things in the shape of cake as the morbid footman has beenpleased to bring. 

Sir Penthony, who has sturdily declined to quit the battle-field, stands holding his wife's cup on one side, while Mr. Lowry is supplyingher with cake on the other. There is a good deal of obstinacy mingledwith their devotion. 

"I wonder where Molly can be?" Lady Stafford says, at length. "I alwaysknow by instinct when tea is going on in a house. She will be sorry ifshe misses hers. Why don't somebody go and fetch her? You, forinstance, " she says, turning her face to Sir Penthony. 

"I would fly to her, " replies he, unmoved, "but I unfortunately don'tknow where she is. Besides, I dare say if I knew and went I would findmyself unwelcome. I hate looking people up. "

"I haven't seen her all day, " says Mr. Potts, in an aggrieved tone, having finished the last piece of plum-cake, and being much exercisedin his mind as to whether it is the seed or the sponge he will attacknext. "She has been out walking, or writing letters, or something, since breakfast. I hope nothing has happened to her. Perhaps if weinstituted a search----"

At this moment, Molly, smiling, _gracieuse_, appears at the openwindow and steps on the veranda. She is dressed in a soft blue clinginggown, and has a flower, fresh-gathered, in her hair, another at herthroat, another held loosely in her slender fingers. 

"Talk of an angel!" says Philip, softly, but audibly. 

"_Were_ you talking of me?" asks modest Molly, turning toward him. 

"Well, if ever I heard such a disgracefully conceited speech!" saysLady Stafford, laughing. But Philip says, "We were, " still with hiseyes on Molly. 

"Evidently you have all been pining for me, " says Molly, gayly. "It isuseless your denying it. Mr. Potts, "--sweetly, --"leave me a littlecake, will you? Don't eat it _all_ up. Knowing as you do myweakness for seed-cake, I consider it mean of you to behave as you arenow doing. "

"You shall have it all, " says Mr. Potts, magnanimously. "I devotedmyself to the plum-cake so as to leave this for you; so you see I don'tdeserve your sneer. "

Philip straightens himself, and his moodiness flies from him. Marcia, on the contrary, grows _distrait_ and anxious. Molly, with the airof a little _gourmand_, makes her white teeth meet in her sweetcake, and, with a sigh of deep content, seats herself on thewindow-sill. 

Mr. Potts essays to do likewise. In fact, so great is his haste tosecure the coveted position that he trips, loses balance, and crashgoes tea, cup, and all--with which he meant to regale his idol--on tothe stone at his feet. 

"You seem determined to outdo yourself this evening, Potts, " SirPenthony says, mildly, turning his eyeglass upon the delinquent. "Firstyou did all you knew in the way of battering the silver, and now youhave turned your kind attention on the china. I really think, too, thatit is the very best china, --Wedgwood, is it not? Only yesterday I heardMr. Amherst explaining to Lady Elizabeth Eyre, who is rather aconnoisseur in china, how blessed he was in possessing an entire set ofWedgwood unbroken. I heard him asking her to name a day to come and seeit. "

"I don't think you need pile up the agony any higher, " Philipinterposes, laughing, coming to the rescue in his grandfather'sabsence. "He will never find it out. "

"I'm so awfully sorry!" Mr. Potts says, addressing Marcia, his skinhaving by this time borrowed largely of his hair in coloring. "It wasunpardonably awkward. I don't know how it happened. But I'll mend itagain for you, Miss Amherst; I've the best cement you ever knewup-stairs; I always carry it about with me. "

"You do right, " says Molly, laughing. 

"The hot tea won't affect it afterward, " goes on Potts triumphantly. 

"He is evidently in the habit of going about breaking people's petchina and mending it again, --knows all about it, " murmurs Sir Penthony, _sotto voce_, with much interest. "It isn't a concoction of yourown, Potts, is it?"

"No; a fellow gave it to me. The least little touch mends, and it nevergives way again. "

"That's what's-_meant_ to do, " Captain Mottie has the audacity tosay, very unwisely. Of course no one takes the faintest notice. Theyall with one consent refuse indignantly to see it; and Longshank'sinevitable "Ha, ha!" falls horribly flat. Only Molly, after a wildstruggle with her better feelings, gives way, and bursts into anirrepressible fit of laughter, for which the poor captain is intenselygrateful. 

Mrs. Darley, who is doing a little mild running with this would-be JoeMiller, encouraged by Molly, laughs too, and gives the captain tounderstand that she thinks it a joke, which is even more than could beexpected of her. 

A sound of footsteps upon the gravel beneath redeems any furtherawkwardness. They all simultaneously crane their necks over the ironrailings, and all at a glance see Mr. Amherst slowly, but surely, advancing on them. 

He is not alone. Beside him, affording him the support of one arm, walks a short, stout, pudgy little man, dressed with elaborate care, and bearing all the distinguishing marks of the lowest breeding in hisface and figure. 

It is Mr. Buscarlet, the attorney, without whose advice Mr. Amherstrarely takes a step in business matters, and for whom--could he beguilty of such a thing--he has a decided weakness. Mr. Amherst isfrigid and cutting. Mr. Buscarlet is vulgar and gushing. They sayextremes meet. In this case they certainly do, for perhaps he is theonly person in the wide world with whom old Amherst gets on. 

With Marcia he is a bugbear, --a _bête noire_. She does not eventrouble herself to tolerate him, which is the one unwise step the wiseMarcia took on her entrance into Herst. 

Now, as he comes puffing and panting up the steps to the veranda, shedeliberately turns her back on him. 

"Pick up the ghastly remains, Potts, " Sir Penthony says, hurriedly, alluding to the shattered china. Mr. Amherst is still on the loweststep, having discarded Mr. Buscarlet's arm. "If there is one thing minehost abhors more than another, it is broken china. If he catches youred-handed, I shudder for the consequences. "

"What an ogre you make him out!" says Molly. "Has he, then, a privateBastile, or a poisoned dagger, this terrible old man?"

"Neither. He clings to the traditions of the 'good old times. ' Skinningalive, which was a favorite pastime in the dark ages, is the sort ofthing he affects. Dear old gentleman, he cannot bear to see ancientusages sink into oblivion. Here he is. "

Mr. Potts, having carefully removed all traces of his handiness, gazeswith recovered courage on the coming foe. 

"Have some tea, grandpapa, " says Marcia, attentively, ignoring Mr. Buscarlet. 

"No, thank you. Mr. Buscarlet will probably have some, if he is asked, "says grandpapa, severely. 

"Ah, thank you; thank you. I will take a little tea from Miss Amherst'sfair hands, " says the man of law, rubbing his own ecstatically as hespeaks. 

"Mr. Longshanks, give this to Mr. Buscarlet, " says Marcia, turning toLongshanks with a cup of tea, although Mr. Buscarlet is at her otherelbow, ready to receive it from her "fair hands. "

Mr. Longshanks does as he is bidden; and the attorney, having receivedit, walks away discomfited, a fresh score against this haughty hostessprinted on his heart. He has the good luck to come face to face withpretty Molly, who is never unkind to any one but the man who loves her. They have met before, so he has no difficulty about addressing her, though, after his rebuff from Marcia, he feels some faint pangs ofdiffidence. 

"Is it not a glorious evening?" he says, with hesitation, hardlyknowing how he will be received; "what _should_ we all do but forthe weather?"

"Is it not?" says Molly, with the utmost cheerfulness, smiling on him. She is so sorry for his defeat, which she witnessed, that her smile isone of her kindest. "If this weather might only continue, how happy weshould be. Even the flowers would remain with us. " She holds up thewhite rose in her hand for his admiration. 

"A lovely flower, but not so lovely as its possessor, " says thisinsufferable old lawyer, with a smirk. 

"Oh, Mr. Buscarlet! I doubt you are a sad flirt, " says Miss Molly, withan amused glance. "What would Mrs. Buscarlet say if she knew you weregoing about paying compliments all round?"

"Not all round, Miss Massereene, pardon me. There is a power aboutbeauty stronger than any other, --a charm that draws one out of one'sself. " With a fat obeisance he says this, and a smile he means to befascinating. 

Molly laughs. In her place Marcia would have shown disgust; but Mollyonly laughs--a delicious laugh, rich with the very sweetest, merriestmusic. She admits even to herself she is excessively amused. 

"Thank you, " she says. "Positively you deserve anything for so pretty aspeech. I am sorry I have nothing better to offer, but--you shall havemy rose. "

Still smiling, she goes close to him, and with her own white fingersplaces the rose in the old gentleman's coat; while he stands asinfatuated by her grace and beauty as though he still could callhimself twenty-four with a clear conscience, and had no buxom partnerat home ready to devour him at a moment's notice. 

Oh, lucky, sweetly-perfumed, pale white rose! Oh, fortunate, kindly, tender manner! You little guess your influence over the future. 

Old Mr. Amherst, who has been watching Molly from afar, now comesgrumbling toward her and leads Mr. Buscarlet away. 

"Grandpa is in a bad temper, " says Marcia, generally, when they havequite gone. 

"No, you don't say so? What a remarkable occurrence!" exclaims Cecil. "Now, what _can_ have happened to ruffle so serene a nature ashis?"

"I didn't notice it; I was making a fresh and more lengthenedexamination of his features. Yet, I still adhere to my originalconviction: his nose is his strong point. " Mr. Potts says this as onewould who had given to the subject years of mature study. 

"It _is_ thin, " says Lady Stafford. 

"It is. Considering his antiquity, his features are really quitehandsome. But his nose--his nose, " says Mr. Potts, "is especially fine. That's a joke: do you see it? Fine! Why, it is sharper than an awl. 'Score two on the shovel for that, Mary Ann. '"

For want of something better to do, they all laugh at Mr. Potts'srather lame sally. Even Mr. Longshanks so far forgets himself and hisallegiance to his friend as to say "Ha-ha-ha!" out loud--a proceedingso totally unexpected on the part of Longshanks that they all laughagain, this time the more heartily that they cannot well explain thecause of their merriment. 

Captain Mottie is justly vexed. The friend of his soul has turnedtraitor, and actually expended a valuable laugh upon an outsider. 

Mrs. Darley, seeing his vexation, says, quietly, "I do not think it isgood form, or even kind, to speak so of poor Mr. Amherst behind hisback. I cannot bear to hear him abused. "

"It is only his nose, dear, " says Cecil; "and even you cannot call itfat without belying your conscience. "

Mrs. Darley accepts the apology, and goes back to her mild flirtation. 

"How silly that woman is!" Cecil says, somewhat indignantly. She andMolly and one or two of the men are rather apart. "To hear her going infor simple sentiments is quite too much for me. When one looks at her, one cannot help----" She pauses, and taps her foot upon the ground, impatiently. 

"She is rather pretty, " says Lowry, glancing carelessly at the powdereddoll's face, with its wealth of dyed hair. 

 "There was a young lady named Maud, "

says Sir Penthony, addressing his toes, "Who had recently come from abroad, Her bloom and her curls, Which astonished the girls, Were both an ingenious fraud. 

"Ah! here is Tedcastle coming across to us. "

Tedcastle, with the boy Darley mounted high on his shoulder, comesleisurely over the lawn and up the steps. 

"There, my little man, now you may run to your mother, " he says to thechild, who shows a morbid dislike to leave his side (all children adoreLuttrell). "What! not tired of me yet? Well, stay, then. "

"Tea, Tedcastle?"

"No, thank you. "

"Let me get you some more, Miss Massereene, " says Plantagenet. "Youcame late, and have been neglected. "

"I think I will take a very little more. But, " says Molly, who is in atender mood, "you have been going about on duty all the evening. I willask Mr. Luttrell to get me some this time, if he will be so kind. " Sheaccompanies this with a glance that sets Luttrell's fond heart beating. 

"Ah, Molly, why did you not come with Teddy and me this day, as usual?"says little Lucien Darley, patting her hand. "It was so nice. Onlythere was no regular sun this evening, like yesterday. It was hot, butI could see no dear little dancing sunbeams; and I asked Teddy why, andhe said there could be no sun where Molly was not. What did he mean bythat?"

"Yes, what _could_ he have meant by that?" asks Sir Penthony, in aperplexed tone, while Molly blushes one of her rare, sweet blushes, andlowers her eyes. "It was a wild remark. I can see no sense in it. Butperhaps he will kindly explain. I say, Luttrell, you shouldn't spendyour time telling this child fairy tales; you will make him avisionary. He says you declared Miss Massereene had entire control overthe sun, moon, and stars, and that they were never known to shineexcept where she was. "

"I have heard of the '_enfant terrible_, '" says Luttrell, laughing, to cover some confusion; "I rejoice to say I have at last metwith one. Lucien, I shall tell you no more fantastic stories. "

CHAPTER XVIII. 

"These violet delights have violet ends, And in their triumph die, like fire and powder. "

 --_Romeo and Juliet. _

"That is the way with you men; you don't understand us, --you_cannot_. "

 --_Courtship of Miles Standish. _

Whether it is because of Marcia's demeanor toward Mr. Buscarlet, or theunusual excellence of the weather, no one can tell, but to-night Mr. Amherst is in one of his choicest moods. 

Each of his remarks outdoes the last in brilliancy of conception, whilst all tend in one direction, and show a laudable desire to touchon open wounds. Even the presence of his chosen intimate, the lawyer, who remains to dinner and an uncomfortable evening afterward, has notthe power to stop him, though Mr. Buscarlet does all in his knowledgeto conciliate him, and fags on wearily through his gossipingconversations with an ardor and such an amount of staying power asraises admiration even in the breast of Marcia. 

All in vain. The little black dog has settled down on the oldgentleman's shoulders with a vengeance and a determination to see itout with the guests not to be shaken. 

Poor Mr. Potts is the victim of the hour. Though why, because he isenraged with Marcia, Mr. Amherst should expend his violence upon thewretched Plantagenet is a matter for speculation. He leaves no stoneunturned to bring down condemnation on the head of this poor youth anddestroy his peace of mind; but fortunately, Plantagenet has learned thehappy knack of "ducking" mentally and so letting all hostile missilesfly harmless over his rosy head. 

After dinner Mr. Darley good-naturedly suggests a game of besique withhis host, but is snubbed, to the great grief of those assembled in thedrawing-room. Thereupon Darley, with an air of relief, takes up a bookand retires within himself, leaving Mr. Buscarlet to come once more tothe front. 

"You have heard, of course, about the Wyburns?" he says, addressing Mr. Amherst. "They are very much cut up about that second boy. He hasturned out such a failure! He missed his examination again last week. "

"I see no cause for wonder. What does Wyburn expect? At sixty-five heweds a silly chit of nineteen without an earthly idea in her head, andthen dreams of giving a genius to the world! When, " says Mr. Amherst, turning his gaze freely upon the devoted Potts, "men marry late in lifethey always beget fools. "

"That's me, " says Mr. Potts, addressing Molly in an undertone, utterlyunabashed. "My father married at sixty and my mother at twenty-five. Inme you behold the fatal result. "

"Well, well, " goes on Mr. Buscarlet, hastily, with a view to checkingthe storm, "I think in this case it was more idleness than want ofbrain. "

"My dear Buscarlet, did you ever yet hear of a dunce whose mother didnot go about impressing upon people how idle the dear boy was? Idle?Pooh! lack of intellect!"

"At all events, the Wyburns are to be pitied. The eldest son's marriagewith one so much beneath him was also a sad blow. "

"Was it? Others endure like blows and make no complaint. It is quitethe common and regular thing for the child you have nurtured, to growup and embitter your life in every possible way by marrying againstyour wishes, or otherwise bringing down disgrace upon your head. I havebeen especially blessed in my children and grandchildren. "

"Just so, no doubt, --no doubt, " says Mr. Buscarlet, nervously. There isa meaning sneer about the old man's lips. 

"Specially blessed, " he repeats. "I had reason to be proud of them. Each child as he or she married gave me fresh cause for joy. Marcia'smother was an Italian dancer. "

"She was an actress, " Marcia interposes, calmly, not a line ofdispleasure, not the faintest trace of anger, discernible in her paleface. "I do not recollect having ever heard she danced. "

"Probably she suppressed that fact. It hardly adds to one'srespectability. Philip's father was a spendthrift. His son develops dayby day a very dutiful desire to follow in his footsteps. "

"Perhaps I might do worse, " Shadwell replies, with a little aggravatinglaugh. "At all events, he was _beloved_. "

"So he was, --while his money lasted. Eleanor's father----"

With a sudden, irrepressible start Molly rises to her feet and, with arather white face, turns to her grandfather. 

"I will thank you, grandpapa, to say nothing against _my_ father, "she says, in tones so low, yet so full of dignity and indignation, thatthe old man actually pauses. 

"High tragedy, " says he, with a sneer. "Why, you are all wronglyassorted. The actress should have been your mother, Eleanor. "

Yet it is noticeable that he makes no further attempt to slight thememory of the dead Massereene. 

"I shan't be able to stand much more of this, " says Mr. Potts, presently, coming behind the lounge on which sit Lady Stafford andMolly. "I shall infallibly blow out at that obnoxious old person, orelse do something equally reprehensible. "

"He is a perfect bear, " says Cecil angrily. 

"He is a wicked old man, " says Molly, still trembling with indignation. 

"He is a jolly old snook, " says Mr. Potts. But as neither of hislisteners know what he means, they do not respond. 

"Let us do something, " says Plantagenet, briskly. 

"But what? Will you sing for us, Molly? 'Music hath charms to soothethe savage breast. '"

"It would take a good deal of music to soothe our _bête noire_, "says Potts. "Besides--I confess it, --music is not what Artemus Wardwould call my 'forte. ' I don't understand it. I am like the man whosaid he only knew two tunes in the world: one was 'God save the Queen, 'and the other wasn't. No, let us do something active, --somethingunusual, something wicked. "

"If you can suggest anything likely to answer to your description, youwill make me your friend for life, " says Cecil, with solemnity. "I feelbad. "

"Did you ever see a devil?" asks Mr. Potts, in a sepulchral tone. 

"A what?" exclaim Cecil and Molly, in a breath. 

"A devil, " repeats he, unmoved. "I don't mean our own particular oldgentleman, who has been behaving so sweetly to-night, but a regular_bona fide_ one. "

"Are you a spiritualist?" Cecil asks with awe. 

"Nothing half so paltry. There is no deception about my performance. Itis simplicity itself. There is no rapping, but a great deal of powder. Have you ever seen one?"

"A devil? Never. "

"Should you like to?"

"Shouldn't I!" says Cecil, with enthusiasm. 

"Then you shall. It won't be much, you know, but it has a prettyeffect, and anything will be less deadly than sitting here listening tothe honeyed speeches of our host. I will go and prepare my work, andcall you when it is ready. "

In twenty minutes he returns and beckons them to come; and, rising, both girls quit the drawing-room. 

With much glee Mr. Potts conducts them across the hall into thelibrary, where they find all the chairs and the centre table pushedinto a corner, as though to make room for one soup-plate which occupiesthe middle of the floor. 

On this plate stands a miniature hill, broad at the base and taperingat the summit, composed of blended powder and water, which Mr. Pottshas been carefully heating in an oven during his absence until, according to his lights, it has reached a proper dryness. 

"Good gracious! what is it?" asks Molly. 

"Powder, " says Potts. 

"I hope it won't go off and blow us all to bits, " says Cecil, anxiously. 

"It will go off, certainly, but it won't do any damage, " replies theirshowman, with confidence; "and really it is very pretty while burning. I used to make 'em by hundreds when I was a boy, and nothing everhappened except once, when I blew the ear off my father's coachman. "

This is not reassuring. Molly gets a little closer to Cecil, and Cecilgets a little nearer to Molly. They both sensibly increase the distancebetween them and the "devil. "

"Now I am going to put out the lamp, " says Plantagenet, suiting theaction to the word and suddenly placing them in darkness. "It don'tlook anything if there is light to overpower its own brilliancy. "

Striking a match, he applies it to the little black mountain, and in asecond it turns into a burning one. The sparks fly rapidly upward. Itseems to be pouring its fire in little liquid streams all down itssides. 

Cecil and Molly are in raptures. 

"It is Vesuvius, " says the former. 

"It is Mount Etna, " says the latter, "except much better, because theydon't seem to have any volcanoes nowadays. Mr. Potts, you deserve aprize medal for giving us such a treat. "

"Plantagenet, my dear, I didn't believe it was in you, " says Cecil. "Permit me to compliment you on your unprecedented success. "

Presently, however, they slightly alter their sentiments. Everyschool-boy knows how overpowering is the smell of burnt powder. 

"What an intolerable smell!" says Molly, when the little mound is halfburned down, putting her dainty handkerchief up to her nose. "Oh! whatis it? Gunpowder? Brimstone? _Sulphur?_"

"And extremely appropriate, too, dear, " says Cecil, who has also gother nose buried in her cambric; "entirely carries out the character ofthe entertainment. You surely don't expect to be regaled with incenseor attar of roses. By the bye, Plantagenet, is there going to be muchmore of it, --the smell, I mean?"

"Not much, " replies he. "And, after all, what is it? If you went outshooting every day you would think nothing of it. For my part I almostlike the smell. It is wholesome, and--er---- Oh, by Jove!"

There is a loud report, --a crash, --two terrified screams, --and thenutter darkness. The base of the hill, being too dry, has treacherouslygone off without warning: hence the explosion. 

"You aren't hurt, are you?" asks Mr. Potts, a minute later, in aterrified whisper, being unable to see whether his companions are deador alive. 

"Not much, " replies Cecil, in a trembling tone; "but, oh! what hashappened? Molly, speak. "

"I am quite safe, " says Molly, "but horribly frightened. Mr. Potts, areyou all right?"

"I am. " He is ignorant of the fact that one of his cheeks is black asany nigger's, and that both his hands resemble it. "I really thought itwas all up when I heard you scream. It was that wretched powder thatgot too dry at the end. However, it doesn't matter. "

"Have you both your ears, Molly?" asks Cecil, with a laugh; but asudden commotion in the hall outside, and the rapid advance offootsteps in their direction, check her merriment. 

"I hear Mr. Amherst's voice, " says Mr. Potts, tragically. "If he findsus here we are ruined. "

"Let us get behind the curtains at the other end of the room, " whispersCecil, hurriedly; "they may not find us there, --and--throw the plateout of the window. "

No sooner said than done: Plantagenet with a quick movementprecipitates the soup-plate--or rather what remains of it--into thecourt-yard beneath, where it falls with a horrible clatter, and hastilyfollows his two companions into their uncertain hiding-place. 

It stands in a remote corner, rather hidden by a bookcase, and consistsof a broad wooden pedestal, hung round with curtains, that oncesupported a choice statue. The statue having been promoted some timesince, the three conspirators now take its place, and find themselvescompletely concealed by its falling draperies. 

This recess, having been originally intended for one, can withdifficulty conceal two, so I leave it to your imagination to considerhow badly three fare for room inside it. 

Mr. Potts, finding himself in the middle, begins to wish he had beenborn without arms, as he now knows not how to dispose of them. He stirsthe right one, and Cecil instantly declares in an agonized whisper thatshe is falling off the pedestal. He moves the left, and Molly murmursfrantically in another instant she will be through the curtains at herside. Driven to distraction, poor Potts, with many apologies, solvesthe difficulty by placing an arm round each complainant, and sosupports them on their treacherous footing. 

They have scarcely brought themselves into a retainable position whenthe door opens and Mr. Amherst enters the room, followed by SirPenthony Stafford and Luttrell. 

With one candlestick only are they armed, which Sir Penthony holds, having naturally expected to find the library lighted. 

"What is the meaning of this smell?" exclaims Mr. Amherst, in an awfulvoice, that makes our three friends shiver in their shoes. "Has any onebeen trying to blow up the house? I insist on learning the meaning ofthis disgraceful affair. "

"There doesn't seem to be anything, " says Tedcastle, "except gunpowder, or rather the unpleasant remains of it. The burglar has evidentlyflown. "

"If you intend turning the matter into a joke, " retorts Mr. Amherst, "you had better leave the room. "

"Nothing shall induce me to quit the post of danger, " replies Luttrell, unruffled. 

Meantime, Sir Penthony, who is of a more suspicious nature, is making amore elaborate search. Slowly, methodically he commences a tour roundthe room, until presently he comes to a stand-still before the curtainsthat conceal the trembling trio. 

Mr. Amherst, in the middle of the floor, is busily engaged examiningthe chips of china that remain after their _fiasco_, --and thatought to tell the tale of a soup-plate. 

Tedcastle comes to Sir Penthony's side. 

Together they withdraw the curtains; together they view what restsbehind them. 

Grand tableau!

Mr. Potts, with half his face blackened beyond recognition, glares outat them with the courage of despair. On one side of him is LadyStafford, on the other Miss Massereene; from behind each of theirwaists protrudes a huge and sooty hand. That hand belongs to Potts. 

Three pairs of eyes gleam at the discoverers, silently, entreatingly, yet with what different expressions! Molly is frightened, but evidentlybraced for action; Mr. Potts is defiant; Lady Stafford is absolutelyconvulsed with laughter. Already filled with a keen sense of thecomicality of the situation, it only wanted her husband's face ofindignant surprise to utterly unsettle her. Therefore it is that theone embarrassment she suffers from is a difficulty in refraining froman outburst of merriment. 

There is a dead silence. Only the grating of Mr. Amherst's bits ofchina mars the stillness. Plantagenet, staring at his judges, defiesthem, without a word, to betray their retreat. The judges--althoughangry--stare back at him, and acknowledge their inability to play thesneak. Sir Penthony drops the curtain, --and the candle. Instantlydarkness covers them. Luttrell scrapes a heavy chair along the waxedborders of the floor; there is some faint confusion, a rustle ofpetticoats, a few more footsteps than ought to be in the room, anuncivil remark from old Amherst about some people's fingers being allthumbs, and then once more silence. 

When, after a pause, Sir Penthony relights his candle, the search is atan end. 

Now that they are well out of the library, though still in the gloomylittle anteroom that leads to it, Molly and Cecil pause to recoverbreath. For a few moments they keep an unbroken quiet. Lady Stafford isthe first to speak, --as might be expected. 

"I am bitterly disappointed, " she says, in a tone of intense disgust. "It is a downright swindle. In spite of a belief that has lasted foryears, that nose of his is a failure. I think _nothing_ of it. With all its length and all its sharpness, it never found us out!"

"Let us be thankful for that same, " returns Molly, devoutly. 

By this time they have reached the outer hall, where the lamps areshining vigorously. They now shine down with unkind brilliancy on Mr. Potts's disfigured countenance. A heavy veil of black spreads from hisnose to his left ear, rather spoiling the effect of his uniqueugliness. 

It is impossible to resist; Lady Stafford instantly breaks down, andgives way to the laughter that has been oppressing her for the lasthalf-hour, Molly chimes in, and together they laugh with such heartydelight that Mr. Potts burns to know the cause of their mirth, that hemay join in. 

He grins, however, in sympathy, whilst waiting impatiently anexplanation. His utter ignorance of the real reason only enhances theabsurdity of his appearance and prolongs the delight of his companions. 

When two minutes have elapsed, and still neither of them offers anyinformation, he grows grave, and whispers rather to himself than them, the one word, "Hysterics?"

"You are right, " cries Cecil: "I was never nearer hysterics in my life. Oh, Plantagenet! your face is as black as--as----"

"Your hat!" supplies Molly, as well as she can speak. "And yourhands, --you look demoniacal. Do run away and wash yourself and---- Ihear somebody coming. "

Whereupon Potts scampers up-stairs, while the other two gain thedrawing-room, just as Mr. Amherst appears in the hall. 

Seeing them, half an hour later, seated in all quietude and sobriety, discussing the war and the last new marvel in bonnets, who would havesupposed them guilty of their impromptu game of "hide and seek"?

Tedcastle and Sir Penthony, indeed, look much more like the realculprits, being justly annoyed, and consequently rather cloudy aboutthe brows. Yet, with a sense of dignified pride, the two gentlemenabstain from giving voice to their disapprobation, and make no commenton the event of the evening. 

Mr. Potts is serenity itself, and is apparently ignorant of havinggiven offense to any one. His face has regained its pristine fairness, and is scrupulously clean; so is his conscience. He looks incapable ofharm. 

Bed-hour arrives, and Tedcastle retires to his pipe without betrayinghis inmost feelings. Sir Penthony is determined to follow his lead;Cecil is equally determined he shall not. To have it out with himwithout further loss of time is her fixed intention, and with thatdesign she says, a little imperiously:

"Sir Penthony, get me my candle. "

She has lingered, before saying this, until almost all the others havedisappeared. The last of the men is vanishing round the corner thatleads to the smoking-room; the last of the women has gone beyond sightof the staircase in search of her bedroom fire. Cecil and her husbandstand alone in the vast hall. 

"I fear you are annoyed about something, " she says, in a maddening toneof commiseration, regarding him keenly, while he gravely lights hercandle. 

"Why should you suppose so?"

"Because of your gravity and unusual silence. "

"I was never a great talker, and I do not think I am in the habit oflaughing more than other people. "

"But you have not laughed at all, --all this evening, at least, "--with asmile, --"not since you discovered us in durance vile. "

"Did you find the situation so unpleasant? I fancied it rather amusedyou, --so much so that you even appeared to forget the dignity that, asa married woman, ought to belong to you. "

"Well, but!"--provokingly--"you forget how very _little_ married Iam. "

"At all events you are my wife, "--rather angrily; "I must beg you toremember that. And for the future I shall ask you to refrain from suchamusements as call for concealment and necessitate the support of ayoung man's arm. "

"I really do not see by what right you interfere with either me or myamusements, " says Cecil, hotly, after a decided pause. Never has headdressed her with so much sternness. She raises her eyes to his andcolors richly all through her creamy skin. "Recollect our bargain. "

"I do. I recollect also that you have my name. "

"And you have my money. That makes us quits. "

"I do not see how you intend carrying out that argument. The money wasquite as much mine as yours. "

"But you could not have had it without me. "

"Nor you without me. "

"Which is to be regretted. At least I should have had a clear half, which I haven't; so you have the best of it. And--I will not befollowed about, and pried after, and made generally uncomfortable byany one. "

"Who is prying after you?"

"You are. "

"What do you mean, Cecil?" Haughtily. 

"Just what I say. And, as I never so far forget myself as to call_you_ by your Christian name without its prefix, I think you mighthave the courtesy to address _me_ as Lady Stafford. "

"Certainly, if you wish it. "

"I do. Have you anything more to say?"

"Yes, more than----"

"Then pray defer it until to-morrow, as"--with a bare-faced attempt ata yawn--"I really cannot sit up any longer. Good-night, Sir Penthony. "

Sir Penthony puts the end of his long moustache into his mouth, --a suresign of irritation, --and declines to answer. 

"Good-night, " repeats her ladyship, blandly, going up the staircase, with a suspicion of a smile at the corners of her lips, and feeling nosurprise that her polite little adieu receives no reply. 

When she has reached the centre of the broad staircase she pauses, and, leaning her white arms upon the banisters, looks down upon her husband, standing irresolute and angry in the hall beneath. 

"Sir Penthony, " murmurs she; "Sir----" Here she hesitates for so long atime that when at last the "Penthony" does come it sounds more familiarand almost unconnected with the preceding word. 

Stafford turns, and glances quickly up at her. She is dressed in somesoft-flowing gown of black, caught here and there with heavy bows andbands of cream-color, that contrast admirably with her hair, soft skin, her laughing eyes, and her pouting, rosy lips. In her hair, which shewears low on her neck, is a black comb studded with pearls; there are afew pearls round her neck, a few more in her small ears; she wears nobracelets, only two narrow bands of black velvet caught with pearls, that make her arms seem even rounder and whiter than they are. 

"Good-night, " she says, for the third time, nodding at him in a slow, sweet fashion that has some grace or charm about it all its own, andmakes her at the instant ten times lovelier than she was before. 

Stafford, coming forward until he stands right under her, gazes up ather entranced like some modern Romeo. Indeed, there is something almosttheatrical about them as they linger, each waiting for the other tospeak, --he fond and impassioned, yet half angry too, she calm andsmiling, yet mutinous. 

For a full minute they thus hesitate, looking into each other's eyes;then the anger fades from Stafford's face, and he whispers, eagerly, tenderly:

"Good-night, my----"

"Friend, " murmurs back her ladyship, decisively, leaning yet a littlefarther over the banisters. 

Then she kisses her hand to him and drops at his feet the rose that haslain on her bosom all the evening, and, with a last backward glance andsmile, flits away from him up the darkened staircase and vanishes. 

"I shall positively lose my heart to her if I don't take care, " thinksthe young man, ruefully, and very foolishly, considering how long agoit is since that misfortune has befallen him. But we are ever slow toacknowledge our own defeats. His eyes are fixed upon the flower at hisfeet. 

"No, I do not want her flowers, " he says, with a slight frown, pushingit away from him disdainfully. "It was a mere chance my getting it. Anyother fellow in my place at the moment would have been quite asfavored, --nay, beyond doubt more so. I will not stoop for it. "

With his dignity thus forced to the front, he walks the entire lengthof the hall, his arms folded determinedly behind him, until he reachesa door at the upper end. 

Here he pauses and glances back almost guiltily. Yes, it is stillthere, the poor, pretty yellow blossom that has been so close to her, now sending forth its neglected perfume to an ungrateful world. 

It is cruel to leave it there alone all night, to be trodden on, perhaps, in the morning by an unappreciative John or Thomas, or, worsestill, to be worn by an appreciative James. Desecration!

"'Who hesitates is lost, '" quotes Stafford, aloud, with an angry laughat his own folly, and, walking deliberately back again, picks up theflower and presses it to his lips. 

"I thought that little speech applied only to us poor women, " says asoft voice above him, as, to his everlasting chagrin, Cecil'smischievous, lovable face peers down at him from the gallery overhead. "Have another flower, Sir Penthony? You seem fond of them. "

She throws a twin-blossom to the one he holds on to his shoulder as shespeaks with very accurate aim. 

"It was yours, " stammers Sir Penthony, utterly taken aback. 

"_So_ it was, "--with an accent of affected surprise, --"which makesyour behavior all the more astonishing. Well, do not stand therekissing it all night, or you will catch cold, and then--what_should_ I do?"

"What?"

"Die of grief, most probably. " With a little mocking laugh. 

"Very probably. Yet you should pity me too, in that I have fallen solow as to have nothing better given me to kiss. I am wasting mysweetness on----"

"Is it sweetness?" asks she, wickedly. 

At this they both laugh, --a low, a soft laugh, born of the hour and afear of interruption, and perhaps a dread of being so discovered, thatadds a certain zest to their meeting. Then he says, still laughing, inanswer to her words, "Try. "

"No, thank you. " With a little _moue_. "Curiosity is not mybesetting sin, although I could not resist seeing how you would treatmy parting gift a moment ago. Ah!"--with a little suppressed laugh ofthe very fullest enjoyment, --"you cannot think what an interestingpicture you made, --almost tragic. First you stalked away from myunoffending rose with all the dignity of a thousand Spaniards; andthen, when you had gone sufficiently far to make your return effective, you relented, and, seizing upon the flower as though it were--let ussay, for convenience sake--_myself_, devoured it with kisses. Iassure you it was better than a play. Well, "--with a sigh, --"I won'tdetain you any longer. I'm off to my slumbers. "

"Don't go yet, Cecil. Wait one moment. I--have something to say toyou. "

"No doubt. A short time since you said the same thing. Were I to staynow you might, perhaps, finish that scolding; instinct told me it washanging over me; and--I hate being taken to task. "

"I will not, I swear I will never again attempt to scold you aboutanything, experience having taught me the futility of such a course. Cecil, stay. "

"Lady Stafford, if you please, Sir Penthony. " With a tormenting smile. 

"Lady Stafford then, --anything, if you will only stay. "

"I can't, then. Where should I be without my beauty sleep? The bareidea fills me with horror. Why, I should lose my empire. Sweet asparting is, I protest I, for one, would not lengthen it untilto-morrow. Till then--farewell. And--Sir Penthony--be sure you dream ofme. I like being dreamed of by my----"

"By whom?"

"My slaves, " returns this coquette of all coquettes, with a lastlingering glance and smile. After which she finally disappears. 

"There is no use disguising the fact any longer, --I _have_ lost myheart, " groans Sir Penthony, in despair, as he straightway carries offboth himself and his cherished flowers to the shelter of his own room. 

CHAPTER XIX. 

"I'll tell thee a part, Of the thoughts that startTo being when thou art nigh. "

 --Shelley. 

The next day is Sunday, and a very muggy, disagreeable one it proves. There is an indecision about it truly irritating. A few drops of rainhere and there, a threatening of storm, but nothing positive. Finally, at eleven o'clock, just as they have given up all hope of seeing anyimprovement, it clears up in a degree, --against its will, --and allowstwo or three depressed and tearful sunbeams to struggle forth, ratherwith a view to dishearten the world than to brighten it. 

Sunday at Herst is much the same as any other day. There are no rules, no restrictions. In the library may be found volumes of sermons waitingfor those who may wish for them. The covers of those sermons are asclean and fresh to-day as when they were placed on their shelves, nowmany years ago, showing how amiably they _have_ waited. You mayplay billiards if you like; you need not go to church if you don'tlike. Yet, somehow, when at Herst, people always do go, --perhapsbecause they needn't, or perhaps because there is such a dearth ofamusements. 

Molly, who as yet has escaped all explanation with Tedcastle, comingdown-stairs, dressed for church, and looking unusually lovely, findsalmost all the others assembled before her in the hall, ready to start. 

Laying her prayer-books upon a table, while with one hand she gathersup the tail of her long gown, she turns to say a word or two to LadyStafford. 

At this moment both Luttrell and Shadwell move toward the books. Shadwell, reaching them first, lays his hand upon them. 

"You will carry them for me?" says Molly, with a bright smile to him;and Luttrell, with a slight contraction of the brow, falls back again, and takes his place beside Lady Stafford. 

As the church lies at the end of a pleasant pathway through the woods, they elect to walk it; and so in twos and threes they make their wayunder the still beautiful trees. 

"It is cold, is it not?" Molly says to Mrs. Darley once, when they cometo an open part of the wood, where they can travel in a body;"wonderfully so for September. "

"Is it? I never mind the cold, or--or anything, " rejoins Mrs. Darley, affectedly, talking for the benefit of the devoted Mottie, who walksbeside her, "laden with golden grain, " in the shape of prayer-books andhymnals of all sorts and sizes, "if I have any one with me that suitsme; that is, a sympathetic person. "

"A lover you mean?" asks uncompromising Molly. "Well, I don't know; Ithink that is about the time, of all others, when I should object tofeeling cold. One's nose has such an unpleasant habit of getting beyondone's control in the way of redness; and to feel that one's cheeks arepinched and one's lips blue is maddening. At such times I like my ownsociety best. "

"And at other times, too, " said Philip, disagreeably; "this morning, for instance. " He and Molly have been having a passage of arms, and hehas come off second best. 

"I won't contradict you, " says Molly, calmly; "it would be rude, and, considering how near we are to church, unchristian. "

"A pity you cannot recollect your Christianity on other occasions, "says he, sneeringly. 

"You speak with feeling. How have I failed toward _you_ inChristian charity?"

"Is it charitable, is it kind to scorn a fellow-creature as you do, only because he loves you?" Philip says, in a low tone. 

Miss Massereene is first honestly surprised, then angry. That Philiphas made love to her now and again when opportunity occurred is a factshe does not seek to deny, but it has been hitherto in the careless, half-earnest manner young men of the present day affect when in thesociety of a pretty woman, and has caused her no annoyance. 

That he should now, without a word of warning (beyond the slightsparring-match during their walk, and which is one of a series), breakforth with so much vehemence and apparent sense of injury, not onlyalarms but displeases her; whilst some faint idea of treachery on herown part toward her betrothed, in listening to such words, fills herwith distress. 

There is a depth, an earnestness, about Philip not to be mistaken. Hissombre face has paled, his eyes do not meet hers, his thin nostrils aredilated, as though breathing were a matter of difficulty; all prove himgenuinely disturbed. 

To a man of his jealous, passionate nature, to love is a calamity. Noreturn, however perfect, can quite compensate him for all the pains andfears his passion must afford. Already Philip's torture has begun;already the pangs of unrequited love have seized upon him. 

"I wish you would not speak to me like--as--in such a tone, " Mollysays, pettishly and uneasily. "Latterly, I hate going anywhere withyou, you are so ill-tempered; and now to-day---- Why cannot you bepleasant and friendly, as you used to be when I first came to Herst?"

"Ah, why indeed?" returns he, bitterly. 

At this inauspicious moment a small rough terrier of Luttrell's rushesacross their path, almost under their feet, bent on some mad chaseafter a mocking squirrel; and Philip, maddened just then by doubts andthe coldness of her he loves, with the stick he carries strikes him aquick and sudden blow; not heavy, perhaps, but so unexpected as to drawfrom the pretty brute a sharp cry of pain. 

Hearing a sound of distress from his favorite, Luttrell turns, and, seeing him shrinking away from Molly's side, casts upon her a glancefull of the liveliest reproach, that reduces her very nearly to theverge of tears. To be so misunderstood, and all through this tiresomePhilip, it is too bad! As, under the circumstances, she cannot wellindulge her grief, she does the next best thing, and gives way totemper. 

"Don't do that again, " she says, with eyes that flash a little throughtheir forbidden tears. 

"Why?" surprised in his turn at her vehemence; "it isn't your dog; it'sLuttrell's. "

"No matter whose dog it is; don't do it again. I detest seeing a poorbrute hurt, and for no cause, but merely as a means to try and ridyourself of some of your ill-temper. "

"There is more ill-temper going than mine. I beg your pardon, however. I had no idea you were a member of the Humane Society. You should studythe bearing-rein question, and vivisection, and--that, " with a sullenlaugh. 

"Nothing annoys me so much as wanton cruelty to dumb animals. "

"There are other--perhaps mistakenly termed--superior animals on whomeven _you_ can inflict torture, " he says, with a sneer. "All yourtenderness must be reserved for the lower creation. You talk ofbrutality: what is there in all the earth so cruel as a woman? Alover's pain is her joy. "

"You are getting out of your depth, --I cannot follow you, " says Molly, coldly. "Why should you and I discuss such a subject as lovers? Whathave we in common with them? And it is a pity, Philip, you should allowyour anger to get so much the better of you. When you look savage, asyou do now, you remind me of no one so much as grandpapa. And _do_recollect what an odious old man he makes. "

This finishes the conversation. He vouchsafes her no reply. To beconsidered like Mr. Amherst, no matter in how far-off a degree, is abitter insult. In silence they continue their walk; in silence reachthe church and enter it. 

It is a gloomy, antiquated building, primitive in size, and form, andservice. The rector is well-meaning, but decidedly Low. The curate isunmeaning, and abominably slow. The clerk does a great part of theduty. 

He is an old man, and regarded rather in the light of an institution inthis part of the county. Being stone deaf, he puts in the responsesanyhow, always in the wrong place, and never finds out his mistakeuntil he sees the clergyman's lips set firm, and on his face a look ofpatient expectation, when he coughs apologetically, and says them allover again. 

There is an "Amen" in the middle of every prayer, and then one at theend. This gives him double trouble, and makes him draw his salary witha clear conscience. It also creates a lively time for theschool-children, who once at least on every Sunday give way to a loudburst of merriment, and are only restored to a sense of duty by asevere blow administered by the sandy-haired teacher. 

It is a good old-fashioned church too, where the sides of the pews areso high that one can with difficulty look over them, and where theaffluent man can have a real fire-place all to himself, with a realpoker and tongs and shovel to incite it to a blaze every now and again. 

Here, too, without rebuke the neighbors can seize the opportunity ofconversing with each other across the pews, by standing on tiptoe, whenoccasion offers during the service, as, for instance, when the poor-boxis going round. And it _is_ a poor-box, and no mistake, --flat, broad, and undeniable pewter, at which the dainty bags of a city chapelwould have blushed with shame. 

When the clergyman goes into the pulpit every one instantly blows hisor her nose, and coughs his or her loudest before the text is givenout, under a mistaken impression that they can get it all over at once, and not have to do it at intervals further on. This is a compliment tothe clergyman, expressing their intention of hearing him undisturbed tothe end, and, I suppose, is received as such. 

It is an attentive congregation, --dangerously so, for what man butblunders in his sermon now and then? And who likes being twitted onweek-days for opinions expressed on Sundays, more especially if he hasnot altogether acted up to them! It is a suspicious congregation too(though perhaps not singularly so, for I have perceived others do thesame), because whenever their priest names a chapter and verse for anytext he may choose to insert in his discourse, instantly and withavidity each and all turn over the leaves of their Bibles, to see if itbe really in the identical spot mentioned, or whether their pastor hasbeen lying. This action may not be altogether suspicion; it may be alsothought of as a safety-valve for their _ennui_, the rector neverletting them off until they have had sixty good minutes of his valuabledoctrine. 

All the Herst party conduct themselves with due discretion save Mr. Potts, who, being overcome by the novelty of the situation and thelength of the sermon, falls fast asleep, and presently, at somedenunciatory passage, pronounced in a rather distinct tone by therector, rousing himself with a precipitate jerk, sends all thefire-irons with a fine clatter to the ground, he having been mostunhappily placed nearest the grate. 

"The ruling passion strong in death, " says Luttrell, with a despairingglance at the culprit; whereupon Molly nearly laughs outright, whilethe school-children do so quite. 

Beyond this small _contre-temps_, however, nothing of note occurs;and, service being over, they all file decorously out of the churchinto the picturesque porch outside, where they stand for a few minutesinterchanging greetings with such of the county families as come withintheir knowledge. 

With a few others too, who scarcely come within that aristocratic pale, notably Mrs. Buscarlet. She is a tremendously stout, distressinglyhealthy woman, quite capable of putting her husband in a corner of hercapacious pocket, which, by the bye, she insists on wearing outside hergown, in a fashion beloved of our great-grandmothers, and which, in amodified form, last year was much affected by our own generation. 

This alarming personage greets Marcia with the utmost _bonhommie_, being apparently blind to the coldness of her reception. She greetsLady Stafford also, who is likewise at freezing-point, and then getsintroduced to Molly. Mrs. Darley, who even to the uninitiated Mrs. Buscarlet appears a person unworthy of notice, she lets go free, forwhich favor Mrs. Darley is devoutly grateful. 

Little Buscarlet himself, who has a weakness for birth, in that helacks it, comes rambling up to them at this juncture, and tells them, with many a smirk, he hopes to have the pleasure of lunching with themat Herst, Mr. Amherst having sent him a special invitation, as he hassomething particular to say to him; whereupon Molly, who is nearest tohim, laughs, and tells him she had no idea such luck was in store forher. 

"You are the greatest hypocrite I ever met in my life, " Sir Penthonysays in her ear, when Buscarlet, smiling, bowing, radiant, has movedon. 

"I am not indeed; you altogether mistake me, " Molly answers. "If youonly knew how his anxiety to please, and Marcia's determination_not_ to be pleased, amuse me, you would understand how thoroughlyI enjoy his visits. "

"I ask your pardon. I had no idea we had a student of human natureamong us. Don't study _me_, Miss Massereene, or it will unfit youfor further exertions; I am a living mass of errors. "

"Alas that I cannot contradict you!" says Cecil, with a woful sigh, whois standing near them. 

Mr. Amherst, who never by any chance darkens the doors of a church, receives them in the drawing-room on their return. He is in an amiablemood and pleased to be gracious. Seizing upon Mr. Buscarlet, he carrieshim off with him to his private den, so that for the time being thereis an end of them. 

"For all small mercies, " begins Mr. Potts, solemnly, when the door hasclosed on them; but he is interrupted by Lady Stafford. 

"'Small, ' indeed, " grumbles she. "What do you mean? I shan't be able toeat my lunch if that odious little man remains, with his 'Yes, LadyStafford;' 'No, Lady Stafford;' 'I quite agree with your ladyship, ' andso on. Oh, that I could drop my title!"--this with a glance at SirPenthony;--"at all events while he is present. " This with another andmore gracious glance at Stafford. "Positively I feel my appetite goingalready, and that is a pity, as it was an uncommonly good one. "

"Cheer up, dear, " says Molly; "and remember there will be dinner lateron. Poor Mr. Buscarlet! There must be something wrong with me, becauseI cannot bring myself to think so disparagingly of him as you all do. "

"I am sorry for you. Not to know Mr. Buscarlet's little peculiaritiesof behavior argues yourself unknown, " Marcia says, with a good deal ofintention. "And I presume they cannot have struck you, or you wouldscarcely be so tolerant. "

"He certainly sneezes very incessantly and very objectionably, " Mollysays, thoughtfully. "I hate a man who sneezes publicly; and his sneezeis so unpleasant, --so exactly like that of a cat. A little wriggle ofthe entire body, and then a little soft--splash!"

"My _dear_ Molly!" expostulates Lady Stafford. 

"But is it not?" protests she; "is it not an accurate description?"

"Yes, its accuracy is its fault. I almost thought the man was in theroom. "

"And then there is Mrs. Buscarlet: I never saw any one like Mrs. Buscarlet, " Maud Darley says, plaintively; "did you? There is so muchof her, and it is all so nasty. And, oh! her voice! it is like windwhistling through a key-hole. "

"Poor woman, " says Luttrell, regretfully, "I think I could haveforgiven her had she not worn that very verdant gown. "

"My dear fellow, I thought the contrast between it and her cheeks themost perfect thing I ever saw. It is evident you have not got the eyeof an artist, " Sir Penthony says, rather unfeelingly. 

"I never saw any one so distressingly healthy, " says Maud, stillplaintively. "Fat people are my aversion. I don't mind acomfortable-looking body, but she is much too stout. "

"Let us alter that last remark and say she has had too much stout, andperhaps we shall define her, " remarks Tedcastle. "I hate a woman whoshows her food. "

"The way she traduced those Sedleys rather amused me, " Molly says, laughing. "I certainly thought her opinion of her neighbors verypronounced. "

"She shouldn't have any opinion, " says Lady Stafford, with decision. "You, my dear Molly, take an entirely wrong view of it. Such people asthe Buscarlets, sprung from nobody knows where, or cares to know, should be kept in their proper place, and be sat upon the very instantthey develop a desire to progress. "

"How can you be so illiberal?" exclaims Molly, aghast at so muchmisplaced vehemence. "Why should they not rise with the rest of theworld?"

"Eleanor has quite a _penchant_ for the Buscarlets, " says Marcia, with a sneer; "she has quite adopted them, and either will not, orperhaps does not, see their enormities. "

Nobody cares to notice this impertinence, and Mr. Potts says, gravely:

"Lady Stafford has never forgiven Mrs. Buscarlet because once, at aball here, she told her she was looking very '_distangy_. ' Is thatnot true?"

Cecil laughs. 

"Why should not every one have an opinion?" Molly persists. "I agreewith the old song that 'Britons never shall be slaves:' therefore, whyshould they not assert themselves? In a hundred years hence they willhave all the manners and airs of we others. "

"Then they should be locked up during the intermediate stage, " saysCecil, with an uncompromising nod of her blonde head. "I call theminsufferable; and if Mr. Buscarlet when he comes in again makes himselfagreeable to me--me!--I shall insult him, --that's all! No use arguingwith me, Molly, --I shall indeed. " She softens this awful threat by amerry sweet-tempered little laugh. 

"Let us forget the little lawyer and talk of something we allenjoy, --to-day's sermon, for instance. You admired it, Potts, didn'tyou? I never saw any one so attentive in my life, " says Sir Penthony. 

Potts tries to look as if he had never succumbed during service to"Nature's sweet restorer;" and Molly says, apologetically:

"How could he help it? The sermon was so long. "

"Yes, wasn't it?" agrees Plantagenet, eagerly. "The longest I everheard. That man deserves to be suppressed or excommunicated; and theparishioners ought to send him a round robin to that effect. Odd, too, how much at sea one feels with a strange prayer-book. One looks forone's prayer at the top of the page, where it always used to be inone's own particular edition, and, lo! one finds it at the bottom. Whatever you may do for the future, Lady Stafford, don't lend me yourprayer-book. But for the incessant trouble it caused me, between losingmy place and finding it again, I don't believe I should have droppedinto that gentle doze. "

"Had you ever a prayer-book of your own?" asks Cecil, unkindly. "Because if so it is a pity you don't air it now and again. I haveknown you a great many years, --more than I care to count, --and never, never have I seen you with the vestige of one. I shall send you apocket edition as a Christmas-box. "

"Thanks awfully. I shall value it for the giver's sake. And I promiseyou that when next we meet--such care shall it receive--even _you_will be unable to discover a scratch on it. "

"Plantagenet, you are a bad boy, " says Cecil. 

"I thought the choir rather good, " Molly is saying; "but why must a manread the service in a long, slow, tearful tone? Surely there is no goodto be gained by it; and to find one's self at 'Amen' when he is only inthe middle of the prayer has something intolerably irritating about it. I could have shaken that curate. "

"Why didn't you?" says Sir Penthony. "I would have backed you up withthe greatest pleasure. The person I liked best was the old gentlemanwith the lint-white locks who said 'Yamen' so persistently in the wrongplace all through; I grew quite interested at last, and knew the exactspot where it was likely to come in. I must say I admire consistency. "

"How hard it is to keep one's attention fixed, " Molly says, meditatively, "and to preserve a properly dismal expression ofcountenance! To look solemn always means to look severe, as far as Ican judge. And did you ever notice when a rather lively and secular setof bars occur in the voluntary, how people cheer up and rousethemselves, and give way to a little sigh or two? I hope it isn't asigh of relief. We feel it's wicked, but we always do it. "

"Still studying poor human nature, " exclaims Sir Penthony. "MissMassereene, I begin to think you a terrible person, and to tremble whenI meet your gaze. "

"Well, at all events no one can accuse them of being High Church, " saysMrs. Darley, alluding to her pastors and masters for the time being. "The service was wretchedly conducted; hardly any music, and not aflower to speak of. "

"My dear! High Church! How could you expect it? Only fancy that curateintoning!" says Cecil, with a laugh. 

"I couldn't, " declares Sir Penthony; "so much exertion would kill me. "

"That's why he _isn't_ High Church, " says Mr. Potts of the curate, speaking with a rather sweeping air of criticism. "He ain't musical; hecan't intone. Take my word for it, half the clergy are Anglicans merelybecause they think they have voices, and feel what a loss the worldwill sustain if it don't hear them. "

"Oh, what a malicious remark!" says Molly, much disgusted. 

Here the scene is further enlivened by the reappearance of Mr. Amherstand the lawyer, which effectually ends the conversation and turns theirthoughts toward the dining-room. 

CHAPTER XX. 

"Trifles light as air. "

 --_Othello. _

When luncheon is over, Sir Penthony Stafford retires to write a letteror two, and half an hour afterward, returning to the drawing-room, finds himself in the presence of Mr. Buscarlet, unsupported. 

The little lawyer smiles benignly; Sir Penthony responds, and, throwinghimself into a lounging-chair, makes up his mind to be agreeable. 

"Well, Mr. Buscarlet, and what did you think of the sermon?" he says, briskly, being rather at a loss for a congenial topic. "Tedious, eh? Isaw you talking to Lady Elizabeth after service was over. She is a finewoman, all things considered. "

"She is indeed, --remarkably so: a very fine presence for her time oflife. "

"Well, there certainly is not much to choose between her and the hillsin point of age, " allows Sir Penthony, absently--he is inwardlywondering where Cecil can have gone to, --"still she is a nice oldlady. "

"Quite so, --quite so; very elegant in manner, and in appearancedecidedly high-bred. "

"Hybrid!" exclaims Sir Penthony, purposely misunderstanding the word. "Oh, by Jove, I didn't think you so severe. You allude, of course, toher ladyship's mother, who, if report speaks truly, was a good cookspoiled by matrimony. 'Hybrid!' Give you my word, Buscarlet, I didn'tbelieve you capable of anything half so clever. I must remember to tellit at dinner to the others. It is just the sort of thing to delight Mr. Amherst. "

Now, this lawyer has a passion for the aristocracy. To be noticed by alord, --to press "her ladyship's" hand, --to hold sweet converse with thesmallest scion of a noble house, --is as honey to his lips; therefore tobe thought guilty of an impertinence to one of this sacred community, to have uttered a word that, if repeated, would effectually close tohim the doors of Lady Elizabeth's house, fills him with horror. 

"My dear Sir Penthony, pardon me, " he says, hastily, divided betweenthe fear of offending the baronet and a desire to set himself straightin his own eyes, "you quite mistake me. 'Hybrid!'--such a word, such athought, never occurred to me in connection with Lady Elizabeth Eyre, whom I hold in much reverence. Highly bred I meant. I assure you youaltogether misunderstand. I--I never made a joke in my life. "

"Then let me congratulate you on your maiden effort; you have everyreason to be proud of it, " laughs Sir Penthony, who is highly delightedat the success of his own manoeuvre. "Don't be modest. You have made adecided hit: it is as good a thing as ever I heard. But how about LadyElizabeth, eh? should _she_ hear it? Really, you will have to suppressyour wit, or it will lead you into trouble. "

"But--but--if you will only allow me to explain--I protest I----"

"Ah! here come Lady Stafford and Miss Massereene. Positively you mustallow me to tell them----" And, refusing to listen to Mr. Buscarlet'svehement protestations, he relates to the new-comers his version of thelawyer's harmless remark, accompanying the story with an expressiveglance--that closely resembles a wink--at Lady Stafford. "I must go, "he says, when he has finished, moving toward the door, "though I hardlythink I do wisely, leaving, you alone with so dangerous a companion. "

"I assure you, my dear Lady Stafford, " declares Mr. Buscarlet, withtears in his eyes and dew on his brow, "it is all a horrible, anunaccountable mistake, a mere connection of ideas by your husband, --nomore, no more, I give you my most sacred honor. "

"Oh, sly Mr. Buscarlet!" cries her ladyship, lightly, "cruel Mr. Buscarlet! Who would have thought it of you? And we all imagined yousuch an ally of poor dear Lady Elizabeth. To make a joke about herparentage, and such a good one too! And Sir Penthony found you out?Clever Sir Penthony. "

"I swear, my dear lady, I----"

"Ah, ha! wait till she hears of it. How she _will_ enjoy it! Withall her faults, she is good-tempered. It will amuse her. Molly, mydear, is not Mr. Buscarlet terribly severe?"

"Naughty Mr. Buscarlet!" says Molly, shaking a reproachful dainty-whitefinger at him. "And I believed you so harmless. "

At this they both laugh so immoderately that presently the lawyer losesall patience, and, taking up his hat, rushes from the room in a greaterrage than he could have thought possible, considering that one of hisprovocators bears a title. 

They are still laughing when the others enter the room, and insist onlearning the secret of their mirth. Tedcastle alone fails to enjoy it. He is _distrait_, and evidently oppressed with care. Seeing this, Molly takes heart of grace, and, crossing to his side, says, sweetly:

"Do you see how the day has cleared? That lovely sun is tempting me togo out. Will you take me for a walk?"

"Certainly, --if you want to go. " Very coldly. 

"But of course I do; and nobody has asked me to accompany them; so I amobliged to thrust myself on you. If"--with a bewitching smile--"youwon't mind the trouble just this once, I will promise not to tormentyou again. "

Through the gardens, and out into the shrubberies beyond, they go insilence, until they reach the open; then Molly says, laughing: "I knowyou are going to scold me about Mr. Potts. Begin at once, and let usget it over. "

Her manner is so sweet, and she looks so gay, so fresh, so harmless, that his anger melts as dew beneath the sun. 

"You need not have let him place his arm around you, " he says, jealously. 

"If I hadn't I should have slipped off the pedestal; and what did hisarm signify in comparison with that? Think of my grandfather's face;think of mine; think of all the horrible consequences. I should havebeen sent home in disgrace, perhaps--who knows?--put in prison, and youmight 'never, never, see your darling any more. '"

She laughs. 

"What a jealous fellow you are, Ted!"

"Am I?"--ruefully. "I don't think I used to be. I never remember beingjealous before. "

"No? I am glad to hear it. "

"Why?"

"Because"--with an adorable glance and a faint pressure of his arm--"itproves to me you have never _loved_ before. "

This tender insinuation blots out all remaining vapors, leaving theatmosphere clear and free of clouds for the rest of their walk, whichlasts till almost evening. Just before they reach the house, Luttrellsays, with hesitation:

"I have something to say to you, but I am afraid if I do say it youwill be angry. "

"Then _don't_ say it, " says Miss Massereene, equably. "That isabout the most foolish thing one can do. To make a person angryunintentionally is bad enough, but to know you are going to do it, andto say so, has something about it rash, not to say impertinent. If youare fortunate enough to know the point in the conversation that is sureto rouse me to wrath, why not carefully skirt round it?"

"Because I lose a chance if I leave it unsaid; and you differ so widelyfrom most girls--it may not provoke _you_. "

"Now you compel me to it, " says Molly, laughing. "What! do you think Icould suffer myself to be considered a thing apart? Impossible. No onelikes to be thought odd or eccentric except rich old men, andBohemians, and poets; therefore I insist on following closely in mysisters' footsteps, and warn you I shall be in a furious passion themoment you speak, whether or not I am really annoyed. Now go on if youdare?"

"Well, look here, " begins Luttrell, in a conciliating tone. 

"There is not the slightest use in your beating about the bush, Teddy, "says Miss Massereene, calmly. "I am going to be angry, so do not wastetime in diplomacy. "

"Molly, how provoking you are!"

"No! Am I? Because I wish to be like other women?"

"A hopeless wish, and a very unwise one. "

"'Hopeless!' And why, pray?" With a little uplifting of the straightbrows and a little gleam from under the long curled lashes. 

"Because, " says her lover, with fond conviction, "you are so infinitelysuperior to them, that they would have to be born all over again beforeyou could bring yourself to fall into their ways. "

"What! every woman in the known world?"

"Every one of them, I am eternally convinced. "

"Teddy, " says Molly, rubbing her cheek in her old caressing fashionagainst his sleeve, and slipping her fingers into his, "you may go on. Say anything you like, --call me any name you choose, --and I promise notto be one bit angry. There!"

When Luttrell has allowed himself time to let his own strong brownfingers close upon hers, and has solaced himself still further bypressing his lips to them, he takes courage and goes on, with aslightly accelerated color:

"Well, you see, Molly, you have made the subject a forbidden one, and--er--it is about our engagement I want to speak. Now, remember yourpromise, darling, and don't be vexed with me if I ask you to shortenit. Many people marry and are quite comfortable on five hundred poundsa year; why should not we? I know a lot of fellows who are doinguncommonly well on less. "

"Poor fellows!" says Molly, full of sympathy. 

"I know I am asking you a great deal, "--rather nervously, --"but won'tyou think of it, Molly?"

"I am afraid I won't, just yet, " replies that lady, suavely. "Besensible, Teddy; remember all we said to John, and think how foolish weshould look going back of it all. Why should things not go on safelyand secretly, as at present, and let us put marriage out of our headsuntil something turns up? I am like Mr. Micawber; I have an almostreligious belief in the power things have of turning up. "

"_I_ haven't, " says Luttrell, with terse melancholy. 

"So much the worse for you. And besides, Teddy, instinct tells me youare much nicer as a lover than you will be as a husband. Once youattain to that position, I doubt I shall be able to order you about asI do at present. "

"Try me. "

"Not for a while. There, don't look so dismal, Ted; are we notperfectly happy as we are?"

"You may be, perhaps. "

"Don't say, 'perhaps;' you may be certain of it, " says she, gayly. "Ihaven't a doubt on the subject. Come, do look cheerful again. Men asfair as you should cultivate a perpetual smile. "

"I wish I was a nigger, " says Luttrell, impatiently. "You have such anadmiration for blackamoors, that then, perhaps, you might learn to carefor me a degree more than you do just now. Shadwell is dark enough foryou. "

"Yes; isn't he handsome?" With much innocent enthusiasm. "I thoughtlast night at dinner, when----"

"I don't in the least want to know what you thought last night ofShadwell's personal appearance, " Luttrell interrupts her, angrily. 

"And I don't in the least want you to hold my hand a moment longer, "replies Miss Massereene, with saucy retaliation, drawing her fingersfrom his with a sudden movement, and running away from him up the stonesteps of the balcony into the house. 

 * * * * *

All through the night, both when waking and in dreams, the remembranceof the slight cast upon her absent mother by Mr. Amherst, and her ownsilent acceptance of it, has disturbed the mind of Marcia. "A dancer!"The word enrages her. 

Molly's little passionate movement and outspoken determination to hearno ill spoken of her dead father showed Marcia even more forcibly herown cowardice and mean policy of action. And be sure she likes Mollynone the more in that she was the one to show it. Yet Molly cannotpossibly entertain the same affection for a mere memory that she feelsfor the mother on whom she has expended all the really pure and truelove of which she is capable. 

It is not, therefore, toward her grandfather, whose evil tongue hasever been his own undoing, she cherishes the greatest bitterness, buttoward herself, together with a certain scorn that, through moneyedmotives, she has tutored herself to sit by and hear the one she loveslightly mentioned. 

Now, looking back upon it, it appears to her grossest treachery to themother whose every thought she knows is hers, and who, in her foreignhome, lives waiting, hoping, for the word that shall restore her to herarms. 

A kind of anxiety to communicate with the injured one, and to pour outon paper the love she bears her, but dares not breathe at Herst, fillsMarcia. So that when the house is silent on this Sundayafternoon, --when all the others have wandered into the open air, --shemakes her way to the library, and, sitting down, commences one of thelengthy, secret, forbidden missives that always find their way toItaly, in spite of prying eyes and all the untold evils that so surelywait upon discovery. 

To any one acquainted with Marcia, her manner of commencing her letterwould be a revelation. To one so cold, so self-contained, the weakersymptoms of affection are disallowed; yet this is how she begins:

 "My own Beloved, --As yet I have no good news to send you, and little that I can say, --though ever as I write to you my heart is full. The old man grows daily more wearisome, more detestable, more inhuman, yet shows no sign of death. He is even, as it seems to me, stronger and more full of life than when last I wrote to you, now three weeks ago. At times I feel dispirited, almost despairing, and wonder if the day will ever come when we two shall be reunited, --when I shall be able to welcome you to my English home, where, in spite of prejudices, you will be happy, because you will be with me. "

Here, unluckily, because of the trembling of her fingers, a large spotof ink falls heavily from her pen upon the half-written page beneath, destroying it. 

With an exclamation expressive of impatience, Marcia pushes the sheetto one side and hastily commences again upon another. This time she ismore successful, and has reached almost the last word in her finaltender message, when a footstep approaching disturbs her. Gathering upher papers, she quits the library by its second door, and, gaining herown room, finishes and seals her packet. 

Not until then does she perceive that the blotted sheet is no longer inher possession, --that by some untoward accident she must have forgottenit behind her in her flight. 

Consternation seizes her. Whose were the footsteps that broke in uponher quietude? Why had she not stood her ground? With a beating heartshe runs down-stairs, enters the library once more with cautious steps, only to find it empty. But, search as she may, the missing paper is notto be found. 

What if it has fallen into her grandfather's keeping! A cold horrorfalls upon her. After all these weary years of hated servitude to beundone! It is impossible even fickle fortune should play her such adeadly trick!

Yet the horror continues until she finds herself again face to facewith her grandfather. He is more than usually gracious, --indeed, almostmarked in his attentions to her, --and once more Marcia breathes freely. No; probably the paper was destroyed; even she herself in a fit ofabstraction may have torn it up before leaving the library. 

The evening, being Sunday, proves even duller than usual. Mr. Amherst, with an amount of consideration not to be expected, retires to restearly. The others fall insensibly into the silent, dozy state. Mr. Darley gives way to a gentle snore. It is the gentlest thingimaginable, but effectual. Tedcastle starts to his feet and gives thefire a vigorous poke. He also trips very successfully over thefootstool, that goes far to make poor Darley's slumbers blest, andbrings that gentleman into a sitting posture. 

"This will never do, " Luttrell says, when he has apologized profuselyto his awakened friend. "We are all growing sleepy. Potts, exert yourenergies and tell us a story. "

"Yes, do, Plantagenet, " says Lady Stafford, rousing herself resolutely, and shutting up her fan with a lively snap. 

"I will, " says Potts, obligingly, without a moment's hesitation. 

"Potts is always equal to the occasion, " Sir Penthony remarks, admiringly. "As a penny showman he would have been invaluable and diedworth any money. Such energy, such unflagging zeal is rare. That prettygunpowder plot he showed his friends the other night would fetch alarge audience. "

"Don't ask me to be the audience a second time, " Lady Stafford says, unkindly. "To be blown to bits once in a lifetime is, I consider, quitesufficient. "

"'Well, if ever I do a ky-ind action again, '" says Mr. Potts, --who isbrimful of odd quotations, chiefly derived from low comedies, --posingafter Toole. "It is the most mistaken thing in the world to do anythingfor anybody. You never know where it will end. I once knew a fellow whosaved another fellow from drowning, and hanged if the other fellowdidn't cling on him ever after and make him support him for life. "

"I'm sure that's an edifying tale" says Sir Penthony, with a deep showof interest. "But--stop one moment, Potts. I confess I can't get anyfurther for a minute or two. _How_ many fellows were there? Therewas your fellow, and the other fellow, and the other fellow's fellow;was that three fellows or four? I can't make it out. I apologize allround for my stupidity, but would you say it all over again, Potts, andvery slowly this time, please, to see if I can grasp it?"

"Give you my honor I thought it was a conundrum, " says Henry Darley. 

Plantagenet laughs as heartily as any one, and evidently thinks it acapital joke. 

"You remind me of no one so much as Sothern, " goes on Sir Penthony, warming to his theme. "If you went on the stage you would make yourfortune. But don't dream of acting, you know; go in for being yourself, pure and simple, --plain, unvarnished Plantagenet Potts, --and I ventureto say you will take London by storm. The British public would go downbefore you like corn before the reaper. "

"Well, but your story, --your story, Plantagenet, " Lady Stafford cries, impatiently. 

"Did you hear the story about my mother and----"

"Potts, " interrupts Stafford, mildly but firmly, "if you are going totell the story about your mother and the auctioneer I shall leave theroom. It will be the twenty-fifth time I have heard it already, andhuman patience has a limit. One must draw the line somewhere. "

"What auctioneer?" demands Potts, indignant. "I am going to tell themabout my mother and the auction; I never said a word about anauctioneer; there mightn't have been one, for all I know. "

"There generally _is_ at an auction, " ventures Luttrell, mildly. "Go on, Potts; I like your stories immensely, they are so full of witand spirit. I know this one, about your mother's bonnet, well; it is anold favorite, --quite an heirloom--the story, I mean, not the bonnet. Iremember so distinctly the first time you told it to us at mess: how wedid laugh, to be sure! Don't forget any of the details. The last timebut four you made the bonnet pink, and it must have been so awfullyunbecoming to your mother! Make it blue to-night. "

"Now do go on, Mr. Potts; I am dying to hear all about it, " declaresMolly. 

"Well, when my uncle died, " begins Potts, "all his furniture was soldby auction. And there was a mirror in the drawing-room my mother hadalways had a tremendous fancy for----"

"'And my mother was always in the habit of wearing a black bonnet, '"quotes Sir Penthony, gravely. "I know it by heart. "

"If you do you may as well tell it yourself, " says Potts, muchoffended. 

"Never mind him, Plantagenet; do go on, " exclaims Cecil, impatiently. 

"Well, she was in the habit of wearing a black bonnet, as it_happens_, " says Mr. Potts, with suppressed ire; "but just beforethe auction she bought a new one, and it was pink. "

"Oh, why on earth don't you say blue?" expostulates Luttrell, with agroan. 

"Because it was pink. I suppose I know my mother's bonnet better thanyou?"

"But, my dear fellow, think of her complexion! And at first, I assureyou, you always used to make it blue. "

"I differ with you, " puts in Sir Penthony, politely. "I alwaysunderstood it was a sea-green. "

"It was _pink_, " reiterates Plantagenet, firmly. "Well, we had acook who was very fond of my mother----"

"I thought it was a footman. And it really _was_ a footman, youknow, " says Luttrell, reproachfully. 

"The butler, you mean, Luttrell, " exclaims Sir Penthony, withexaggerated astonishment at his friend's want of memory. 

"And she, having most unluckily heard my mother say she feared shecould not attend the auction, made up her mind to go herself and at allhazards secure the coveted mirror for her----"

"And she didn't know my mother had on the new sea-green bonnet, '" SirPenthony breaks in, with growing excitement. 

"No, she didn't, " says Mr. Potts, growing excited too. "So she startedfor my uncle's, --the cook, I mean, --and as soon as the mirror was putup began bidding away for it like a steam-engine. And presently someone in a pink bonnet began bidding too, and there they were biddingaway against each other, the cook not knowing the bonnet, and my mothernot being able to see the cook, she was so hemmed in by the crowd, until presently it was knocked down to my mother, --who is a sort ofperson who would die rather than give in, --and, would you believe it?"winds up Mr. Potts, nearly choking with delight over the misfortunes ofhis maternal relative, "she had given exactly five pounds more for thatmirror than she need have done!"

They all laugh, Sir Penthony and Luttrell with a very suspicious mirth. 

"Poor Mrs. Potts!" says Molly. 

"Oh, _she_ didn't mind. When she had relieved herself by blowingup the cook she laughed more than any of us. But it was a long timebefore the 'governor' could be brought to see the joke. You know hepaid for it, " says Plantagenet, naively. 

"Moral: never buy a new bonnet, " says Sir Penthony. 

"Or keep an affectionate cook, " says Luttrell. 

"Or go to an auction, " says Philip. "It is a very instructive tale: itis all moral. "

"The reason I so much admire it. I know no one such an adept atpointing a moral and adorning a tale as our Plantagenet. "

Mr. Potts smiles superior. 

"I think the adornment rested with you and Luttrell, " he says, withcutting sarcasm, answering Sir Penthony. 

"Potts, you aren't half a one. Tell us another. Your splendid resourcescan't be yet exhausted, " says Philip. 

"Yes, do, Potts, and wake me when you come to the point, " seconds SirPenthony, warmly, sinking into an arm-chair and gracefully disposing anantimacassar over his head. 

"A capital idea, " murmurs Luttrell. "It will give us all a hint when weare expected to laugh. "

"Oh, you can chaff as you like, " exclaims Mr. Potts, much aggrieved;"but I wonder, if _I_ went to sleep in an arm-chair, which of_you_ would carry on the conversation?"

"Not one of them, " declares Cecil, with conviction: "we should all dieof mere inanition were it not for you. "

"I really think they're all jealous of me, " goes on Plantagenet, greatly fortified. "I consider myself by far the most interesting ofthem all, and the most--er----"

"Say it, Potts; don't be shy, " says Sir Penthony, raising a corner ofthe antimacassar, so as to give his friends the full encouragement ofone whole eye. "'Fascinating, ' I feel sure, will be the right word inthe right place here. "

"It would indeed. I know nobody so really entertaining as Plantagenet, "says Cecil, warmly. 

"Your ladyship's judgment is always sound. I submit to it, " returns SirPenthony, rising to make her a profound bow. 

CHAPTER XXI. 

"'Why come you drest like a village maid That are the flower of the earth?''If I come drest like a village maid I am but as my fortunes are. '"

 --_Lady Clare. _

It is close on October. Already the grass has assumed its sober garb ofbrown; a general earthiness is everywhere. The leaves are falling, --notnow in careful couples or one by one, but in whole showers, --slowly, sorrowfully, as though loath to quit the sighing branches, their lastfaint rustling making their death-song. 

Molly's visit has drawn to an end. Her joyous month is over. To-day aletter from her brother reminding her of her promise to return iswithin her hand, recalling all the tender sweets of home life, all thecalm pleasure she will gain, yet bringing with it a little sting, asshe remembers all the gay and laughing hours that she must lose. Forindeed her time at Herst has proved a good time. 

"I have had a letter from my brother, grandpapa: he thinks it is time Ishould return, " she says, accosting the old man as he takes hissolitary walk up and down one of the shaded paths. 

"Do you find it so dull here?" asks he, sharply, turning to read herface. 

"Dull? No, indeed. How should I? I shall always remember my visit toyou as one of the happy events of my life. "

"Then remain a little longer, " he growls, ungraciously. "The othershave consented to prolong their stay; why should not you? Write toyour--to Mr. Massereene to that effect. I cannot breathe in an emptyhouse. It is my wish, my desire that you shall stay, " he finishes, irritably, this being one of his painful days. 

So it is settled. She will obey this crabbed veteran's behest and enjoya little more of the good the gods have provided for her beforereturning to her quiet home. 

"You will not desert us in our increased calamities, Molly, will you?"asks Cecil, half an hour later, as Molly enters the common boudoirwhere Lady Stafford and Marcia sit alone, the men being absent withtheir guns, and Mrs. Darley consequently in the blues. "Where have youbeen? We quite fancied you had taken a lesson out of poor dear Maudie'sbook and retired to your couch. Do you stay on at Herst?" She glancesup anxiously from her painting as she speaks. 

"Yes. Grandpapa has asked me to put off my departure for a while. So Ishall. I have just written to John to say so, and to ask him if I mayaccept this second invitation. "

"Do you think it likely he will refuse?" Marcia asks, unpleasantly. 

"He may. But when I represent to him how terribly his obduracy willdistress you all, should he insist on my return, I feel sure he willrelent, " retorts Molly, nonchalantly. 

"Now that Mr. Amherst has induced us all to stay, don't you think hemight do something to vary the entertainment?" says Cecil, in a faintlyinjured tone. "Shooting is all very well, of course, for those who likeit; and so is tennis; and so are early hours; but _toujoursperdrix_. I confess I hate my bed until the small hours are upon me. Now, if he would only give a ball, for instance! Do you think he would, Marcia, if he was asked?"

"How can I say?"

"Would _you_ ask him, dear?"

"Well, I don't think I would, " replies Marcia, with a rather forcedlaugh; "for this reason, that it would not be of the slightest use. Imight as well ask him for the moon. If there is one thing he distinctlyabhors, it is a ball. "

"But he might go to bed early, if he wished, " persists Cecil; "none ofus would interfere or find fault with that arrangement. We would tryand spare him, dear old thing. I don't see why our enjoyment should puthim out in the least, if he would only be reasonable. I declare I havea great mind to ask him myself. "

"Do, " says Molly, eagerly, who is struck with admiration at the entireidea, having never yet been to a really large ball. 

"I would rather somebody else tried it first, " confesses Cecil, with afrank laugh. "A hundred times I have made up my mind to ask a favor ofhim, but when I found myself face to face with him, and he fixed mewith his eagle eye, I quailed. Molly, you are a new importation; tryyour luck. "

"Well, I don't mind if I do, " says Molly, valiantly. "He can't sayworse than 'No. ' And here he is, coming slowly along under the balcony. Shall I seize the present opportunity and storm the citadel out ofhand? I am sure if I wait I shall be like Bob Acres and find my courageoozing out through my fingers. "

"Then don't, " says Cecil. "If he molests you badly, I promise tointerfere. "

Molly steps on to the balcony, and, looking down, awaits the slow andlanguid approach of her grandfather. Just as he arrives beneath her shebends over until he, attracted by her presence, looks up. 

She is laughing down upon him, bent on conquest, and has a blood-redrose in one hand. She waves it slightly to and fro, as thoughuncertain, as though dallying about giving utterance to some thoughtthat pines for freedom. 

The old man, pausing, looks up at her, and, looking, sighs, --perhapsfor his dead youth, perhaps because she so much resembles her mother, disowned and forgotten. 

"Have a rose, grandpapa?" says Molly, stooping still farther over theiron railings, her voice sweet and fresh as the dead and goneEleanor's. As she speaks she drops the flower, and he dexterously, bysome fortuitous chance, catches it. 

"Well done!" cries she, with a gay laugh, clapping her hands, feelinghalf surprised, wholly amused, at his nimbleness. "Yet stay, grandpapa, do not go so soon. I--have a favor to ask of you. "

"Well?"

"We have been discussing something delightful for the past fiveminutes, --something downright delicious; but we can do nothing withoutyou. Will you help us, grandpapa? will you?" She asks all this with theprettiest grace, gazing down undaunted into the sour old face raised tohers. 

"Why are you spokeswoman?" demands he, in a tone that makes the deeplyattentive Cecil within groan aloud. 

"Well--because--I really don't believe I know why, except that I choseto be so. But grant me this, my first request. Ah! do, now, grandpapa. "

The sweet coaxing of the Irish "Ah!" penetrates even this withered oldheart. 

"What is this wonderful thing you would have me do?" asks he, some ofthe accumulated verjuice of years disappearing from his face; whileLady Stafford, from behind the curtain, looks on trembling with fearfor the success of her scheme, and Marcia listens and watches withenvious rage. 

"We want you to--give a ball, " says Molly, boldly, with a little gasp, keeping her large eyes fixed in eager anxiety upon his face, while herpretty parted lips seem still to entreat. "Say 'yes' to me, grandpapa. "

How to refuse so tender a pleading? How bring the blank that a "No"must cause upon her _riante_, lovely face?

"Suppose I say I cannot?" asks he; but his tone has alteredwonderfully, and there is an expression that is almost amiable upon hisface. The utter absence of constraint, of fear, she displays in hispresence has charmed him, being so unlike the studied manner of allthose with whom he comes in contact. 

"Then I shall cry my eyes out, " says Molly, still lightly, thoughsecretly her heart is sinking. 

There is a perceptible pause. Then Mr. Amherst says, slowly, regretfully:

"Crying will come too soon, child. None escape. Keep your eyes dry aslong as your heart will let you. No, you shall not fret because of me. You shall have your ball, I promise you, and as soon as ever youplease. "

So saying, and with a quick movement of the hand that declines allthanks, he moves away, leaving Molly to return to the boudoirtriumphant, though somewhat struck and saddened by his words andmanner. 

"Let me embrace you, " cries Cecil, tragically, flinging herself intoher arms. "Molly, Molly, you are a siren!"

Without a word or a look, Marcia rises slowly and quits the room. 

 * * * * *

The invitations are issued, and unanimously accepted. A ball at Herstis such a novelty, that the county to a man declare their intention ofbeing present at it. It therefore promises to be a great success. 

As for the house itself, it is in a state of delicious unrest. There isa good deal of noise, but very little performance, and every one givesvoice now and then to the most startling opinions. One might, indeed, imagine that all these people--who, when in town during the season, yawn systematically through their two or three balls of a night--hadnever seen one, so eager and anxious are they for the success of thissolitary bit of dissipation. 

Lady Stafford is in great form, and becomes even more _debonnaire_and saucy than is her wont. Even Marcia seems to take some interest init, and lets a little vein of excitement crop up here and there throughall the frozen placidity of her manner; while Molly, who has never yetbeen at a really large affair of the kind, loses her head and findsherself unable to think or converse on any other subject. 

Yet in all this beautiful but unhappy world where is the pleasure thatcontains no sting of pain? Molly's is a sharp little sting that pricksher constantly and brings an uneasy sigh to her lips. Perhaps in aman's eyes the cause would be considered small, but surely in a woman'soverwhelming. It is a question of dress, and poor Molly's mind is muchexercised thereon. 

When all the others sit and talk complacently of their silks andsatins, floating tulles and laces, she, with a pang, remembers that allshe has to wear is a plain white muslin. It is hard. No doubt she willlook pretty--perhaps prettier and fairer than most--in the despisedmuslin; but as surely she will look poorly attired, and the thought isnot inspiring. 

No one but a woman can know what a woman thinks on such a subject; andalthough she faces the situation philosophically enough, and by nomeans despises herself for the pangs of envy she endures when listeningto Maud Darley's account of the triumph in robes to be sent by Worthfor the Herst ball, she still shrinks from the cross-examination shewill surely have to undergo at the hands of Cecil Stafford as to hercostume for the coming event. 

One day, a fortnight before the ball, Cecil does seize on her, and, carrying her off to her own room and placing her in her favorite chair, says, abruptly:

"What about your dress, Molly?"

"I don't know that there is anything to say about it, " says Molly, whois in low spirits. "The only thing I have is a new white muslin, andthat will scarcely astonish the natives. "

"Muslin! Oh, Molly! Not but that it is pretty always, --I know nothingmore so, --but for a ball-dress--terribly _rococo_. I have set myheart on seeing you resplendent; and if you are not more gorgeous thanMarcia I shall break down. Muslin won't do at all. "

"But I'm afraid it must. "

"What a pity it is I am so much shorter than you!" says Cecil, regretfully. "Now, if I was taller we might make one of my dresses suityou. "

"Yes, it is a pity, --a dreadful pity, " says Molly, mournfully. "Ishould like to be really well dressed. Marcia, I suppose, will be insatin, or something else equally desirable. "

"No doubt she will deck herself out in Oriental splendor, if shediscovers you can't, " says Cecil, angrily. 

There is a pause, --a decided one. Cecil sits frowning and staring atMolly, who has sunk into an attitude expressive of the deepestdejection. The little ormolu clock, regardless of emotion, ticks onundisturbed until three full minutes vanish into the past. Then Cecil, as though suddenly inspired, says, eagerly:

"Molly, why not ask your grandfather to give you a dress?"

"Not for all the world! Nothing would induce me. If I never was to seea ball I would not ask him for sixpence. How could you think it of me, Cecil?"

"Why didn't I think of it long ago, you mean? I only wish he was_my_ grandfather, and I would never cease persecuting him, morning, noon, and night. What is the use of a grandfather if it isn'tto tip one every now and then?"

"You forget the circumstances of my case. "

"I do not indeed. Of course, beyond all doubt, he behaved badly;still----I really think, " says Cecil, in a highly moralizing tone, "there is nothing on earth so mistaken as pride. I am free from it. Idon't know the meaning of it, and I know I am all the happier inconsequence. "

"Perhaps I am more angry than proud. "

"It is the same thing, and I wish you weren't. Oh, Molly! do ask him. What can it signify what he thinks?"

"Nothing; but a great deal what John thinks. It would be casting aslight upon him, as though he stinted me in clothes or money, and Iwill not do it. "

"It would be such a simple way, " says Cecil, with a melancholysigh, --dear Molly is so obstinate and old-fashioned; then followsanother pause, longer and more decided than the last. Molly, with herback turned to her friend, commences such a dismal tattoo upon thewindow-pane as would be sufficient to depress any one without furthercause. Her friend is pondering deeply. 

"Molly, " she says, presently, with a fine amount of indifference in hertone, --rather suspicious, to say the least of it, --"I feel sure you areright, --quite right. I like you all the better for--your pride, orwhatever you may wish to call it. But what a pity it is yourgrandfather would not offer you a dress or a check to buy it! Isuppose"--quietly---"if he did, you would take it?"

"What a chance there is of that!" says Molly, still gloomy. "Yes, if he_offered_ it I do not think I could bring myself to refuse it. Iam not adamant. You see"--with a faint laugh--"my pride would not carryme very far. "

"Far enough. Let us go down to the others, " says Cecil, rising andyawning slightly. "They will think we are planning high treason if weabsent ourselves any longer. "

Together they go down-stairs and into the drawing-room, which they findempty. 

As they reach the centre of it, Cecil stops abruptly, and, sayingcarelessly, "I will be back in one moment, " turns and leaves the room. 

The apartment is deserted. No sound penetrates to it. Even the veryfire, in a fit of pique, has degenerated into a dull glow. 

Molly, with a shiver, rouses it, throws on a fresh log, and amusesherself trying to induce the tardy flames to climb and lick it untilLady Stafford returns. So busy has she been, it seems to her as thoughonly a minute has elapsed since her departure. 

"This does look cozy, " Cecil says, easily sinking into alounging-chair. "Now, if those tiresome men had not gone shooting weshould not be able to cuddle into our fire as we are doing at present. After all, it is a positive relief to get them out of theway, --sometimes. "

"You don't seem very hearty about that sentiment. "

"I am, for all that. With a good novel I would now be utterly contentfor an hour or two. By the bye, I left my book on the library table. Ifyou were good-natured, Molly, I know what you would do. "

"So do I: I would get it for you. Well, taking into consideration allthings, your age and growing infirmities among them, I will accept yourhint. " And, rising, she goes in search of the missing volume. 

Opening the library door with a little bang and a good deal of recklessunconsciousness, she finds herself in Mr. Amherst's presence. 

"Oh!" cries she, with a surprised start. "I beg your pardon, grandpapa. If"--pausing on the threshold--"I had known you were here, I would nothave disturbed you. "

"You don't disturb me, " replies he, without looking up; and, picking upthe required book, Molly commences a hasty retreat. 

But just as she gains the door her grandfather's voice once morearrests her. 

"Wait, " he says; "I want to ask you a question that--that has been onmy mind for a considerable time. "

To the commonest observer it would occur that from the break to thefinish of this little sentence is one clumsy invention. 

"Yes?" says Molly. 

"Have you a dress for this ball, --this senseless rout that is comingoff?" says Mr. Amherst, without looking at her. 

"Yes, grandpapa. " In a tone a degree harder. 

"You are my granddaughter. I desire to see you dressed as such. Is"--with an effort--"your gown a handsome one?"

"Well, that greatly depends upon taste, " returns Molly, who, thoughangry, finds a grim amusement in watching the flounderings of thistactless old person. "If we are to believe that beauty unadorned isadorned the most, I may certainly flatter myself I shall be the bestdressed woman in the room. But there _may_ be some who will notcall white muslin 'handsome. '"

"White muslin up to sixteen is very charming, " Mr. Amherst says, in aslow tone of a connoisseur in such matters, "but not beyond. And youare, I think----"

"Nineteen. "

"Quite so. Then in your case I should condemn the muslin. You willpermit me to give you a dress, Eleanor, more in accordance with yourage and position. "

"Thank you very much, grandpapa, " says Molly, with a little ominousgleam in her blue eyes. "You are too good. I am deeply sensible of allyour kindness, but I really cannot see how my position has altered oflate. As you have just discovered, I am now nineteen, and for so manyyears I have managed to look extremely well in white muslin. "

As she finishes her modest speech she feels she has gone too far. Shehas been almost impertinent, considering his age and relationship toher; nay, more, she has been ungenerous. 

Her small taunt has gone home. Mr. Amherst rises from his chair; thedull red of old age comes painfully into his withered cheeks as hestands gazing at her, slight, erect, with her proud little head upheldso haughtily. 

For a moment anger masters him; then it fades, and something as nearremorse as his heart can hold replaces it. 

Molly, returning his glance with interest, knows he is annoyed. But shedoes not know that, standing as she now does, with uplifted chin andgleaming eyes, and just a slight in-drawing of her lips, she is thevery image of the dead-and-gone Eleanor, that, in spite of her Irishfather, her Irish name, she is a living, breathing, defiant Amherst. 

In silence that troubles her she waits for the next word. It comesslowly, almost entreatingly. 

"Molly, " says her grandfather, in a tone that trembles ever solittle, --it is the first time he has ever called her by her petname, --"Molly, I shall take it as a great favor if you will accede tomy request and accept--this. "

As he finishes he holds out to her a check, regarding her earnestly thewhile. 

The "Molly" has done it. Too generous even to hesitate, she takes thepaper, and, going closer to him, lays her hand upon his shoulder. 

"I have been rude, grandpapa, --I beg your pardon, --and I am very muchobliged to you for this money. "

So saying, she bends and presses her soft sweet lips to his cheek. Hemakes no effort to return the caress, but long after she leaves theroom sits staring vaguely before him out of the dreary window on to thestill more dreary landscape outside, thinking of vanished days andhaunting actions that will not be laid, but carry with them their sureand keen revenge, in the knowledge that to the dead no ill can beundone. 

Molly, going back to the drawing-room, finds Cecil there, serene asusual. 

"Well, and where is my book?" asks that innocent. "I thought you werenever coming. "

"Cecil, why did you tell grandpapa to offer me a dress?" demands Molly, abruptly. 

"My dearest girl!----" exclaims Cecil, and then has the grace to stopand blush, a little. 

"You did. There is no use your denying it. "

"You didn't refuse it? Oh, Molly, after all my trouble!"

"No, "--laughing, and unfolding her palm, where the paper liescrushed, --"but I was very near it. But that his manner was so kind, somarvelously gentle, for him, I should have done so. Cecil, I couldn'thelp thinking that perhaps long ago, before the world hardened him, grandpapa was a nice young man. "

"Perhaps he was, my dear, --there is no knowing what any of us may cometo, --though you must excuse me if I say I rather doubt it. Well, andwhat did he say?"

"Very little, indeed; and that little a failure. When going about ityou might have given him a few lessons in his _rôle_. So bunglinga performance as the leading up to it I never witnessed; and when hewound up by handing me a check ready prepared beside him on the desk Ivery nearly laughed. "

"Old goose! Never mind; 'they laugh who win. ' I have won. "

"So you have. "

"Well, but look, Molly, look. I want to see how far his unwonted'gentleness' has carried him. I am dying of curiosity. I do hope he hasnot been shabby. "

Unfolding the paper, they find the check has been drawn for a hundredpounds. 

"Very good, " says Cecil, with a relieved sigh. "He is not such a badold thing, when all is told. "

"It is too much, " says Molly, aghast. "I can't take it, indeed. I wouldhave thought twenty pounds a great deal, but a _hundred_ pounds! Imust take it back to him. "

"Are you mad, " exclaims Cecil, "to insult him? He thinks _nothing_of a hundred pounds. And to give back money, --that scarcecommodity, --how could you bring yourself to do it?" In tones of theliveliest reproach. "Be reasonable, dear, and let us see how we canspend it fast enough. "

Thus adjured, Molly succumbs, and, sinking into a chair, is soon deepin the unfathomable mysteries of silks and satins, tulle and flowers. 

"And, Cecil, I should like to buy Letitia a silk dress like that one ofyours up-stairs I admire so much. "

"The navy blue?"

"No, the olive-green; it would just suit her. She has a lovelycomplexion, clear and tinted, like your own. "

"Thank you, dear. It is to be regretted you are of the weaker sex. Sodelicately veiled a compliment would not have disgraced aChesterfield. "

"Was it too glaring? Well, I will do away with it. I was thinkingentirely of Letty. I was comparing her skin very favorably with yours. That reminds me I must write home to-day. I hope John won't be offendedwith me about this money. Though, after all, there can't be much harmin accepting a present from one's grandfather. "

"I should think not, indeed. I only wish I had a grandfather, andwouldn't I utilize him! But I am an unfortunate, --alone in the world. "

Even as she speaks, the door in the next drawing-room opens, andthrough the folding-doors, which stand apart, she sees her husbandenter, and make his way to a davenport. 

"That destroys your argument, " says Molly, with a low laugh, as sheruns away to her own room to write her letters. 

For a few minutes Cecil sits silently enjoying a distant view of herhusband's back. But she is far too much of a coquette to let him longremain in ignorance of her near proximity. Going softly up to him, andleaning lightly over his shoulder, she says, in a half-whisper, "Whatare you doing?"

He starts a little, not having expected to see so fair an apparition, and lays one of his hands over hers as it rests upon his shoulder. 

"Is it you?" he says. "I did not hear you coming. "

"No? That was because I was farthest from your thoughts. You arewriting? To whom?"

"My tailor, for one. It is a sad but certain fact that, sooner orlater, one's tailor must be paid. "

"So must one's _modiste_. " With a sigh. "It is that sort of personwho spoils one's life. "

"Is your life spoiled?"

"Oh, yes, in many ways. "

"Poor little soul!" says he, with a half laugh, tightening his fingersover hers. "Is your dressmaker hardhearted?"

"Don't get me to begin on that subject, or I shall never leave off. Thewrongs I have suffered at that woman's hands! But then why talk of whatcannot be helped?"

"Perhaps it may. Can I do nothing for you?"

"I am afraid not. " Moving a little away from him. "And yet, perhaps, ifyou choose, you might. You are writing; I wish"--throwing down hereyes, as though confused (which she isn't), and assuming her mostguileless air--"you would write something for _me_. "

"What a simple request! Of course I will--anything. "

"Really? You promise?"

"Faithfully. "

"It is not, perhaps, quite so simple a request as it appears. I wantyou, in fact, to--write me--a check!"

Sir Penthony laughs, and covers the white and heavily-jeweled littlehand that glitters before him on the table once more with his own. 

"For how much?" he asks. 

"Not much, --only fifty pounds. I want to buy something particular forthis ball: and"--glancing at him--"being a lone woman, without aprotector, I dread going too heavily into debt. "

"Good child, " says Sir Penthony. "You shall have your check. " Drawingthe book toward him as it lies before him on the davenport, he fills upa check and hands it to her. 

"Now, what will you give me for it?" asks he, holding the edge near himas her fingers close upon the other end. 

"What have I to give? Have I not just acknowledged myself insolvent? Iam as poor as a church mouse. "

"You disparage yourself. I think you as rich as Croesus. Will you--giveme a kiss?" whispers her husband, softly. 

There is a decided pause. Dropping the check and coloring deeply, Cecilmoves back a step or two. She betrays a little indignation in herglance, --a very little, but quite perceptible. Stafford sees it. 

"I beg your pardon, " he says, hastily, an expression of mingled painand shame crossing his face. "I was wrong, of course. I will not buyyour kisses. Here, take this bit of paper, and--forgive me. "

He closes her somewhat reluctant fingers over the check. She is stillblushing, and has her eyes fixed on the ground, but her faint anger hasdisappeared. Then some thought--evidently a merry one--occurs to her;the corners of her mouth widen, and finally she breaks into a musicallaugh. 

"Thank you--very much, " she says. "You are very good. It is somethingto have a husband, after all. And--if you would really care forit--I--don't mind letting you have one----Oh! here is somebody coming. "

"There always _is_ somebody coming when least wanted, " exclaimsSir Penthony, wrathfully, pushing back his chair with much suppressedire, as the door opens to admit Mr. Potts. 

"'I hope I don't intrude, '" says Potts, putting his comfortable faceand rosy head round the door; "but I've got an idea, and I must divulgeit or burst. You wouldn't like me to burst, would you?" This to LadyStafford, pathetically. 

"I would not, --here, " replies she, with decision. 

"For fear you might, I shall take my departure, " says Sir Penthony, whohas not yet quite recovered either his disappointment or his temper, walking through the conservatory into the grounds beyond. 

"I really wish, Plantagenet, " says Lady Stafford, turning upon thebewildered Potts with most unaccountable severity, "you could manage toemploy your time in some useful way. The dreadful manner in which youspend your days, wandering round the house without aim or reason, causes me absolute regret. _Do_ give yourself the habit of readingor--or doing something to improve your mind, whenever you have a sparemoment. "

So saying, she sweeps past him out of the room, without even making aninquiry about that priceless idea, leaving poor Potts rooted to theground, striving wildly, but vainly, to convict himself of someunpardonable offense. 

CHAPTER XXII. 

"Love, thou art bitter. "

 --Blaine. 

Mr. Amherst, having in a weak moment given his consent to the ball, repays himself by being as unamiable afterward as he can well manage. 

"You can have your music and the supper from London, if you wish it, "he says to Marcia, one day, when he has inveighed against the wholeproceeding in language that borders on the abusive; "but if you think Iam going to have an army of decorators down here, turning the houseinto a fancy bazar, and making one feel a stranger in one's own rooms, you are very much mistaken. "

"I think you are right, dear, " Marcia answers, with her customarymeekness: "people of that kind are always more trouble than anythingelse. And no doubt we shall be able to do all that is necessary quiteas well ourselves. "

"As to that you can, of course, please yourself. Though why you cannotdance without filling the rooms with earwigs and dying flowers I can'tconceive. "

Mr. Amherst's word being like the law of the Medes and Persians, thataltereth not, no one disputes it. They couple a few opprobriousepithets with his name just at first, but finally, putting on an air ofresolution, declare themselves determined and ready to outdo anydecorators in the kingdom. 

"We shall wake up in the morning after the ball to find ourselvesfamous, " says Lady Stafford. "The county will ring with our praises. But we must have help: we cannot depend upon broken reeds. " With areproachful glance at Sir Penthony, who is looking the picture oflaziness. "Talbot Lowry, of course, will assist us; _he_ goeswithout saying. "

"I hope he will come without saying, " puts in Sir Penthony; "it wouldbe much more to the purpose. Any smart young tradesmen among yourfellows, Mottie?"

"Unless Grainger. You know Grainger, Lady Stafford?"

"Indeed I do. What! is he stationed with you now? He must havere-joined very lately. "

"Only the other day. Would he be of any use to you?"

"The very greatest. "

"What! Spooney?" says Tedcastle, laughing. "I don't believe he couldclimb a ladder to save his life. Think of his pretty hands and hissweet little feet. "

"And his lisp, --and his new eyeglass, " says Stafford. 

"Never mind; I _will_ have him here, " declares Cecil, gayly. "Inspite of all you say, I positively adore that Grainger boy. "

"You seem to have a passion for fools, " says Sir Penthony, a littlebitterly, feeling some anger toward her. 

"And you seem to have a talent for incivility, " retorts she, rathernettled. This ends the conversation. 

Nevertheless Mr. Grainger is asked to come and give what assistance hecan toward adorning Herst, which, when they take into consideration theladylike whiteness of his hands and the general imbecility of hiscountenance, is not set at a very high value. 

He is a tall, lanky youth, with more than the usual allowance of bone, but rather less of intellect; he is, however, full of ambition andsmiles, and is amiability itself all round. He is also desperatelyaddicted to Lady Stafford. He has a dear little moustache, thatundergoes much encouragement from his thumb and first finger, and hehas a captivating way of saying "How charming!" or, "Very sweet, " toanything that pleases him. And, as most things seem to meet hisapprobation, he makes these two brilliant remarks with startlingfrequency. 

To Cecil he is a joy. In him she evidently finds a fund of amusement, as, during the three days it takes them to convert the ball-room, tea-room, etc. , into perfumed bowers, she devotes herself exclusivelyto his society. 

Perhaps the undisguised chagrin of Sir Penthony and Talbot Lowry asthey witness her civility to Grainger goes far to add a zest to herenjoyment of that young man's exceedingly small talk. 

After dinner on the third day all is nearly completed. A few moreleaves, a few more flowers, a wreath or two to be distributed here andthere, is all that remains to be done. 

"I hate decorating in October, " Cecil says. "There is such a dearth offlowers, and the gardeners get so greedy about the house plants. Everyblossom looks as if it had been made the most of. "

"Well, I don't know, " replies Mr. Grainger, squeezing his glass intohis eye with much difficulty, it being a new importation and hard tomanage. When he has altered all his face into an appalling grin, andcompletely blocked the sight of one eye, he goes on affably: "I thinkall this--er--very charming. "

"No? Do you? I'm _so_ glad. Do you know I believe you havewonderful taste? The way in which you tied that last bunch of trailingivy had something about it absolutely artistic. "

"If it hadn't fallen to pieces directly afterward, which rather spoiledthe effect, " says Sir Penthony, with an unkind smile. 

"Did it? How sad! But then the idea remains, and that is everything. Now, Mr. Grainger, please stand here--(will you move a little bit, SirPenthony? Thanks)--just here--while I go up this ladder to satisfymyself about these flowers. By the bye, "--pausing on one of the rungsto look back, --"suppose I were to fall? Do you think you could catchme?"

"I only wish you would give me the opportunity of trying, " replies he, weakly. 

"Beastly puppy!" mutters Sir Penthony, under his breath. 

"Perhaps I shall, if you are good. Now look. Are they straight? Do theylook well?" asks Cecil. 

"Very sweet, " replies Mr. Grainger. 

"Potts, hand me up some nails, " exclaims Lowry, impatiently, who is onanother ladder close by, and has been an attentive and disgustedlistener; addressing Potts, who stands lost in contemplation ofGrainger. "Look sharp, can't you? And tell me what you think of this. "Pointing to his design on the wall. "Is it 'all your fancy painted it?'Is it 'lovely' and 'divine?' Answer. "

"Very sour, I think, " returns Mr. Potts, hitting off Grainger's voiceto a nicety, while maintaining a countenance sufficiently innocent toborder on the imbecile. 

Both Sir Penthony and Lowry laugh immoderately, while Cecil turns awayto hide the smile that may betray her. Grainger himself is the only onewholly unconscious of any joke. He smiles, indeed, genially, becausethey smile, and happily refrains from inquiry of any sort. 

Meantime in the tea-room--that opens off the supper-room, where theothers are engaged--Molly and Philip are busy arranging bouquets chosenfrom among a basketful of flowers that has just been brought in by oneof the under-gardeners. 

Philip is on his knees, --almost at Molly's feet, --while she bends overhim searching for the choicest buds. 

"What a lovely ring!" says Philip, presently, staying in his task totake her hand and examine the diamond that glitters on it. "Was it apresent?"

"Of course. Where could such a 'beggar-maid' as I am get money enoughto buy such a ring?"

"Will you think me rude if I ask you the every-day name of your KingCophetua?"

"I have no King Cophetua. "

"Then tell me where you got it?"

"What a question!" Lightly. "Perhaps from my own true love. Perhaps itis the little fetter that seals my engagement to him. Perhaps itisn't. "

"Yet you said just now----"

"About that eccentric king? Well, I spoke truly. Royalty has not yetthrown itself at my feet. Still, "--coquettishly, --"that is no reasonwhy I should look coldly upon all commoners. "

"Be serious, Molly, for one moment, " he entreats, the look ofpassionate earnestness she so much dislikes coming over his face, darkening instead of brightening it. "Sometimes I am half mad withdoubt. Tell me the truth, --now, --here. Are you engaged? Is thereanything between you and--Luttrell?"

The spirit of mischief has laid hold of Molly. She cares nothing at allfor Shadwell. Of all the men she has met at Herst he attracts herleast. She scarcely understands the wild love with which she hasinspired him; she cannot sympathize with his emotion. 

"Well, if you compel me to confess it, " she says, lowering her eyes, 'there is. "

"It is true, then!" cries he, rising to his feet and turning deadlypale. "My fears did not deceive me. "

"Quite true. There is a whole long room 'between me' and Mr. Luttrelland"--dropping her voice--"_you_. " Here she laughs merrily andwith all her heart. To her it is a jest, --no more. 

"How a woman--the very best woman--loves to torture!" exclaims he, anger and relief struggling in his tone. "Oh, that I dared believe thatlatter part of your sentence, --that I could stand between you and allthe world!"

"'Fain would I climb, but that I fear to fall, '" quotes Molly, jestingly. "You know the answer? 'If thy heart fail thee, do not climbat all. '"

"Is that a challenge?" demands he, eagerly, going nearer to her. 

"I don't know. " Waving him back. "Hear the oracle again. I feel strongin appropriate rhyme to-night:

 "'He either fears his fate too much, Or his deserts are small, Who fears to put it to the touch To win or lose it all. '"

They are quite alone. Some one has given the door leading to theadjoining apartment a push that has entirely closed it. Molly, in herwhite evening gown and pale-blue ribbons, with a bunch of her favoriteroses at her breast, is looking up at him, a little mocking smile uponher lips. She is cold, --perhaps a shade amused, --without one particleof sentiment. 

"I fear nothing, " cries Philip, in a low impassioned tone, madeunwisely bold by her words, seizing her hands and pressing warm, unwelcome kisses on them; "whether I win or lose, I will speak now. Yetwhat shall I tell you that you do not already know? I love you, --myidol, --my darling! Oh, Molly! do not look so coldly on me. "

"Don't be earnest, Philip, " interrupts she, with a frown, and a suddenchange of tone, raising her head, and regarding him with distastefulhauteur; "there is nothing I detest so much; and _your_ earnestnessespecially wearies me. When I spoke I was merely jesting, as you musthave known. I do not want your love. I have told you so before. Let myhands go, Philip; your touch is _hateful_ to me. "

He drops her hands as though they burned him; and she, with flushedcheeks and a still frowning brow, turns abruptly away, leaving himalone, --angered, hurt, but still adoring. 

Ten minutes later, her heart--a tender one--misgives her. She has beenunjust to him, --unkind. She will return and make such reparation aslies in her power. 

With a light step she returns to the tea-room, where she left him, and, looking gently in, finds he has neither stirred nor raised his headsince her cruel words cut him to the heart. Ten minutes, --a longtime, --and all consumed in thoughts of her! Feeling still morecontrite, she approaches him. 

"Why, Philip, " she says, with an attempt at playfulness, "stillenduring 'grinding torments?' What have I said to you? You have takenmy foolish words too much to heart. That is not wise. Sometimes Ihardly know myself what it is I have been saying. "

She has come very near to him, --so near that gazing up at himappealingly, she brings her face in dangerously close proximity to his. A mad desire to kiss the lips that sue so sweetly for a pardon fillshim, yet he dares not do it. Although a man not given to self-restraintwhere desire is at elbow urging him on, he now stands subdued, unnerved, in Molly's presence. 

"Have I really distressed you?" asks she, softly, his strange silencerendering her still more remorseful. "Come, "--laying her hand upon hisarm, --"tell me what I have done. "

"'Sweet, you have trod on a heart, '" quotes Philip, in so low a tone asto be almost unheard. He crosses his hand tightly over hers for aninstant; a moment later, and it is she who--this time--finds herselfalone. 

In the next room success is crowning their efforts. When Mollyre-enters, she finds the work almost completed. Just a finishing touchhere and there, and all is ended. 

"I suppose I should consider myself in luck: I have still a little skinleft, " says Sir Penthony, examining his hand with tender solicitude. "Idon't think I fancy decorating: I shan't take to the trade. "

"You--should have put on gloves, you know, and that, " says Grainger, who is regarding his dainty fingers with undisguised sadness, --somethingthat is _almost_ an expression on his face. 

"But isn't it awfully pretty?" says Lady Stafford, gazing round herwith an air of pride. 

"Awfully nice, " replies Molly. 

"Quite too awfully awful, " exclaims Mr. Potts, with exaggeratedenthusiasm, and is instantly suppressed. 

"If you cannot exhibit greater decorum, Potts, we shall be obliged toput your head in a bag, " says Sir Penthony, severely. "I consider'awfully' quite the correct word. What with the ivy and the giganticsize of those paper roses, the room presents quite a startlingappearance. "

"Well, I'm sure they are far prettier than Lady Harriet Nitemair's; andshe made such a fuss about hers last spring, " says Cecil, ratherinjured. 

"Not to be named in the same day, " declares Luttrell, who had not beenat Lady Harriet Nitemair's. 

"Why, Tedcastle, you were not there; you were on your way home fromIndia at that time. "

"Was I? By Jove! so I was. Never mind, I take your word for it, andstick to my opinion, " replies Luttrell, unabashed. 

"I really think we ought to christen our work. " Mr. Potts puts indreamily, being in a thirsty mood; and christened it is in champagne. 

Potts himself, having drunk his own and every one else's health manytimes, grows gradually gayer and gayer. To wind up this momentousevening without making it remarkable in any way strikes him as being atame proceeding. "To do or die" suddenly occurs to him, and heinstantly acts upon it. 

Seeing his two former allies standing rather apart from the others, hemakes for them and thus addresses them:

"Tell you what, " he says, with much geniality, "it feels likeChristmas, and crackers, and small games, don't it? I feel up toanything. And I have a capital idea in my head. Wouldn't it be rather ajoke to frighten the others?"

"It would, " says Cecil, decidedly. 

"Would it?" says Molly, diffidently. 

"I have a first-rate plan; I can make you both look so like ghosts thatyou would frighten the unsuspecting into fits. "

"First, Plantagenet, before we go any further into your ghostlyschemes, answer me this: _is_ there any gunpowder about it?"

"None. " Laughing. "You just dress yourselves in white sheets, or that, and hold a plate in your hands filled with whiskey and salt, and--thereyou are. You have no idea of the tremendous effect. You will be morelike a corpse than anything you can imagine. "

"How cheerful!" murmurs Cecil. "You make me long for the 'sheets andthat. '"

"Do the whiskey and the salt ever blow up?" asks Molly, cautiously. "Because if so----"

"No, they don't; of course not. Say nothing about it to the others, andwe shall astonish them by and by. It is an awfully becoming thing, too, " says Potts, with a view to encouragement; "you will look likemarble statues. "

"We are trusting you again, " says Cecil, regarding him fixedly. "Plantagenet, if you should again be our undoing----"

"Not the slightest fear of a _fiasco_ this time, " says Potts, comfortably. 

CHAPTER XXIII. 

"Here's such a coil! Come, what says Romeo?"

 --Shakespeare. 

As eleven o'clock strikes, any one going up the stairs at Herst wouldhave stopped with a mingled feeling of terror and admiration at oneparticular spot, where, in a niche, upon a pedestal, a very goddessstands. 

It is Molly, clad in white, from head to heel, with a lace scarftwisted round her head and shoulders, and with one bare arm uplifted, while with the other she holds an urn-shaped vase beneath her face, from which a pale-blue flame arises. 

Her eyes, larger, deeper, bluer than usual, are fixed with sad andsolemn meaning upon space. She scarcely seems to breathe; no quiverdisturbs her frame, so intensely does she listen for a coming footstep. In her heart she hopes it may be Luttrell's. 

The minutes pass. Her arm is growing tired, her eyes begin to blinkagainst her will; she is on the point of throwing up the game, descending from her pedestal, and regaining her own room, when afootfall recalls her to herself and puts her on her mettle. 

Nearer it comes, --still nearer, until it stops altogether. Molly doesnot dare turn to see who it is. A moment later, a wild cry, a smotheredgroan, falls upon her ear, and, turning her head, terrified, she seesher grandfather rush past her, tottering, trembling, until he reacheshis own room, where he disappears. 

Almost at the same instant the others who have been in thedrawing-room, drawn to the spot by the delicate machinations of Mr. Potts, come on the scene; while Marcia, who has heard that scared cry, emerges quickly from among them and passes up the stairs into hergrandfather's room. 

There follows an awkward silence. Cecil, who has been adorning a cornerfarther on, comes creeping toward them, pale and nervous, having alsobeen a witness to Mr. Amherst's hurried flight; and she and Molly, intheir masquerading costumes, feel, to say the least of it, rathersmall. 

They cast a withering glance at Potts, who has grown a lively purple;but he only shakes his head, having no explanation to offer, andknowing himself for once in his life to be unequal to the occasion. 

Mrs. Darley is the first to break silence. 

"What is it? What has happened? Why are you both here in yournight-dresses?" she asks, unguardedly, losing her head in theexcitement of the moment. 

"What do you mean?" says Cecil, angrily. "'Nightdresses'! If you don'tknow dressing-gowns when you see them, I am sorry for you. Plantagenet, what has happened?"

"It was grandpapa, " says Molly, in a frightened tone. "He came by, andI think was upset by my--appearance. Oh, I hope I have not done him anyharm! Mr. Potts, _why_ did you make me do it?"

"How could I tell?" replies Potts, who is as white as their costumes. "What an awful shriek he gave! I thought such a stern old card as he iswould have had more pluck!"

"I was positive he was in bed, " says Cecil, "or I should never haveventured. "

"He is never where he ought to be, " mutters Potts gloomily. 

Here conversation fails them. For once they are honestly dismayed, andkeep their eyes fixed in anxious expectation on the bedchamber of theirhost. Will Marcia _never_ come?

At length the door opens and she appears, looking pale and_distraite_. Her eyes light angrily as they fall on Molly. 

"Grandpapa is very much upset. He is ill. It was heartless, --a crueltrick, " she says, rather incoherently. "He wishes to see you, Eleanor, instantly. You had better go to him. "

"Must I?" asks Molly, who is quite colorless, and much inclined to cry. 

"Unless you wish to add disobedience to your other unfeeling conduct, "replies Marcia, coldly. 

"No, no; of course not. I will go, " says Molly, nervously. 

With faltering footsteps she approaches the fatal door, whilst theothers disperse and return once more to the drawing-room, --all, thatis, except Lady Stafford, who seeks her own chamber, and Mr. Potts, who, in an agony of doubt and fear, lingers about the corridor, awaiting Molly's return. 

As she enters her grandfather's room she finds him lying on a couch, half upright, an angry, disappointed expression on his face, distrustin his searching eyes. 

"Come here, " he says, harshly, motioning her with one finger to hisside, "and tell me why you, of all others, should have chosen to playthis trick upon me. Was it revenge?"

"Upon you, grandpapa! Oh, not upon you, " says Molly, shocked. "It wasall a mistake, --a mere foolish piece of fun; but I never thought_you_ would have been the one to see me. "

"Are you lying? Let me look at you. If so, you do it cleverly. Yourface is honest. Yet I hear it was for me alone this travesty wasenacted. "

"Whoever told you so spoke falsely, " Molly says, pale but firm, a greatindignation toward Marcia rising in her breast. She has her hands onthe back of a chair, and is gazing anxiously but openly at the old man. "Why should I seek to offend you, who have been so kind to me, --whosebread I have eaten? You do not understand: you wrong me. "

"I thought it was your mother, " whispers he, with a quick shiver, "fromher grave, returned to reproach me, --to remind me of all the miserablepast. It was a senseless thought. But the likeness was awful, --appalling. She was my favorite daughter, yet she of all creatures was the one tothwart me most; and I did not forgive. I left her to pine for theluxuries to which she was accustomed from her birth, and could not thenprocure. She was delicate. I let her wear her heart out waiting for aworthless pardon. And what a heart it was! _Then_ I would notforgive; now--_now_ I crave forgiveness. Oh, that the dead couldspeak!"

He covers his face with his withered hands, that shake and tremble likeOctober leaves, and a troubled sigh escapes him. For the moment thestern old man has disappeared; only the penitent remains. 

"Dear grandpapa, be comforted, " says Molly, much affected, sinking onher knees beside him. Never before, by either brother or grandfather, has her dead mother been so openly alluded to. "She did forgive. Sosweet as she was, how could she retain a bitter feeling? Listen to me. Am I not her only child? Who so meet to offer you her pardon? Let mecomfort you. "

Mr. Amherst makes no reply, but he gently presses the fingers that havefound their way around his neck. 

"I, too, would ask pardon, " Molly goes on, in her sweet, low, _trainante_ voice, that has a sob in it here and there. "How shallI gain it after all that I have done--to distress you so, althoughunintentionally?--And you think hardly of me, grandpapa? You think Idid it to annoy you?"

"No, no; not now. "

"I have made you ill, " continues Molly, still crying; "I have causedyou pain. Oh, grandpapa! do say you are not angry with me. "

"I am not. You are a good child, and Marcia wronged you. Go now, andforget all I may have said. I am weak at times, and--and---- Go, child;I am better alone. "

In the corridor outside stands Mr. Potts, with pale cheeks and verypale eyes. Even his hair seems to have lost a shade, and looks subdued. 

"Well, what did he say to you?" he asks, in what he fondly imagines tobe a whisper, but which would be distinctly audible in the hallbeneath. "Was he awfully mad? Did he cut up very rough? I wouldn't havebeen in your shoes for a million. Did he--did he--say anythingabout--_me_?"

"I don't believe he remembered your existence, " says Molly, with alaugh, although her eyelids are still of a shade too decided to bebecoming. "He knew nothing of your share in the transaction. "

Whereupon Mr. Potts declares himself thankful for so much mercy in adevout manner, and betakes himself to the smoking-room. 

Here he is received with much applause and more congratulations. 

"Another of Mr. Potts's charming entertainments, " says Sir Penthony, with a wave of the hand. "Extraordinary and enthusiastic reception!Such success has seldom before been witnessed! Last time he blew up twoyoung women; to-night he has slain an offensive old gentleman! Really, Potts, you must allow me to shake hands with you. "

"Was there ever anything more unfortunate?" says Potts, in a lachrymosetone. He has not been inattentive to the requirements of the inner mansince his entrance, and already, slowly but surely, the brandy is doingits work. "It was all so well arranged, and I made sure the old boy wasgone to bed. "

"He is upset, " murmurs Sir Penthony, with touching concern, "and nowonder. Such tremendous exertion requires the aid of stimulants to keepit up. My dear Potts, do have a little more brandy-and-soda. You don'ttake half care of yourself. "

"Not a drop, --not a drop, " says Mr. Potts, drawing the decanter towardhim. "It don't agree with me. Oh, Stafford! you should have seen MissMassereene in her Greek costume. I think she is the loveliest creatureI ever saw. She _is_, " goes on Mr. Potts, with unwise zeal, "by_far_ the loveliest, 'and the same I would rise to maintain. '"

"I wouldn't, if I were you, " says Philip, who is indignant. "There isno knowing what tricks your legs may play with you. "

"She was just like Venus, or--or some of those other goddesses, " saysMr. Potts, vaguely. 

"I can well believe it, " returns Stafford; "but don't let emotionmaster you. 'There's naught, no doubt, so much the spirit calms as rumand true religion. ' Try a little of the former. "

"There's nothing in life I wouldn't do for that girl, --nothing, Ideclare to you, Stafford, " goes on Potts, who is quite in tears by thistime; "but she wouldn't look at me. "

Luttrell and Philip are enraged; Stafford and the others are in roars. 

"Wouldn't she, Potts?" says Stafford, with a fine show of sympathy. "Who knows? Cheer up, old boy, and remember women never know their ownminds at first. She may yet become alive to your many perfections, andknow her heart to be all yours. Think of that. And why should she not?"says Sir Penthony, with free encouragement. "Where could she get abetter fellow? 'Faint heart, ' you know, Potts. Take my advice and pluckup spirit, and go in for her boldly. Throw yourself at her feet. "

"I will, " says Mr. Potts, ardently. 

"To-morrow, " advises Sir Penthony, with growing excitement. 

"Now, " declares Potts, with wild enthusiasm, making a rush for thedoor. 

"Not to-night; wait until to-morrow, " Sir Penthony says, who has notanticipated so ready an acceptance of his advice, getting between himand the door. "In my opinion she has retired to her room by this; andit really would be rather sketchy, you know, --eh?"

"What do you say, Luttrell?" asks Potts, uncertainly. "What would youadvise?"

"Bed, " returns Luttrell, curtly, turning on his heel. 

And finally the gallant Potts is conveyed to his room, without beingallowed to lay his hand and fortune at Miss Massereene's feet. 

 * * * * *

About four o'clock the next day, --being that of the ball, --Sir Penthony, strolling along the west corridor, comes to a standstill before Cecil'sdoor, which happens to lie wide open. 

Cecil herself is inside, and is standing so as to be seen, clad in thememorable white dressing-gown of the evening before, making a carefulchoice between two bracelets she holds in her hands. 

"Is that the garment in which you so much distinguished yourself lastnight?" Sir Penthony cannot help asking; and, with a little start andblush, she raises her eyes. 

"Is it you?" she says, smiling. "Yes, this is the identical robe. Won't you come in, Sir Penthony? You are quite welcome. If you havenothing better to do you can stay with and talk to me for a little. "

"I have plenty to do, "--coming in and closing the door, --"but nothing Iwould not gladly throw over to accept an invitation from you. "

"Dear me! What a charming speech! What a courtier you would have made!Consider yourself doubly welcome. I adore pretty speeches, whenaddressed to myself. Now, sit there, while I decide on what jewelry Ishall wear to-night. "

"So this is her sanctum, " thinks her husband, glancing around. What adainty nest it is, with its innumerable feminine fineries, its piano, its easel, its pretty pink-and-blue _crêtonnne_, its wealth offlowers, although the season is of the coldest and bleakest. 

A cozy fire burns brightly. In the wall opposite is an open door, through which one catches a glimpse of the bedroom beyond, decked outin all its pink-and-white glory. There is a very sociable little clock, a table strewn with wools and colored silks, and mirrors everywhere. 

As for Cecil herself, with honest admiration her husband carefullyregards her. What a pretty woman she is! full of all the tender graces, the lovable caprices, that wake the heart to fondness. 

How charming a person to come to in grief or trouble, or even in one'sgladness! How full of gayety, yet immeasurable tenderness, is herspeaking face! Verily, there is a depth of sympathy to be found in apretty woman that a plain one surely lacks. 

Her white gown becomes her _à merveille_, and fits her toperfection. She cannot be called fat, but as certainly she cannot becalled thin. When people speak of her with praise, they never fail tomention the "pretty roundness" of her figure. 

Her hair has partly come undone, and hangs in a fair, loose coil, rather lower than usual, upon her neck. This suits her, making stillsofter her soft though _piquante_ face. 

Her white and jeweled fingers are busy in the case before her as, withpuckered brows, she sighs over the difficulty of making a wise andbecoming choice in precious stones for the evening's triumphs. 

At last--a set of sapphires having gained the day--she lays the casketaside and turns to her husband, while wondering with demure amusementon the subject of his thoughts during these past few minutes. 

He has been thinking of her, no doubt. Her snowy wrapper, with all itsdainty frills and bows, is eminently becoming. Yes, beyond all questionhe has been indulging in sentimental regrets. 

Sir Penthony's first remark rather dispels the illusion. 

"The old boy puts you up very comfortably down here, don't he?" hesays, in a terribly prosaic tone. 

Is this all? Has he been admiring the furniture during all theseeloquent moments of silence, instead of her and her innumerable charms?Insufferable!

"He do, " responds she, dryly, with a careful adaptation of his English. 

Sir Penthony raises his eyebrows in affected astonishment, and thenthey both laugh. 

"I do hope you are not going to say rude things to me about lastnight, " she says, still smiling. 

"No. You may remember once before on a very similar occasion I told youI should never again scold you, for the simple reason that I consideredit language thrown away. I was right, as the sequel proved. Besides, the extreme becomingness of your toilet altogether disarmed me. By thebye, when do you return to town?"

"Next week. And you?"

"I shall go--when you go. May I call on you there?"

"Indeed you may. I like you quite well enough, " says her ladyship, withunsentimental and therefore most objectionable frankness, "to wish youfor my friend. "

"Why should we not be more than friends, Cecil?" says Stafford, goingup to her and taking both her hands in a warm, affectionate clasp. "Just consider how we two are situated: you are bound to me forever, until death shall kindly step in to relieve you of me, and I am boundto you as closely. Why, then, should we not accept our position, andmake our lives one?"

"You should have thought of all this before. "

"How could I? Think what a deception you practiced on me when sendingthat miserable picture. I confess I abhor ugliness. And then, your ownconditions, --what could I do but abide by them?"

"There are certain times when a woman does not altogether care aboutbeing taken so completely at her word. "

"But that was not one of them. " Hastily. "I do not believe you wouldhave wished to live with a man you neither knew nor cared for. "

"Perhaps not. " Laughing. "Sometimes I hardly know myself what it is Ido want. But are we not very well as we are? I dare say, had we beenliving together for the past three years, we should now dislike eachother as cordially as--as do Maud Darley and her husband. "

"Impossible! Maud Darley is one person, you are quite another; whileI--well"--with a smile--"I honestly confess I fancy myself rather morethan poor Henry Darley. "

"He certainly _is_ plain, " says Cecil, pensively, "and--hesnores, --two great points against him, Yes, on consideration, you arean improvement on Henry Darley. " Then, with a sudden change of tone, she says, "Does all this mean that you love me?"

"Yes I confess it, Cecil, " answers he, gravely, earnestly. "I love youas I never believed it possible I should love a woman. I amtwenty-nine, and--think me cold if you will--but up to this I never yetsaw the woman I wanted for my wife except you. "

"Then you ought to consider yourself the happiest man alive, becauseyou have the thing you crave. As you reminded me just now, I am yoursuntil death us do part. "

"Not all I crave, not the best part of you, your heart, " replies he, tenderly. "No man loving as I do, could be contented with a part. "

"Oh, it is too absurd, " says Cecil, with a little aggravating shake ofthe head. "In love with your own wife in this prosaic nineteenthcentury! It savors of the ridiculous. Such mistaken feeling has beentabooed long ago. Conquer it; conquer it. "

"Too late. Besides, I have no desire to conquer it. On the contrary, Iencourage it, in hope of some return. No, do not dishearten me. I knowwhat you are going to say; but at least you like me, Cecil?"

"Well, yes; but what of that? I like so many people. "

"Then go a little further, and say you--love me. "

"That would be going a _great_ deal further, because I love sofew. "

"Never mind. Say 'Penthony, I love you. '"

He has placed his hands upon her shoulders, and is regarding her withanxious fondness. 

"Would you have me tell you an untruth?"

"I would have you say you love me. "

"But supposing I cannot in honesty?"

"Try. "

"Of course I can try. Words without meaning are easy things to say. Butthen--a lie; that is a serious matter. 

"It may cease to be a lie, once uttered. "

"Well, --just to please you, then, and as an experiment--and---- You are_sure_ you will not despise me for saying it?"

"No. "

"Nor accuse me afterward of deceit?"

"Of course not. "

"Nor think me weak-minded?"

"No, no. How could I?"

"Well, then--Penthony--I--_don't love you the least bit in theworld_!" declares Cecil, with a provoking, irresistible laugh, stepping backward out of his reach. 

Sir Penthony does not speak for a moment or two; then "'Sweet isrevenge, especially to women, '" he says, quietly, although at heart heis bitterly chagrined. To be unloved is one thing--to be laughed at isanother. "After all, you are right. There is nothing in this world sorare or so admirable as honesty. I am glad you told me no untruth, evenin jest. "

Just at this instant the door opens, and Molly enters. She lookssurprised at such an unexpected spectacle as Cecil's husband sitting inhis wife's boudoir, _tête-à-tête_ with her. 

"Don't be shy, dear, " says Cecil, mischievously, with a little wickedlaugh; "you may come in; it is only my husband. "

The easy nonchalance of this speech, the only half-suppressed amusementin her tone, angers Sir Penthony more than all that has gone before. With a hasty word or two to Molly, he suddenly remembers a pressingengagement, and, with a slight bow to his wife, takes his departure. 

CHAPTER XXIV. 

"Take, oh! take those lips away, That so sweetly were foresworn;And those eyes, the break of day, Lights that do mislead the morn:But my kisses bring again, Seals of love, but seal'd in vain. "

 --Shakespeare. 

The longed-for night has arrived at last; so has Molly's dress, a verymarvel of art, fresh and pure as newly-fallen snow. It is white silkwith tulle, on which white water-lilies lie here and there, as thoughcarelessly thrown, all their broad and trailing leaves gleaming fromamong the shining folds. 

Miss Massereene is in her own room, dressing, her faithful Sarah on herknees beside her. She has almost finished her toilet, and is lookingmore than usually lovely in her London ball-dress. 

"Our visit is nearly at an end, Sarah; how have you enjoyed it?" sheasks, in an interval, during which Sarah is at her feet, sewing on moresecurely one of her white lilies. 

"Very much, indeed, miss. They've all been excessive polite, thoughthey do ask a lot of questions. Only this evening they wanted to knowif we was estated, and I said, 'Yes, ' Miss Molly, because after all, you know, miss, it _is_ a property, however small; and I wasn'tgoing to let myself down. And then that young man of Captain Shadwell'sast me if we was 'county people, ' which I thought uncommon imperent. Not but what he's a nice young man, miss, and very affable. "

"Still constant, Sarah?" says Molly, who is deep in the waves of doubt, not being able to decide some important final point about her dress. 

"Oh, law! yes, miss, he is indeed. It was last night he was saying asmy accent was very sweet. Now there isn't one of them country bumpkins, miss, as would know whether you had an accent or not. It's odd howtraveling do improve the mind. "

"Sarah, you should pay no attention to those London young men, --(pin itmore to this side), --because they never mean anything. "

"Law, Miss Molly, do you say so?" says her handmaid, suddenlydepressed. "Well, of course, miss, you--who are so much with Londongentlemen--ought to know. And don't they mean what they say to you, Miss Molly?"

"I, eh?" says Molly, rather taken aback; and then she bursts outlaughing. "Sarah, only I know you to be trustworthy, I should certainlythink you sarcastic. "

"What's that, miss?"

"Never mind, --something thoroughly odious. You abash me, Sarah. By allmeans believe what each one tells you. It may be as honestly said toyou as to me. And now, how do I look, Sarah? Speak, " says Molly, sailing away from her up the room like a "white, white swan, " and thenturning to confront her and give her a fair opportunity of judging ofher charms. 

"Just lovely, " says Sarah, with the most flattering sincerity of tone. "There is no doubt, Miss Molly, but you look quite the lady. "

"Do I really? Thank you, Sarah, " says Molly, humbly. 

"I agree with Sarah, " says Cecil, who has entered unnoticed. Sheaffects blue, as a rule, and is now attired in palest azure, with afaint-pink blossom in her hair, and another at her breast. "Sarah is aperson of much discrimination; you do look 'quite the lady. ' You shouldbe grateful to me, Molly, when you remember I ordered your dress; it isalmost the prettiest I have ever seen, and with you in it the effect ismaddening. "

"Let me get down-stairs, at all events, without having my head turned, "says Molly, laughing. "Oh, Cecil, I feel so happy! To have a reallyirreproachable ball-dress, and to go to a really large ball, has beenfor years the dream of my life. "

"I wonder, when the evening is over, how you will look on your dream?"Cecil cannot help saying. "Come, we are late enough as it is. But firstturn round and let me see the train. So; that woman is a perfect artistwhere dresses are concerned. You look charming. "

"And her neck and arms, my lady!" puts in Sarah, who is almost tearfulin her admiration. "Surely Miss Massereene's cannot be equaled. Theyare that white, Miss Molly, that no one could be found fault with forcomparing them to the dribbling snow. "

"A truly delightful simile, " exclaims Molly, merrily, and forthwithfollows Cecil to conquest. 

They find the drawing-rooms still rather empty. Marcia is before them, and Philip and Mr. Potts; also Sir Penthony. Two or three determinedball-goers have arrived, and are dotted about, looking over albums, asking each other how they do, and thinking how utterly low it is ofall the rest of the county to be so late. "Such beastly affectation, you know, and such a putting on of side, and general straining aftereffect. "

"I hope, Miss Amherst, you have asked a lot of pretty girls, " saysPlantagenet, "and only young ones. Old maids make awful havoc of mytemper. "

"I don't think there are 'lots' of pretty girls anywhere; but I haveasked as many as I know. And there are among them at least twoacknowledged belles. "

"You don't say so!" exclaims Sir Penthony. "Miss Amherst, if you wishto make me eternally grateful you will point them out to me. There isnothing so distressing as not to know. And once I was introduced to abeauty, and didn't discover my luck until it was too late. I never evenasked her to dance! Could you fancy anything more humiliating? Give youmy honor I spoke to her for ten minutes and never so much as paid her acompliment. It was too cruel, --and she the queen of the evening, as Iwas told afterward. "

"You didn't admire her?" asks Cecil, interested. "Never saw herbeauty?"

"No. She was tall and had arched brows, --two things I detest. "

The ball is at its height. Marcia, dressed in pale maize silk, --whichsuits her dark and glowing beauty, --is still receiving a few lateguests in her usual stately but rather impassive manner. Old Mr. Amherst, standing beside her, gives her an air of importance. Beyondall doubt she will be heavily dowered, --a wealthy heiress, if notexactly the heir. 

Philip, as the supposed successor to the house and lands of Herst, receives even more attention; while Molly, except for her beauty, whichoutshines all that the room contains, is in no way noticeable. Though, when one holds the ace of trumps, one feels almost independent of theother honors. 

The chief guest--a marquis, with an aristocratic limp and only oneeye--has begged of her a square dance. Two lords--one very young, theother distressingly old--have also solicited her hand in the "mazydance. " She is the reigning belle; and she knows it. 

Beautiful, sparkling, brilliant, she moves through the rooms. A greatdelight, a joyous excitement, born of her youth, the music, her ownsuccess, fills her. She has a smile, a kindly look, for every one. EvenMr. Buscarlet, in the blackest of black clothes and rather indifferentlinen, venturing to address her as she goes by him, receives a graciousanswer in return. So does Mrs. Buscarlet, who is radiant in pink satinand a bird-of-paradise as a crown. 

"Ain't she beautiful?" says that substantial matron, with a beaming airof approbation, as though Molly was her bosom friend, addressing thepartner of her joys. "Such a lovely-turned jaw! She has quite a look ofmy sister Mary Anne when a girl. I wish, my dear, she was to be heiressof Herst, instead of that stuck-up girl in yellow. "

"So do I; so do I, " replies Buscarlet, following the movements ofBeauty as she glides away, smiling, dimpling on my lord's arm. "And--ahem!"--with a meaning and consequential cough--"perhaps she may. Who knows? There is a certain person who has often a hold of hergrandfather's ear! Ahem!"

Meantime the band is playing its newest, sweetest strains; the air isheavy with the scent of flowers. The low ripple of conversation andmerry laughter rises above everything. The hours are flying all tooswiftly. 

"May I have the pleasure of this waltz with you?" Sir Penthony issaying, bending over Lady Stafford, as she sits in one of thenumberless small, dimly-lit apartments that branch off the hall. 

"Dear Sir Penthony, do you think I will test your good-nature so far?You are kind to a fault, and I will not repay you so poorly as to availmyself of your offer. Fancy condemning you to waste a whole dance onyour--wife!"

The first of the small hours has long since sounded, and she is alittle piqued that not until now has he asked her to dance. Nevertheless, she addresses him with her most charming smile. 

"I, for my part, should not consider it a dance wasted, " replies he, stiffly. 

"Is he not self-denying?" she says, turning languidly toward Lowry, who, as usual, stands beside her. 

"You cannot expect me to see it in that light, " replies he, politely. 

"May I hope for this waltz?" Sir Penthony asks again, this time verycoldly. 

"Not this one; perhaps a little later on. "

"As you please, of course, " returns he, as, with a frown and an inwarddetermination never to ask her again, he walks away. 

In the ball-room he meets Luttrell, evidently on the lookout for amissing partner. 

"Have you seen Miss Massereene?" he asks instantly. "I am engaged toher, and can see her nowhere. "

"Try one of those nests for flirtation, " replies Stafford, bitterly, turning abruptly away, and pointing toward the room he has justquitted. 

But Luttrell goes in a contrary direction. Through one conservatoryafter another, through ball-room, supper-room, tea-room, he searcheswithout success. There is no Molly to be seen anywhere. 

"She has forgotten our engagement, " he thinks, and feels a certain pangof disappointment that it should be so. As he walks, rather dejectedly, into a last conservatory, he is startled to find Marcia there alone, gazing with silent intentness out of the window into the gardenbeneath. 

As he approaches she turns to meet his gaze. She is as pale as death, and her dark eyes are full of fire. The fingers of her hand twitchconvulsively. 

"You are looking for Eleanor?" she says, intuitively, her voice low, but vibrating with some hidden emotion. "See, you will find her there. "

She points down toward the garden through the window where she has beenstanding, and moves away. Impelled by the strangeness of her manner, Luttrell follows her direction, and, going over to the window, gazesout into the night. 

It is a brilliant moonlight night; the very stars shine with redoubledglory; the chaste Diana, riding high in the heavens, casts over "towerand stream" and spreading parks "a flood of silver sheen;" the wholeearth seems bright as gaudy day. 

Beneath, in the shrubberies, pacing to and fro, are Molly and PhilipShadwell, evidently in earnest conversation. Philip at least seemspainfully intent and eager. They have stopped, as if by one impulse, and now he has taken her hand. She hardly rebukes him; her hand liespassive within his; and now, --_now_, with a sudden movement, hehas placed his arm around her waist. 

"Honor or no honor, " says Luttrell, fiercely, "I will see it out withher now. "

Drawing a deep breath, he folds his arms and leans against the window, full of an agonized determination to know the worst. 

Molly has put up her hand and laid it on Philip's chest, as thoughexpostulating, but makes no vehement effort to escape from his embrace. Philip, his face lit up with passionate admiration, is gazing down intothe lovely one so near him, that scarcely seems to shrink from his openhomage. The merciless, cruel moon, betrays them all too surely. 

Luttrell's pulses are throbbing wildly, while his heart has almostceased to beat. Half a minute--that is a long hour--passes thus; a fewmore words from Philip, an answer from Molly. Oh, that he could hear!And then Shadwell stoops until, from where Luttrell stands, his faceseems to grow to hers. 

Tedcastle's teeth meet in his lip as he gazes spell-bound. A coldshiver runs through him, as when one learns that all one's dearest, most cherished hopes are trampled in the dust. A faint moisture standson his brow. It is the bitterness of death!

Presently a drop of blood trickling slowly down--the sickly flavor ofit in his mouth--rouses him. Instinctively he closes his eyes, asthough too late to strive to shut out the torturing sight, and, with adeep curse, he presses his handkerchief to his lips and moves away asone suddenly awakened from a ghastly dream. 

In the doorway he meets Marcia; she, too, has been a witness of thegarden scene, and as he passes her she glances up at him with a curioussmile. 

"If you wish to keep her you should look after her, " she whispers, withwhite lips. 

"If she needs looking after, I do _not_ wish for her, " he answers, bitterly, and the next moment could kill himself, in that he has beenso far wanting in loyalty to his most disloyal love. 

With his mind quite made up, he waits through two dances silently, almost motionless, with his back against a friendly wall, hardly takingnote of anything that is going on around him, until such time as he canclaim another dance from Molly. 

It comes at last: and, making his way through the throng of dancers, hereaches the spot where, breathless, smiling, she sits fanning herself, an adoring partner dropping little honeyed phrases into her willingear. 

"This is our dance, " Luttrell says, in a hard tone, standing beforeher, with compressed lips and a pale face. 

"Is it?" with a glance at her card. 

"Never mind your card. I know it is ours, " he says, and, offering herhis arm, leads her, not to the ball-room, but on to a balcony, fromwhich the garden can be reached by means of steps. 

Before descending he says, --always in the same uncompromising tone:

"Are you cold? Shall I fetch you a shawl?"

And she answers:

"No, thank you. I think the night warm, " being, for the moment, carriedaway by the strangeness and determination of his manner. 

When they are in the garden, and still he has not spoken, she breaksthe silence. 

"What is it, Teddy?" she asks, lightly. "I am all curiosity. I neverbefore saw you look so angry. "

"'Angry'?--no, --I hardly think there is room for anger. I have broughtyou here to tell you--I will not keep to my engagement with you--anhour longer. "

Silence follows this declaration, --a dead silence, broken only by thevoices of the night and the faint, sweet, dreamy sound of one ofGungl's waltzes as it steals through the air to where they stand. 

They have ceased to move, and are facing each other in the narrowpathway. A few beams from the illumined house fall across their feet;one, more adventurous than the rest, has lit on Molly's face, andlingers there, regardless of the envious moonbeams. 

How changed it is! All the soft sweetness, the gladness of it, thatcharacterized it a moment since, is gone. All the girlish happiness andexcitement of a first ball have vanished. She is cold, rigid, as oneturned to stone. Indignation lies within her lovely eyes. 

"I admit you have taken me by surprise, " she says, slowly. "It iscustomary--is it not?--for the one who breaks an engagement to assignsome reason for so doing?"

"It is. You shall have my reason. Half an hour ago I stood at thatwindow, "--pointing to it, --"and saw you in the shrubberies--with--Shadwell!"

"Yes? And then?"

"Then--then!" With a movement full of passion he lays his hands uponher shoulders and turns her slightly, so that the ray which haswandered once more rests upon her face. "Let me look at you, " he says;"let me see how bravely you can carry out your deception to its end. Its _end_, mark you; for you shall never again deceive me. I havehad enough of it. It is over. My love for you has died. "

"Beyond all doubt it had an easy death, " replies she, calmly. "Therecould never have been much life in it. But all this is beside thequestion. I have yet to learn my crime. I have yet to learn what awfuliniquity lies in the fact of my being with Philip Shadwell. "

"You are wonderfully innocent, " with a sneer. "Do you think then thatmy sight failed me?"

"Still I do not understand, " she says, drawing herself up, with alittle proud gesture. "What is it to me whether you or all the worldsaw me with Philip? Explain yourself. "

"I will. " In a low voice, almost choked with passion and despair. "Youwill understand when I tell you I saw him with his arms around you--yousubmitting--you---- And then--I saw him--kiss you. That I should liveto say it of you!"

"_Did_ you see him kiss me?" still calmly. "Your eyesight isinvaluable. "

"Ah! you no longer deny it? In your inmost heart no doubt you arelaughing at me, poor fool that I have been. How many other times haveyou kissed him, I wonder, when I was not by to see?"

"Whatever faults you may have had, I acquitted you of brutality, " saysshe, in a low, carefully suppressed tone. 

"You never loved me. In that one matter at least you were honest; younever professed affection. And yet I was mad enough to think that aftera time I should gain the love of a flirt, --a coquette. "

"You were mad to _care_ for the love of 'a flirt, --a coquette. '"

"I have been blind all these past weeks, " goes on he, unheeding, "determined not to see (what all the rest of the world, no doubt, tooplainly saw) what there was between you and Shadwell. But I am blind nolonger. I am glad, --yes, thankful, " cries the young man, throwing outone hand, as though desirous of proving by action the truth of his sadfalsehood, --"thankful I have found you out at last, --before it was toolate. "

"I am thankful too; but for another reason. I feel grateful that yoursuspicions have caused you to break off our engagement. And now that itis broken, --irremediably so, --let me tell you that for once yourpriceless sight has played you false. I admit that Philip placed hisarm around me (but not unrebuked, as you would have it); I admit hestooped to kiss me; but, " cries Molly, with sudden passion that leavesher pale as an early snow-drop, "I do _not_ admit he kissed me. Deceitful, worthless, flirt, coquette, as you think me, I have not yetfallen so low as to let one man kiss me while professing to keep faithwith another. "

"You say this--after----"

"I do. And who is there shall dare give me the lie? Beware, Tedcastle;you have gone far enough already. Do not go too far. You have chosen toinsult me. Be it so. I forgive you. But, for the future, let me see, and hear, and know as little of you as may be possible. "

"Molly, if what you now----"

"Stand back, sir, " cries she, with an air of majesty and with animperious gesture, raising one white arm, that gleams like snow in thedark night, to wave him to one side. 

"From henceforth remember, I am deaf when you address me!"

She sweeps past him into the house, without further glance or word, leaving him, half mad with doubt and self-reproach, to pace the gardensuntil far into the morning. 

When he does re-enter the ball-room he finds it almost deserted. Nearlyall the guests have taken their departure. Dancing is growinghalf-hearted; conversation is having greater sway with those that stillremain. 

The first person he sees--with Philip beside her--is Molly, radiant, sparkling, even more than usually gay. Two crimson spots burn uponeither cheek, making her large eyes seem larger, and bright as gleamingstars. 

Even as Luttrell, with concentrated bitterness, stands transfixed atsome little distance from her, realizing how small a thing to her isthis rupture between them, that is threatening to break his heart, she, looking up, sees him. 

Turning to her companion, she whispers something to him in a low tone, and then she laughs, --a soft, rippling laugh, full of mirth and music. 

"There go the chimes again, " says Mr. Potts, who has just come up, alluding to Molly's little cruel outburst of merriment. "I never sawMiss Massereene in such good form as she is in to-night. Oh!"--with asuppressed yawn--"'what a day we're 'aving!' I wish it were all to comeover again. "

"Plantagenet, you grow daily more dissipated, " says Cecil Stafford, severely. "A little boy like you should be in your bed hours ago;instead of which you have been allowed to sit up until half-past four, and----"

"And still I am not 'appy?' How could I be when you did me out of thatsolitary dance you promised me? I really believed, when I asked youwith such pathos in the early part of the evening to keep that onegreen spot in your memory for me, you would have done so. "

"Did I forget you?" remorsefully. "Well, don't blame me. Mr. Lowry_would_ keep my card for me, and, as a natural consequence, it waslost. After that, how was it possible for me to keep to myengagements?"

"I think it was a delightful ball, " Molly says, with perhaps a shadetoo much _empressement_. "I never in all my life enjoyed myself sowell. "

"Lucky you, " says Cecil. "Had I been allowed I should perhaps have beenhappy too; but"--with a glance at Stafford, who is looking the verypersonification of languid indifference--"when people allow theirtempers to get the better of them----" Here she pauses with an eloquentsigh. 

"I hope you are not alluding to me, " says Lowry, who is at her elbow, with a smile that awakes in Stafford a mild longing to strangle him. 

"Oh, no!"--sweetly. "How could you think it? I am not ungrateful; and Iknow how carefully you tried to make my evening a pleasant one. "

"If I succeeded it is more than I dare hope for, " returns he, in a lowtone, intended for her ears alone. 

She smiles at him, and holds out her arm, that he may refasten theeighth button of her glove that has mysteriously come undone. He ratherlingers over the doing of it. He is, indeed, strangely awkward, andfinds an unaccountable difficulty in inducing the refractory button togo into its proper place. 

"Shall we bivouac here for the remainder of the night, or seek ourbeds?" asks Sir Penthony, impatiently. "I honestly confess the charmsof that eldest Miss Millbanks have completely used me up. Too much of agood thing is good for nothing; and she _is_ tall. Do none of therest of you feel fatigue? I know women's passion for conquest is noteasily satiated, "--with a slight sneer--"but at five o'clock in themorning one might surely call a truce. "

They agree with him, and separate, even the tardiest guest havingdisappeared by this time, with a last assurance of how intensely theyhave enjoyed their evening; though when they reach their chambers a fewof them give way to such despair and disappointment as rather gives thelie to their expressions of pleasure. 

Poor Molly, in spite of her false gayety, --put on to mask the woundedpride, the new sensation of blankness that fills her withdismay, --flings herself upon her bed and cries away all the remaininghours that rest between her and her maid's morning visit. 

 "Alas! how easily things go wrong: A sigh too much or a kiss too long. "

For how much less--for the mere suspicion of a kiss--have things gonewrong with her? How meagre is the harvest she has gathered in from allher anticipated pleasure, how poor a fruition has been hers!

Now that she and her lover are irrevocably separated, she remembers, with many pangs of self-reproach, how tender and true and honest he hasproved himself in all his dealings with her; and, though she cannotaccuse herself of actual active disloyalty toward him, a hidden voicereminds her how lightly and with what persistent carelessness sheaccepted all his love, and how indifferently she made return. 

With the desire to ease the heartache she is enduring, she tries--invain--to encourage a wrathful feeling toward him, calling to mind howready he was to believe her false, how easily he flung her off, forwhat, after all, was but a fancied offense. But the very agony of hisface as he did so disarms her, recollecting as she does every changeand all the passionate disappointment of it. 

Oh that she had repulsed Philip on the instant when first he took herhand, as it had been in her heart to do!--but for the misery he showedthat for the moment softened her. Mercy on such occasions is only cruelkindness, so she now thinks, --and has been her own undoing. Andbesides, what is his misery to hers?

An intense bitterness, a positive hatred toward Shadwell, who hasbrought all this discord into her hitherto happy life, grows withinher, filling her with a most unjust longing to see him as wretched ashe has unwittingly made her; while yet she shrinks with ever-increasingreluctance from the thought that soon she must bring herself to lookagain upon his dark but handsome face. 

Luttrell, too, --she must meet him; and, with such swollen eyes andpallid cheeks, the bare idea brings a little color into her white face. 

As eight o'clock strikes, she rises languidly from her bed, dressed asshe is, disrobing hurriedly, lest even her woman should guess howwakeful she had been, throws open her window, and lets the pure coldair beat upon her features. 

But when Sarah comes she is not deceived. So distressed is she at heryoung mistress's appearance that she almost weeps aloud, and gives itas her opinion that balls and all such nocturnal entertainments are theinvention of the enemy. 

CHAPTER XXV. 

"Ah, starry hope, that didst ariseBut to be overcast!"

 --Edgar A. Poe. 

"The ring asunder broke. "

 --_German Song. _

At breakfast Molly is very pale, and speaks little. She toys with hertoast, but cannot eat. Being questioned, she confesses herselffatigued, not being accustomed to late hours. 

She neither looks at Luttrell, nor does he seek to attract herattention in any way. 

"A good long walk will refresh you more than anything, " says TalbotLowry, who has been spending the past few days at Herst. He addressesMolly, but his eyes seek Cecil's as he does so, in the fond hope thatshe will take his hint and come with him for a similar refresher tothat he has prescribed for Molly. 

Cecil's unfortunate encouragement of the night before--displayed morewith a view to chagrining Sir Penthony than from a mere leaning towardcoquetry--has fanned his passion to a very dangerous height. He isconsumed with a desire to speak, and madly flatters himself that thereis undoubted hope for him. 

To throw himself at Lady Stafford's feet, declare his love, and ask herto leave, for him, a husband who has never been more to her than anordinary acquaintance, and to renounce a name that can have no charmsfor her, being devoid of tender recollections or sacred memories, seemsto him, in his present over-strained condition, a very light thingindeed. In return, he argues feverishly, he can give her the entiredevotion of a heart, and, what is perhaps a more practical offer, alarger income than she can now command. 

Then, in the present day, what so easily, or quietly, or satisfactorilyarranged, as a divorce in high life, leaving behind it neither spot norscar, nor anything unpleasant in the way of social ostracism? And thismight--nay, _should_--follow. 

Like Molly, he has lain awake since early dawn arranging plans andrehearsing speeches; and now, after breakfast, as he walks beside theobject of his adoration through the shrubberies and outer walks intothe gardens beyond, carried away by the innate vanity of him, and hisfoolish self-esteem, and not dreaming of defeat, he decides that thetime has come to give voice to his folly. 

They are out of view of the windows, when he stops abruptly, and saysrashly, --with a pale face, it is true, but a certain amount ofcomposure that bespeaks confidence, --"Cecil, I can keep silence nolonger. Let me speak to you, and tell you all that is in my heart. "

"He has fallen in love with Molly, " thinks Cecil, wondering vaguely atthe manner of his address, he having never attempted to call her by herChristian name before. 

"You are in love?" she says, kindly, but rather uncertainly, not beingable at the moment to call to mind any tender glances of his cast atMolly or any suspicious situations that might confirm her in her fancy. 

"Need you ask?" says Lowry, taking her hand, feeling still furtheremboldened by the gentleness with which she has received his firstadvance. "Have not all these months--nay, this year past--taught you somuch?"

"'This year past?'" Cecil repeats, honestly at sea, and too muchsurprised by the heat of his manner to grasp at once the real meaningof his words. Though I think a second later a faint inkling of it comesto her, because she releases her hand quickly from his clasp, and hervoice takes a sharper tone. "I do not understand you, " she says, "Takecare you understand--yourself. "

But the warning comes too late. Lowry, bent on his own destruction, goes on vehemently:

"I do--too well. Have I not had time to learn it?" he says, passionately. "Have I not spent every day, every hour, in thoughts ofyou? Have I not lived in anticipation of our meeting? While you, Cecil, surely you, too, were glad when we were together. The best year I haveever known has been this last, in which I have grown to love you. "

"Pray cease, " says Cecil, hurriedly, stepping back and raising her handimperiously. "What can you mean? You must be out of your senses tospeak to me like this. "

Although angry, she is calm, and, indeed, scarcely cares to give way toindignation before Lowry, whom she has always looked upon with greatkindness and rather in the light of a boy. She is a little sorry forhim, too, that he should have chosen to make a fool of himself withher, who, she cannot help feeling, is his best friend. For to all themoodiness and oddity of his nature she has been singularly lenient, bearing with him when others would have lost all patience. And this isher reward. For a full minute Lowry seems confounded. Then, "I mustindeed be bereft of reason, " he says, in a low, intense voice, "if I amto believe that you can receive like this the assurance of my love. Itcannot be altogether such a matter of wonder--my infatuation foryou--as you would have me think, considering how you"--in a ratherchoked tone--"led me on. "

"'Led you on'! My dear Mr. Lowry, how can you talk so foolishly? Icertainly thought I knew you very well, and"--docketing off each itemon her fingers--"I let you run my messages now and then; and I dancedwith you; and you sent me the loveliest flowers in London or out of it;and you were extremely kind to me on all occasions; but then so manyother men were kind also, that really beyond the flowers, "--going backto her second finger, --"(which were incomparably finer than those Iever received from any one else), I don't see that you were more to methan the others. "

"Will you not listen to me? Will you not even let me plead my cause?"

"Certainly not, considering what a cause it is. You must be mad. "

"You are cold as ice, " says he, losing his head. "No other woman butyourself would consent to live as you do. A wife, and yet no wife!"

"Mr. Lowry, " says Lady Stafford, with much dignity but perfect temper, "you forget yourself. I must really beg you not to discuss my privateaffairs. The life I lead might not suit you or any single one of youracquaintance, but it suits me, and that is everything. You say I am'cold, ' and you are right: I am. I fancied (wrongly) my acknowledgedcoldness would have prevented such a scene as I have been forced tolisten to, by you, to-day. You are the first who has ever dared toinsult me. You are, indeed, the first man who has ever been at my feet, metaphorically speaking or otherwise; and I sincerely trust, " says LadyStafford, with profound earnestness, "you may be the last, for anythingmore unpleasant I never experienced. "

"Have you no pity for me?" cries he, passionately. "Why need you scornmy love? Every word you utter tears my heart, and you, --you care nomore than if I were a dog! Have you no feeling? Do you never wish to beas other women are, beloved and loving, instead of being as now----"

"Again, sir, I must ask you to allow my private life to _be_private, " says Cecil, still with admirable temper, although her colorhas faded a good deal, and the fingers of one hand have closedconvulsively upon a fold of her dress. "I may, perhaps, pity you, but Ican feel nothing but contempt for the love you offer, that would lowerthe thing it loves!"

"Not lower it, " says he, quickly, grasping eagerly at what he vainlyhopes is a last chance. "Under the circumstances a divorce could beeasily obtained. If you would trust yourself to me there should be nodelay. You might easily break this marriage-tie that can scarcely beconsidered binding. "

"And supposing--I do not wish to break it? How then? But enough ofthis. I cannot listen any longer. I have heard too much already. I mustreally ask you to leave me. Go. "

"Is this how your friendships end?" asks he, bitterly. "Will you deny Iwas even so much to you?"

"Certainly not. Though I must add that had I known my friendship withyou would have put me in the way of receiving so much insult as I havereceived to-day, you should never have been placed upon my list. Let mepray you to go away now, to leave Herst entirely for the present, because it would be out of the question my seeing you again, --at leastuntil time has convinced you of your folly. You are an old friend, Talbot, and I would willingly try and forget all that has happenedto-day, or at all events to remember it only as a passing madness. "

"Am I a boy, a fool, that you speak to me like this?" cries he, catching her hand to detain her as she moves away. "And why do you talkof 'insult'? I only urge you to exchange indifference for love, --theindifference of a husband who cares no more for you than for the gravelat your feet. "

"And pray, sir, by what rule do you measure the amount of my regard forLady Stafford?" exclaims Sir Penthony, walking through an open space inthe privet hedge that skirts this corner of the garden, where he hasbeen spell-bound for the last two minutes. A short time, no doubt, though a great deal can be said in it. 

He is positively livid, and has his eyes fixed, not on his enemy, buton his wife. 

Lowry changes color, but gives way not an inch; he also tightens hisgrasp on Cecil's unwilling hand, and throws up his head defiantly. 

"Let my wife's hand go directly, " says Stafford, in a low but furioustone, advancing. 

By a quick movement Cecil wrenches herself free and gets between thetwo men. She does not fling herself, she simply gets there, almost--asit seems--without moving. 

"Not another word, Sir Penthony, " she says, quietly. "I forbid it. Iwill have no scene. Mr. Lowry has behaved foolishly, but I desire thatnothing more be said about it. Go, "--turning to Lowry, who is frowningominously, and pointing imperiously to a distant gate, --"and do as Iasked you a few moments since, --leave Herst without delay. "

So strong is her determination to avoid an _esclandre_, and somasterly is her manner of carrying out her will, that both meninstinctively obey her. Sir Penthony lowers his eyes and shifts hisaggressive position; Lowry, with bent head, and without another word, walks away from her down the garden-path out of the gate, anddisappears--for years. 

When he has quite gone, Sir Penthony turns to her. 

"Is this the way you amuse yourself?" he asks, in a compressed voice. 

"Do not reproach me, " murmurs she, hurriedly; "I could not bear itnow. " She speaks clearly, but her tone has lost its firmness, becauseof the little tremor that runs through it, while her face is white asone of the pale blossoms she holds within her hand. "Besides, it is notdeserved. Were you long here before you spoke?"

"Long enough. " With a world of meaning in his tone. 

"Then you heard my exculpation. 'Cold as ice, ' he called me. And he wasright. As I am to you, Sir Penthony, so am I to all men. No one yet hastouched my heart. "

"For myself I can answer, " replies he, bitterly; "but for theothers----"

"Not another word, " she breaks in, vehemently. "Do not say--do not evenhint at--what I might find it impossible to forgive. Not even to youwill I seek to justify myself on such a point. And you, " she says, tears of agitation arising from all she has undergone, mingled withmuch pent-up wounded feeling, coming thickly into her eyes, "you shouldbe the last to blame me for what has happened, when you remember who itwas placed me in such a false position as makes men think they may sayto me what they choose. "

"You are unjust, " he answers, nearly as white as herself. "I onlyfollowed out your wishes. It was your own arrangement; I but acceded toit. "

"You should not have done so, " cries she, with subdued excitement. "Youwere a man of the world, capable of judging; I was a foolish girl, ignorant of the consequences that must follow on such an act. Ourmarriage was a wretched mistake. "

"Cecil, you know you can escape from your false position as soon as youchoose. No one loves you as I do. "

"Impossible. " Coldly. "In this world a thing once done can never beundone. Have you lived so long without learning that lesson?"

As she speaks she turns from him, and, walking quickly away, leaves himalone in the garden. Much as he has grown to love her, never until nowhas the very tenderness of affection touched him, --now, when thelaughter-loving Cecil has changed for him into the feeling, accusingwoman; although a woman dead to him, with a heart locked carefully, lest he should enter it. 

How can he tell, as she goes so proudly along the garden-path, that herbosom is heaving with shame and unconfessed longing, and that down hercheeks--so prone to dimple with joyous laughter--the bitter tears arefalling?

Almost as she reaches the house she encounters Tedcastle, and turnshastily aside, lest he should mark the traces of her recent weeping. But so bent is he on his own dismal thoughts that he heeds her not, butfollows aimlessly the path before him that leads to the balcony from, which the smaller drawing-room may be reached. 

He is depressed and anxious, the night's vigil having induced him tobelieve himself somewhat hasty in his condemnation of Molly. As hegains the boudoir he starts, for there in the room, with the lightflashing warmly upon her, stands Molly Bawn alone. 

She is dressed in a long trailing gown of black velveteen, --aninexpensive dress, but one that suits her admirably, with its slightadornment of little soft lace frillings at the throat and wrists. Pausing irresolutely, Luttrell makes as though he would retrace hissteps. 

"Do not go, " says Molly's voice, clear and firm. "As you are here, Iwish to speak to you. "

She beckons him to come a little nearer to her, and silently he obeysthe gesture. There is a small round table between them, upon whichMolly is leaning rather heavily. As he approaches, however, and waits, gazing curiously at her for her next word, she straightens herself andcompels her eyes to meet his. 

"Here is your ring, " she says, drawing the glittering treasure from herfinger and placing it before him. 

There is not the extremest trace of excitement or feeling of any kindin her tone. Luttrell, on the contrary, shrinks as though touched byfire. 

"Keep it, " he says, involuntarily, coloring darkly. 

"No--no. "

"Why?" he urges. "It will not hurt you, and"--with a quickly-suppressedsigh--"it may perhaps compel you to think of me now and then. "

"I have neither wish nor desire ever to think of you again, " returnsshe, still in the same cold, even tone, pushing the ring still closerto him with her first finger. There is something of contempt in theaction. A ray from the dancing sun outside falls through the glass onto the diamonds, making them flash and sparkle in their gold setting. 

"That admits of no answer, " says Luttrell, with low but passionatebitterness; and, taking up the ring, he flings it lightly into the veryheart of the glowing fire. 

With a sudden loss of self-restraint Molly makes a movement forward asthough to prevent him; but too late, --already the greedy flames haveclosed upon it. 

Not all the agitation, not all his angry words of the night before, have affected her so keenly as this last act. She bursts into a verystorm of tears. 

"Oh! what have you done?" cries she. "You have destroyed it; you haveburned it, --my pretty ring!"

She clasps her hands together, and gazes with straining eyes into thecruel fire. Something within her heart feels broken. Surely some stringhas snapped. The ring, in spite of all, was a last link between them;and now, too, it has gone. 

"Molly!" says he, taking a step toward her, and holding out his hands, softened, vanquished by her tears, ready to throw himself once more anabject slave at her feet. 

"Do not speak to me, " returns she, still sobbing bitterly. "Have younot done enough? I wish you would leave me to myself. Go away. There isnothing more that you _can_ do. "

Feeling abashed, he scarcely knows why, he silently quits the room. 

Then down upon her knees before the fire falls Molly, and with thepoker strives with all her might to discover some traces of her losttreasure. So diligent is her search that after a little while the ring, blackened, disfigured, altered almost beyond recognition, lies withinher hand. Still it is her ring, however changed, and some small ray ofcomfort gladdens her heart. 

She is still, however, weeping bitterly, and examining sadly theprecious relic she has rescued from utter oblivion, and from which thediamond, soiled, but still brilliant, has fallen into her palm, whenPhilip enters. 

"Molly, what has happened?" he asks, advancing toward her, shocked ather appearance, which evinces all the deepest signs of woe. "What hasdistressed you?"

"You have, " cries she, with sudden vehement passion, all her sorrow andanger growing into quick life as she sees him. "You are the cause ofall my misery. Why do you come near me? You might, at least, have graceenough to spare me the pain of seeing you. "

"I do not understand, " he says, his face very pale. "In how have Ioffended, --I, who would rather be dead than cause you any unhappiness?Tell me how I have been so unfortunate. "

"I hate you, " she says, with almost childish cruelty, sobbing afresh. "I wish you had died before I came to this place. You have come betweenme and the only man I love. Yes, "--smiting her hands together in a veryagony of sorrow, --"he may doubt it if he will, but I _do_ lovehim; and now we are separated forever. Even my ring"--with a sad glanceat it--"is broken, and so is--my heart. "

"You are alluding to--Luttrell?" asks he, --his earliest suspicions atlast confirmed, --speaking with difficulty, so dry his lips have grown. 

"I am. "

"And how have I interfered between you and--him?"

"Why did you speak to me of love again last night, " retorts she, "whenyou must know how detestable a subject it is to me? He saw you put yourarm around me; he saw--ah! why did I not tell you then the truth (fromwhich through a mistaken feeling of pity I refrained), that your meretouch _sickened_ me? Then you stooped, and he thought--you knowwhat he thought--and yet, " cries Molly, with a gesture of aversion, "how could he have thought it possible that I should allow _you_of _all men_ to--kiss me?"

"Why speak of what I so well know?" interrupts he hoarsely, with benthead and averted eyes. "You seldom spare me. You are angered, and forwhat? Because you still hanker after a man who flung you away, --you, for whose slightest wish I would risk my all. For a mere chimera, afancy, a fear only half developed, he renounced you. "

"Say nothing more, " says Molly, with pale lips and eyes large and darkthrough regretful sorrow; "not another word. I think he acted rightly. He thought I was false, and so thinking he was right to renounce. I donot say this in his defense or because--or for any reason only----" Shepauses. 

"Why not continue? Because you--love him still. "

"Well, and why not?" says Molly. "Why should I deny my love for him?Can any shame be connected with it? Yes, " murmurs she, her sweet eyesfilling with tears, her small clasped hands trembling, "though he and Ican never be more to each other than we now are, I tell you I love himas I never have and never shall love again. "

"It is a pity that such love as yours should have no better return, "says he, with an unlovely laugh. "Luttrell appears to bear his fatewith admirable equanimity. "

"You are incapable of judging such a nature as his, " returns she, disdainfully. "He is all that is gentle, and true, and noble: whileyou----" She stops abruptly, causing a pause that is more eloquent thanwords, and, with a distant bow, hurries from the room. 

Philip's star to-day is not in the ascendant. Even as he stands crushedby Molly's bitter reproaches, Marcia, with her heart full of a settledrevenge toward him, is waiting outside her grandfather's door forpermission to enter. 

That unlucky shadow of a kiss last night has done as much mischief ashalf a dozen real kisses. It has convinced Marcia of the truth of thatwhich for weeks she has been vainly struggling to disbelieve, namely, Philip's mad infatuation for Molly. 

Now all doubt is at an end, and in its place has fallen a despair moreterrible than any uncertainty. 

All the anguish of a heart rejected, that is still compelled to live onloving its rejector, has been hers for the past two months, and it hastold upon her slowly but surely. She is strangely altered. Dark hollowslay beneath her eyes, that have grown almost unearthly in expression, so large are they, and so sombre is the fire that burns within them. There is a compression about the lips that has grown habitual; smalllines mar the whiteness of her forehead, while among her raven tresses, did any one mark them closely enough, fine threads of silver may betraced. 

Pacing up and down her room the night before, with widely-opened eyes, gazing upon the solemn blackness that surrounds her, all the wrongs andslights she has endured come to her with startling distinctness. Nosense of weariness, no thought of a necessity for sleep, disturbs herreverie or breaks in upon the monotonous misery of her musings. She ispast all that. Already her death has come to her, --a death to her hope, and joy, and peace, --even to that poor calm that goes so far to deceivethe outer world. 

Oh, the cold, quiet night, when speech is not and sleep has forgottenus! when all the doubts and fears and jealousies that in the blesseddaylight slumber, rise up to torture us when even the half-suspectedsneer, the covert neglect, that some hours ago were but as faintestpin-pricks, now gall and madden as a poisoned thrust!

A wild thirst for revenge grows within her breast as one by one shecalls to mind all the many injuries she has received. Strangelyenough, --and unlike a woman, --her anger is concentrated on Philip, rather than on the one he loves, instinct telling her he is not belovedin return. 

She broods upon her wrongs until, as the first bright streak of yellowday illumes the room, flinging its glories profusely upon the wall andceiling, pretty knickknacks that return its greeting, and angry, unthankful creature alike, a thought comes to her that promises toamply satisfy her vengeful craving. As she ponders on it a curiouslight breaks upon her face, a smile half triumph, half despair. 

 * * * * *

Now, standing before her grandfather's room, with a folded lettercrushed within her palm, and a heart that beats almost to suffocation, she hears him bid her enter. 

Fatigued by the unusual exertions of a ball, Mr. Amherst is seated athis table in a lounging-chair, clad in his dressing-gown, and lookingolder, feebler, than is his wont. 

He merely glances at his visitor as she approaches, without comment ofany description. 

"I have had something on my mind for some time, grandpapa, " beginsMarcia, who is pale and worn, through agitation and the effects of along and hopeless vigil. "I think it only right to let you know. I havesuppressed it all this time, because I feared distressing you; butnow--now--will you read this?"

She hands him, as she speaks, the letter received by Philip two monthsbefore relative to his unlucky dealings with some London Jews. 

In silence Mr. Amherst reads it, in silence re-reads it, and finally, folding it up again, places it within his desk. 

"You and Philip have quarreled?" he says, presently, in a quiet tone. 

"No, there has been no quarrel. "

"Your engagement is at an end?"

"Yes. "

"And is this the result of last night's vaunted pleasures?" asks he, keenly. "Have you snatched only pain and a sense of failure from itsfleeting hours? And Eleanor, too, --she was pale at luncheon, and foronce silent, --has she too found her coveted fruit rotten at its core?It is the universal law, " says the old man, grimly, consoling himselfwith a pinch of snuff, taken with much deliberation from an exquisiteLouis Quinze box that rests at his elbow, and leaning back languidly inhis chair. "Life is made up of hopes false as the _ignis-fatuus_. When with the greatest sense of security and promise of enjoyment weraise and seek to drain the cup of pleasure, while yet we gaze withlonging eyes upon its sparkling bubbles, and, stooping thirstily, suffer our expectant lips at length to touch it, lo! it is then, justas we have attained to the summit of our bliss, we find our sweetestdraught has turned to ashes in our mouth. "

He stops and drums softly on the table for a moment or two, whileMarcia stands before him silently pondering. 

"So Philip is already counting on my death, " he goes on, meditatively, still softly tapping the table. "How securely he rests in the belief ofhis succession! His father's son could scarcely fail to be aspendthrift, and I will have--no--prodigal at Herst--to hew--andcut--and scatter. A goodly heritage, truly, as Buscarlet called it. Besatisfied, Marcia: your revenge is complete. Philip shall not inheritHerst. "

"I do not seek revenge, " says Marcia, unsteadily, now her wish isfulfilled and Philip hopelessly crushed, a cold, troubled faintnesscreeping round her heart. An awful sense of despair, a fruitlesslonging to recall her action, makes her tremble. "Only I could not bearto see you longer deceived, --you, after all the care--the trouble--youbestowed upon him. My conscience compelled me to tell you all. "

"And you, Marcia, "--with an odd smile she is puzzled toexplain, --"_you_ have never deceived me, have you? All your prettyspeeches and tender cares have been quite sincere?"

"Dear grandpapa, yes. "

"You have not wished me dead, or spoken or thought evilly of the oldtyrant at Herst, who has so often crossed and thwarted you?"

"Never, dear: how could I--when I remember----"

"Ay, quite so. When one remembers! And gratitude is so common a thing. Will you oblige me by sending a line to Mr. Buscarlet, asking him tocome to me without delay?"

"You are going to alter your will?" she asks, faintly, shocked at thespeedy success of her scheme. 

"Yes, " coolly. "I am going to cut Philip out of it. "

"Grandpapa, do not be too hard on him, " she says, putting her handacross her throat, and almost gasping. "He is young. Young mensometimes----"

"I was once a young man myself, you seem to forget, and I know allabout it. Why did you give me that letter?" he asks, grimly. "Are youchicken-hearted, now you have done the deed, like all women? It is toolate for remorse to be of use: you _have_ done it. Let it be yourportion to remember how you have willfully ruined his prospects. "

A choking sigh escapes her as she quits the room. Truly she has boughther revenge dearly. Not the poorest trace of sweetness lingers in it. 

 * * * * *

By this time it will be perceived that the house is in a secretturmoil. Every one is at daggers drawn with every one else. Molly andLady Stafford have as yet exchanged no confidences, though keenlydesirous of doing so, each having noticed with the liveliest surmisingsthe depression of the other. 

Mr. Potts alone, who is above suspicion (being one of those cheerfulpeople who never see anything--no matter how closely under theirnoses--until it is brought before them in the broadest language), continues blissfully unconscious of the confusion that reigns around, and savors his conversation throughout the evening with as manyembarrassing remarks as he can conveniently put in. 

"Eaten bread is soon forgotten, " says he, sententiously, during apause. "You all seem strangely oblivious of the fact that last nightthere was a ball in this house. Why shirk the subject? I like talking, "says Mr. Potts, superfluously, "and surely you must all have somethingto communicate concerning it. Thanks to our own exertions, I think itwas as good a one as ever I was at; and the old boy"--(I need scarcelysay Mr. Amherst has retired to rest)--was uncommon decent about givingus the best champagne. "

"You took very good care to show him how you appreciated hishospitality, " says Sir Penthony, mildly. 

"Well, why shouldn't I do honor to the occasion? A ball at Herst don'tcome every day. As a rule, an affair of the kind at a country house isa failure, as the guests quarrel dreadfully among themselves next day;but ours has been a brilliant exception. "

"Brilliant indeed, " says Lady Stafford, demurely. 

"But what became of Lowry?" demands this wretched young man, who hasnever yet learned that silence is golden. "He told me this morning heintended staying on until the end of the week, and off he goes toLondon by the midday train without a word of warning. Must have heardsome unpleasant news, I shouldn't wonder, he looked so awfully cut up. Did he tell you anything about it?" To Lady Stafford. 

"No. " In a freezing tone. "I see no reason why I, in particular, shouldbe bored by Mr. Lowry's private woes. "

"Well, you were such a friend, you know, for one thing, " says Potts, surprised, but obtuse as ever. 

"So I am of yours; but I sincerely trust the fact of my being so willnot induce you to come weeping to me whenever you chance to lose yourheart or place all your money on the wrong horse. "

"Did he lose his money, then?"

"Plantagenet, dancing has muddled your brain. How should I know whetherhe lost his money or not? I am merely supposing. You are dull to-night. Come and play a game at écarté with me, to see if it may rouse you. "

They part for the night rather earlier than usual, pleadingfatigue, --all except Mr. Potts, who declares himself fresh as a daisy, and proposes an impromptu dance in the ball-room. He is instantlysnubbed, and retires gracefully, consoling himself with the reflectionthat he has evidently more "go" in his little finger than they canboast in their entire bodies. 

Sir Penthony having refused to acknowledge his wife's partingsalutation, --meant to conciliate, --Cecil retires to her room in a stateof indignation and sorrow that reduces her presently to tears. 

Her maid, entering just as she has reached the very highest pinnacle ofher wrongs, meets with anything but a warm reception. 

"How now, Trimmins? Did I ring?" asks she, with unwonted sharpness, being unpleasantly mindful of the redness of her eyes. 

"No, my lady; but I thought----"

"Never think, " says Cecil, interrupting her with unreasoningirritation. 

"No, my lady. I only thought perhaps you would see Miss Massereene, "persists Trimmins, meekly. "She wishes to know, with her love, if youcan receive her now. "

"Miss Massereene? Of course I can. Why did you not say so before?"

"Your ladyship scarcely gave me time, " says Trimmins, demurely, takingan exhaustive survey of her cambric apron. 

"True; I was hasty, " Cecil acknowledges, in her impulsive, honest, haughty way. "Tell Miss Massereene I shall be delighted to see her atonce. "

Presently Molly enters, her eyelids pink, the corners of her mouthforlornly curved, a general despondency in her whole demeanor. 

Cecil, scarcely more composed, advances to meet her. 

"Why, Molly!" she says, pathetically. 

"You have been crying, " says Molly, in the same breath, throwingherself into her arms. 

"I have indeed, my dear, " confesses Cecil, in a lachrymose tone, andthen she begins to cry again, and Molly follows suit, and for the nextfive minutes they have a very comfortable time of it together. 

Then they open their hearts to each other and relate fluently, as onlya woman can, all the intolerable wrongs and misjudgment they haveundergone at the hands of their lovers. 

"To accuse me of anything so horrible!" says Molly, indignantly. "Oh, Cecil! I don't believe he could care for me one bit and suspect me ofit. "

"'Care for you!' Nonsense, my dear! he adores you. That is preciselywhy he has made such a fool of himself. You know--

 "Trifles light as air, Are to the jealous confirmations strong As proofs of holy writ. 

"I like a man to be jealous, --in reason. Though when Sir Penthony walkedout from behind that hedge, looking as if he could, with pleasure, devour me and Talbot at a bite, I confess I could gladly have dispensedwith the quality in him. You should have seen his face: for once I washonestly frightened. "

"Poor Cecil! it must have been a shock. And all because that tiresomeyoung man wouldn't go away. "

"Just so. All might have been well had he only seen things in areasonable light. Oh, I was so angry! The most charming of your charms, Molly, " says Cecil, warmly, "is your ability to sympathize with one. You can feel so thoroughly with and for me; and you never season yourremarks with unpalatable truths. You never say, 'I told you so, ' or 'Iknew how it would be, ' or 'didn't I warn you?' or anything else equallyobjectionable. I really would rather a person boxed my ears outrightthan give way to such phrases as those, pretending they know all abouta catastrophe, after it has happened. And, " says her ladyship, with apensive sigh, "you _might_ perhaps (had you so chosen) haveaccused me of flirting a leetle bit with that stupid Talbot. "

"Well, indeed, perhaps I might, dear, " says Molly, innocently. 

"What, are you going to play the traitor after all that flattery? andif so, what am I to say to you about your disgraceful encouragement ofCaptain Shadwell?"

"I wonder if I did encourage him?" says Molly, contritely. "At first, perhaps unconsciously, but lately I am sure I didn't. Do you know, Cecil, I positively dislike him? he is so dark and silent, and stillpersistent. But when a man keeps on saying he is miserable for love ofyou, and that you are the cause of all his distress, and that he wouldas soon be dead as alive, because you cannot return his affection, howcan one help feeling a little sorry for him?"

"I don't feel in the least sorry for Talbot. I thought him extremelyunpleasant and impertinent, and I hope with all my heart he is veryunhappy to-night, because it will do him good. "

"Cecil, how cruel you are!"

"Well, by what right does he go about making fierce love to marriedwomen, compelling them to listen to his nonsense whether they like itor not, and getting them into scrapes? I don't break my heart over SirPenthony, but I certainly do not wish him to think badly of me. "

"At least, " says Molly, relapsing again into the blues, "you have thisconsolation: you cannot lose Sir Penthony. "

"That might also be looked on as a disadvantage. Still, I suppose thereis some benefit to be gained from my position, " says Cecil, meditatively. "_My_ lover (if indeed he is my lover) cannot playthe false knight with _me_; I defy him to love--and to ride away. There are no breakers ahead for me. He is mine irrevocably, no matterhow horribly he may desire to escape. But you need not envy me; it issweeter to be as you are, --to know him yours without the shadow of atie. He is not lost to you. "

"Effectually. What! do you think I would submit to be again engaged toa man who could fling me off for a chimera, a mere trick of theimagination? If he were to beg my pardon on his knees, --if he were toacknowledge every word he said to me a lie, --I would not look at himagain. "

"I always said your pride would be your bane, " says Cecil, reprovingly. "Now, just think how far happier you would be if you were friends withhim again, and think of nothing else. What is pride in comparison withcomfort?"

"Have you forgiven Sir Penthony?"

"Freely. But he won't forgive me. "

"Have you forgiven him the first great crime of all, --his indifferencetoward his bride?"

"N--o, " confesses her ladyship, smiling; "not yet. "

"Ah! then don't blame me. I could have killed myself when I cried, "says Molly, referring again to the past, with a little angry shiver;"but I felt so sorry for my poor, pretty, innocent ring. And he lookedso handsome, so determined, when he flung it in the fire, with his eyesquite dark and his figure drawn up; and--and--I could not helpwondering, " says Molly, with a little tremble in her tone, "who nextwould love him--and who--he--would love. "

"I never thought you were so fond of him, dearest, " says Cecil, layingher hand softly on her friend's. 

"Nor I, --until I lost him, " murmurs poor Molly, with a vain attempt atcomposure. Two tears fall heavily into her lap; a sob escapes her. 

"Now you are going to cry again, " interposes Cecil, with hasty butkindly warning. "Don't. He is not going to fall in love with any one solong as you are single, take my word for it. Nonsense, my dear! cheeryourself with the certainty that he is at this very moment eating hisheart out, because he knows better than I do that, though there may bemany women, there is only one Molly Bawn in the world. "

This reflection, although consolatory, has not the desired effect. Instead of drying her eyes and declaring herself glad that Luttrell isunhappy, Molly grows more and more afflicted every moment. 

"My dear girl, " exclaims Lady Stafford, as a last resource, "do praythink of your complexion. I have finished crying; I shall give way tocrying no more, because I wish to look my best to-morrow, to let himsee what a charming person he has chosen to quarrel with. And my tearsare not so destructive as yours, because mine arise from vexation, yours from feeling. "

"I hardly know, " says Molly, with an attempt at _nonchalance_ sheis far from feeling, "I really think I cried more for my diamond thanfor--my lover. However, I shall take your advice; I shall think no moreabout it. To-morrow"--rising and running to the glass, and pushing backher disordered hair from her face, that is lovely in spite of marringtears--"to-morrow I shall be gayer, brighter than he has ever yet seenme. What! shall I let him think I fret because of him! He saw me oncein tears; he shall not see me so again. "

"What a pity it is that grief should be so unbecoming!" says Cecil, laughing. "I always think what a guy Niobe must have been if she wasindeed all tears. "

"The worst thing about crying, I think, " says Molly, "is the fataldesire one feels to blow one's nose: that is the horrid part of it. Iknew I was looking odious all the time I was weeping over my ring, andthat added to my discomfort. By the bye, Cecil, what were you doing atthe table with a pencil just before we broke up to-night? Sir Penthonywas staring at you fixedly all through, --wondering, I am sure, at youroccupation, as, to tell the truth, was I. "

"Nothing very remarkable. I was inditing a 'sonnet to your eyebrow, ' orrather to your lids, they were so delicately tinted, and so much inunison with the extreme dejection of your entire bearing. I confess, unkind as it may sound, they moved me to laughter. Ah! that remindsme, " says Cecil, her expression changing to one of comical terror, asshe starts to her feet, "Plantagenet came up at the moment, and lest heshould see my composition I hid it within the leaves of theblotting-book. There it is still, no doubt. What shall I do if any onefinds it in the morning? I shall be read out of meeting, as I have anindistinct idea that, with a view to making you laugh, I rathercaricatured every one in the room, more or less. "

"Shall I run down for it?" says Molly. "I won't be a moment, and youare quite undressed. In the blotting-book, you said? I shan't be anytime. "

"Unless the ghosts detain you. "

"Or, what would be much worse, any of our friends. "

CHAPTER XXVI. 

"A single stream of all her soft brown hairPoured on one side. 

 * * *

 Half light, half shade, She stood, a sight to make an old man young. "

 --_Gardener's Daughter. _

Thrusting her little bare feet into her slippers, she takes up a candleand walks softly down the stairs, past the smoking and billiard-rooms, into the drawing-room, where the paper has been left. 

All the lamps have been extinguished, leaving the apartment, which isimmense, steeped in darkness. Coming into it from the brilliantly-lightedhall outside, with only a candle in her hand, the gloom seems evengreater, and overcomes her sight to such a degree that she has traversedat least one-half its length before she discovers she is not its onlyoccupant. 

Seated before a writing-table, with his hand, indeed, upon the veryblotting-book she seeks, and with only another candle similar to hersto lend him light, sits Luttrell. 

As her eyes meet his she starts, colors violently, and is for themoment utterly abashed. 

Involuntarily she glances down at the soft blue dressing-gown shewears, over which her hair--brushed and arranged for the night--fallsin soft, rippling, gold-brown masses, and from thence to the littlenaked feet that peep out shamelessly from their blue slippers. 

The crimson blood rises to her face. Covered with a painful thoughpretty confusion, she stands quite still, and lets her tell-tale eyesseek the ground. 

Luttrell has risen, and, without any particular design, has advancedtoward her. Perhaps the force of habit compels him to do so; perhapsintense and not altogether welcome surprise. For the future to see heris but to add one more pang to his intolerable regret. 

"I was writing to you, " he says, indicating with a slight movement ofthe hand the chair on which he has been sitting, and thus breaking theawful silence which threatens to last until next day, so mute has Mollygrown. With a delicate sense of chivalry he endeavors to appearoblivious of her rather scanty and disconcerting--howeverbecoming--costume. "But as it is, perhaps I may as well say to you whatis on my mind, --if you will permit me. "

"I cannot forbid your speech. " Coldly. 

"I will not keep you long. But"--with a slight, almost imperceptible, glance at her dressing-gown--"perhaps you are in a hurry?"

"I am--rather. " At this juncture, had they been friends, Molly wouldundoubtedly have laughed. As it is, she is profoundly serious. "Still, if it is anything important, I will hear you. "

"Can I do anything for you?" asks he, hesitating, evidently fearing toapproach the desired subject. 

"Nothing, thank you. I came only for a paper, --left in theblotting-book. If you wish to speak, do so quickly, as I must go. "Then, as he still hesitates, "Why do you pause?"

"Because I fear incurring your displeasure once again; and surely thepassages between us have been bad enough already. "

"Do not fear. " Coldly. "It is no longer in your power to wound me. "

"True. I should not have allowed that fact to escape me. Yet hear me. It is my love urges me on. "

"Your--love!" With slow and scornful disbelief. 

"Yes, --mine. In spite of all that has come and gone, you know me wellenough to understand how dear you still are to me. No, you need not saya word. I can see by your face that you will never pardon. There is nogreater curse than to love a woman who gives one but bare tolerance inreturn. "

"Why did you not think of all this while there was yet time?"

"One drifts--until it is too late to seek for remedies. My heaviestmisfortune lies in the fact that I cannot root you from my heart. "

"A terrible misfortune, no doubt, "--with a little angry flash from herazure eyes, --"but one that time will cure. "

"Will it?" Wistfully. "Shall I indeed learn to forget you, Molly, --tolook back upon my brief but happy past as an idle dream? I hardly hopeso much. "

"And would you waste all your best days, " asks she, in tones thattremble ever so little, "in thinking of me? Remember all you said, --allyou meant, --how 'thankful you were to find me out in time. '"

"And will you condemn forever because of a few words spoken in a momentof despair and terrible disappointment?" pleads he. "I acknowledge myfault. I was wrong; I was too hasty. I behaved like a brute, if youwill; but then I believed I had grounds for fear. When once I saw yourface, heard your voice, looked into your eyes, I knew how false myaccusations were; but it was then too late. "

"Too late, indeed. "

"How calmly you can say it!" with exquisite reproach. "Have fiveminutes blotted out five months? Did you know all the anguish I enduredon seeing you with--Shadwell--I think you might forgive. "

"I might. But I could not forget. Would I again consent to be at themercy of one who without a question pronounced me guilty? A thousandtimes no!"

"Say at once you are glad to be rid of me, " breaks he in bitterly, stung by her persistent coldness. 

"You are forgetting your original purpose, " she says, after a slightpause, declining to notice his last remark. "Was there not somethingyou wished to say to me?"

"Yes. " Rousing himself with an impatient sigh. "Molly, " blanching alittle, and trying to read her face, with all his heart in hiseyes, --"are you going to marry Shadwell?"

Molly colors richly (a rare thing with her), grows pale again, claspsand unclasps her slender fingers nervously, before she makes reply. Aprompting toward mischief grows within her, together with a sense ofanger that he should dare put such a question to her under existingcircumstances. 

"I cannot see by what right you put to me such a question--now, " shesays, at length, haughtily. "My affairs can no longer concern you. "With an offended gleam at him from under her long lashes. 

"But they do, " cries he, hotly, maddened by her blush, which he hasattributed jealously to a wrong cause. "How can I see you throwingyourself away upon a _roué_--a blackleg--without uttering a wordof warning?"

"'A _roué_--a blackleg'? Those are strong terms. What has CaptainShadwell done to deserve them? A blackleg! How?"

"Perhaps I go too far when I say that, " says Luttrell, wishing with allhis heart he knew something vile of Shadwell; "but he has gone as nearit as any man well can. You and he cannot have a thought in common. Will you sacrifice your entire life without considering well theconsequences?"

"He is a gentleman, at all events, " says Miss Massereene, slowly, cuttingly. "He never backbites his friends. He is courteous in hismanner; and--he knows how to keep--his temper. I do not believe any ofyour insinuations. "

"You defend him?" cries Luttrell, vehemently. "Does that mean that youalready love him? It is impossible! In a few short weeks to forget allthe vows we interchanged, all the good days we spent at Brooklyn, before we ever came to this accursed place! There at least you liked mewell enough, --you were willing to trust to me your life's happiness;here!--And now you almost tell me you love this man, who is utterlyunworthy of you. Speak. Say it is not so. "

"I shall tell you nothing. You have no right to ask me. What is thereto prevent my marrying whom I choose? Have you so soon forgotten thatlast night you--_jilted_ me?" She speaks bitterly, and turns fromhim with an unlovely laugh. 

"Molly, " cries the young man, in low tones, full of passion, catchingher hand, all the violent emotion he has been so painfully striving tosuppress since her entrance breaking loose now, "listen to me for onemoment. Do not kill me. My whole heart is bound up in you. You are tooyoung to be so cruel. Darling, I was mad when I deemed I could livewithout you. I have been mad ever since that fatal hour last night. Will you forgive me? _Will_ you?"

"Let my hand go, Mr. Luttrell, " says the girl, with a dry sob. Is itanger, or grief, or pride? "You had me once, and you would not keep me. You shall never again have the chance of throwing me over: be assuredof that. "

She draws her fingers from his burning clasp, and once more turns away, with her eyes bent carefully upon the carpet, lest he shall notice thetears that threaten to overflow them. She walks resolutely but slowlypast where he is standing, with folded arms, leaning against the wall, toward the door. 

Just as her fingers close on the handle she becomes aware of footstepson the outside coming leisurely toward her. 

Instinctively she shrinks backward, casts a hasty, horrified glance ather dressing-gown, her bare feet, her loosened hair; then, with amovement full of confidence, mingled with fear, she hastens back toLuttrell (who, too, has heard the disconcerting sound) and glances upat him appealingly. 

"There is somebody coming, " she breathes, in a terrified whisper. 

The footsteps come nearer, --nearer still; they reach the verythreshold, and then pause. Will their owner come in?

In the fear and agony and doubt of the moment, Molly lays her two whitehands upon her bosom and stands listening intently, with wide-opengleaming eyes, too frightened to move or make any attempt atconcealment; while Luttrell, although alarmed for her, cannot withdrawhis gaze from her lovely face. 

Somebody's hand steals along the door as though searching for thehandle. With renewed hope Luttrell instantly blows out both the candlesnear him, reducing the room to utter darkness, and draws Molly behindthe window-curtains. 

There is a breathless pause. The door opens slowly, --slowly. With agasp that can almost be heard, Molly puts out one hand in the darknessand lays it heavily upon Luttrell's arm. His fingers close over it. 

"Hush! not a word, " whispers he. 

"Oh, I am so frightened!" returns she. 

His heart has begun to beat madly. To feel her so close to him, although only through unwished-for accident, is dangerously sweet. By asupreme effort he keeps himself from taking her in his arms and givingher one last embrace; but honor, the hour, the situation, all alikeforbid. So he only tightens his clasp upon her hand and smothers a sighbetween his lips. 

Whoever the intruder may be, he, she, or it, is without light; notruth-compelling ray illumines the gloom; and presently, after a slighthesitation, the door is closed again, and the footsteps go lightly, cautiously away through the hall, leaving them once more alone in thelong, dark, ghostly drawing-room. 

Molly draws her hand hurriedly away, and moving quietly from Luttrell'sside, breathes a sigh, half relief, half embarrassment; while he, groping his way to the writing-table, finds a match, and, striking it, throws light upon the scene again. 

At the same moment Molly emerges from the curtains, with a heightenedcolor, and eyes, sweet but shamed, that positively refuse to meet his. 

"I suppose I can trust you--to--say nothing of all this?" she murmurs, unsteadily. 

"I suppose you can. " Haughtily. 

His heart is still throbbing passionately; almost, he fears, eachseparate beat can be heard in the oppressive stillness. 

"Good-night, " says Molly, slowly. 

"Good-night. "

Shyly, and still without meeting his gaze, she holds out her hand. Hetakes it softly, reverently, and, emboldened by the gentleness of herexpression, says impulsively:

"Answer me a last question, darling, --answer me--_Are_ you goingto marry Philip?"

And she answers, also impulsively:

"No. "

His face changes; hope once more shines within his blue eyes. Involuntarily he draws up his tall, slight figure to its full height, with a glad gesture that bespeaks returning confidence; then he glanceslongingly first at Molly's downcast face, then at the small hand thatlies trembling in his own. 

"May I?" he asks, and, receiving no denial, stoops and kisses it warmlyonce, twice, thrice, with fervent devotion. 

 * * * * *

"My dear, how long you have been!" says Cecil, when at length Mollyreturns to her room. "I thought you were never coming. Where have youbeen?"

"In the drawing-room; and oh, Cecil! _he_ was there. And he would keepme, asking me question after question. "

"I dare say, " says Cecil, looking her over. "That blue _négligée_ istremendously becoming. No doubt he has still a good many more questionshe would like to put to you. And you call yourself a nice, decorous, well-behaved----"

"Don't be silly. You have yet to hear the 'decorous' and thrilling partof my tale. Just as we were in the middle of a most animated discussion, what do you think happened? Somebody actually came to the door and triedto open it. In an instant Tedcastle blew out both our candles and drewme behind the curtain. "

"'"Curiouser and curiouser, " said Alice. ' I begin to think I'm inWonderland. Go on. The plot thickens; the impropriety deepens. It growsmore interesting at every word. "

"The 'somebody, ' whoever it was, opened the door, looked in, --fortunatelywithout a light, or we might have been discovered, --and----"

"You fainted, of course?" says Cecil, who is consumed with laughter. 

"No, indeed, " answers Molly; "I neither fainted nor screamed. "

"Tut! nonsense. I think nothing of you. Such a golden opportunitythrown away! In your place I should have been senseless in half aminute in Tedcastle's arms. "

"Forgive my stupidity. I only turned and caught hold of Teddy's arm, and held him as though I never meant to let him go. "

"Perhaps that was your secret wish, were the truth known. Molly, youare wiser than I am. What is a paltry fainting fit to the touch of asoft, warm hand? Go on. "

"Well, the invader, when he had gazed into space, withdrew again, leaving us to our own devices. Cecil, if we had been discovered! I inmy dressing-gown! Not all the waters of the Atlantic would have savedme from censure. I never was so terrified. Who _could_ it havebeen?"

 "'Oh! 'twas I, love; Wandering by, love, '"

declares Cecil, going off into a perfect peal of laughter. "Never, never have I been so entertained! And so I frightened you? Well, becomforted. I was terrified in my turn by your long absence; so much sothat, without a candle, I crept down-stairs, stole along the hall, andlooked into the drawing-room. Seeing no one, I retreated, and gained myown room again as fast as I could. Oh, how sorry I am I did not know!Consider your feelings had I stolen quietly toward your hiding-placestep by step! A splendid situation absolutely thrown away. "

"You and Mr. Potts ought to be brother and sister, you both revel so inthe bare idea of mischief, " says Molly, laughing too. 

And then Cecil, declaring it is all hours, turns her out of her room, and presently sleep falls and settles upon Herst and all its inmates. 

CHAPTER XXVII. 

"Death is here, and death is there;Death is busy everywhere;All around, within, beneath, Above is death, --and we are death. 

 * * *

Fresh spring, and summer, and winter hoar, Move my faint heart with grief, but with delight No more, O never more. "

 --Shelley. 

It is just two o'clock, and Sunday. They have all been to church. Theyhave struggled manfully through their prayers. They have chanted adepressing psalm or two to the most tuneless of ancient ditties. Theyhave even sat out an incomprehensible sermon with polite gravity andmany a weary yawn. 

The day is dull. So is the rector. So is the curate, --unutterably so. 

Service over, they file out again into the open air in solemn silence, though at heart glad as children who break school, and wend their wayback to Herst through the dismantled wood. 

The trees are nearly naked: a short, sad, consumptive wind is soughingthrough them. The grass--what remains of it--is brown, of an unpleasanthue. No flowers smile up at them as they pass quietly along. The sky isleaden. There is a general air of despondency over everything. It is aday laid aside for dismal reflection; a day on which hateful "mighthave beens" crop up, for "melancholy has marked it for its own. "

Yet just as they come to a turn in the park, two magpies (harbingers ofgood when coupled; messengers of evil when apart) fly past themdirectly across their path. 

"'Two for joy!'" cries Molly, gayly, glad of any interruption to herdepressing thoughts. "I saw them first. The luck is mine. "

"I think _I_ saw them first, " says Sir Penthony, with no objectbeyond a laudable desire to promote argument. 

"Now, how could you?" says Molly. "I am quite twenty yards ahead ofyou, and must have seen them come round this corner first. Now, whatshall I get, I wonder? Something worth getting, I do hope. "

"'Blessed are they that expect nothing, for they shall not bedisappointed, '" says Mr. Potts, moodily, who is as gloomy as the day. "I expect nothing. "

"You are jealous, " retorts Molly. "Sour grapes, "--making a small_moue_ at him. "But you have no claim upon this luck; it is all myown. Let nobody for a moment look upon it as his or hers. "

"You are welcome to it. I don't envy you, " says Cecil, little thinkinghow prophetic are her words. 

They continue their walk and their interrupted thoughts, --the latterleading them in all sorts of contrary directions, --some to love, someto hate, some to cold game-pie and dry champagne. 

As they enter the hall at Herst, one of the footmen steps forward andhands Molly an ugly yellow envelope. 

"Why, here is my luck, perhaps!" cries she, gayly. "How soon it hascome! Now, what can be in it? Let us all guess. "

She is surprised, and her cheeks have flushed a little. Her face isfull of laughter. Her sweet eyes wander from one to another, askingthem to join in her amusement. No thought, no faintest suspicion of theawful truth occurs to her, although only a thin piece of paper concealsit from her view. 

"A large fortune, perhaps, " says Sir Penthony; while the others closeround her, laughing, too. Only Luttrell stands apart, calmlyindifferent. 

"Or a proposal. That would just suit the rapid times in which we live. "

"I think I would at once accept a man who proposed to me by telegraph, "says Molly, with pretty affectation. "It would show such flatteringhaste, --such a desire for a kind reply. Remember, "--with her fingerunder the lap of the envelope, --"if the last surmise proves correct Ihave almost said yes. "

She breaks open the paper, and, smiling still, daintily unfolds theenclosure. 

What a few words!--two or three strokes of the pen. Yet what a changethey make in the beautiful, _debonnaire_ countenance! Black as inkthey stand out beneath her stricken eyes. Oh, cruel hand that pennedthem so abruptly!

 "Come home at once. Make no delay. Your brother is dead. "

Gray as death grows her face; her body turns to stone. So altered isshe in this brief space, that when she raises her head some shrink awayfrom her, and some cry out. 

"Oh, Molly! what is it?" asks Lady Stafford, panic-stricken, seizingher by the arm; while Luttrell, scarcely less white than the girlherself, comes unconsciously forward. 

Molly's arms fall to her sides; the telegram flutters to the floor. 

"My brother is dead, " she says, in a slow, unmeaning tone. 

"He is dead, " she says again, in a rather higher, shriller voice, receiving no response from the awed group that surrounds her. Theirsilence evidently puzzles her. Her large eyes wander helplessly overall their faces, until at length they fall on Luttrell's. Here theyrest, knowing she has found one that loves her. 

"Teddy--Teddy!" she cries, in an agonized tone of desolation; then, throwing up her arms wildly toward heaven, as though imploring pity, she falls forward senseless into his outstretched arms. 

 * * * * *

All through the night Cecil Stafford stays with her, soothing andcaressing her as best she can. But all her soothing and caressing fallson barren soil. 

Up and down the room throughout the weary hours walks Molly, praying, longing for the daylight; asking impatiently every now and then if it"will never come. " Surely on earth there is no greater cross to bearthan the passive one of waiting when distress and love call loudly forassistance. 

Her eyes are dry and tearless; her whole body burns like fire with adull and throbbing heat. She is composed but restless. 

"Will it soon be day?" she asks Cecil, almost every half hour, with afierce impatience, --her entire being full of but one idea, which is toreach her home as soon as possible. 

And again:

"If I had not fainted I might have been there now. Why did I miss thattrain? Why did you let me faint?"

In vain Cecil strives to comfort; no thought comes to her but a madcraving for the busy day. 

At last it comes, slowly, sweetly. The gray dawn deepens into rose, thesun flings abroad its young and chilly beams upon the earth. It is theopening of a glorious morn. How often have we noticed in our hours ofdirest grief how it is then Nature chooses to deck herself in all herfairest and best, as though to mock us with the very gayety andsplendor of her charms!

At half-past seven an early train is starting. Long before that timeshe is dressed, with her hat and jacket on, fearful lest by any delayshe should miss it; and when at length the carriage is brought round tothe door she runs swiftly down the stairs to meet it. 

In the hall below, awaiting her, stands Luttrell, ready to accompanyher. 

"Are you going, too?" Cecil asks, in a whisper, only half surprised. 

"Yes, of course. I will take her myself to Brooklyn. "

"I might have known you would, " Cecil says, kindly, and then she kissesMolly, who hardly returns the caress, and puts her into the carriage, and, pressing Luttrell's hand warmly, watches them until they aredriven out of her sight. 

During all the long drive not one word does Molly utter. Neither doesLuttrell, whose heart is bleeding for her. She takes no notice of him, expresses no surprise at his being with her. 

At the station he takes her ticket, through bribery obtains an emptycarriage, and, placing a rug round her, seats himself at the farthestend of the compartment from her, --so little does he seek to intrudeupon her grief. And yet she takes no heed of him. He might, indeed, beabsent, or the veriest stranger, so little does his presence seem toaffect her. Leaning rather forward, with her hands clasped upon herknees, she scarcely stirs or raises her head throughout the journey, except to go from carriage to train, from train back again to carriage. 

Once, during their last short drive from the station to Brooklyn, movedby compassion, he ventures to address her. 

"I wish you could cry, my poor darling, " he says, tenderly, taking herhand and fondling it between his own. 

"Tears could not help me, " she answers. And then, as though aroused byhis voice, she says, uneasily, "Why are you here?"

"Because I am his friend and--yours, " he returns, gently, makingallowance for her small show of irritation. 

"True, " she says, and no more. Five minutes afterward they reachBrooklyn. 

The door stands wide open. All the world could have entered unrebukedinto that silent hall. What need now for bars and bolts? When the GreatThief has entered in and stolen from them their best, what heart havethey to guard against lesser thefts?

Luttrell follows Molly into the house, his face no whit less white thanher own. A great pain is tugging at him, --a pain that is almost anagony. For what greater suffering is there than to watch withunavailing sympathy the anguish of those we love?

He touches her lightly on the arm to rouse her, for she has stoodstock-still in the very middle of the hall, --whether through awfulfear, or grief, or sudden bitter memory, her heart knoweth. 

"Molly, " says her lover, "let me go with you. "

"You still here?" she says, awaking from her thoughts, with a shiver. "I thought you gone. Why do you stay? I only ask to be alone. "

"I shall go in a few minutes, " he pleads, "when I have seen you safe withMrs. Massereene. I am afraid for you. Suppose you should--suppose--youdo not even know--_the_ room, " he winds up, desperately. "Let meguard you against such an awful surprise as that. "

"I do, " she answers, pointing, with a shudder, to one room farther onthat branches off the hall. "It--is there. Leave me; I shall be betterby myself. "

"I shall see you to-morrow?" he says, diffidently. 

"No; I shall see no one to-morrow. "

"Nevertheless, I shall call to know how you are, " he says, persistently, and kissing one of her limp little hands, departs. 

Outside on the gravel he meets the old man who for years has had careof the garden and general out-door work at Brooklyn. 

"It is a terrible thing, sir, " this ancient individual says, touchinghis hat to Luttrell, who had been rather a favorite with him during hisstay last summer. He speaks without being addressed, feeling as thoughthe sad catastrophe that has occurred has leveled some of the etiquetteexisting between master and man. 

"Terrible indeed. " And then, in a low tone, "How did it happen?"

"'Twas just this, " says the old man, who is faithful, and hasunderstood for many years most of John Massereene's affairs, havinglived with him from boy to man; "'twas money that did it. He hadinvested all he had, as it might be, and he lost it, and the shock wentto his heart and killed him. Poor soul! poor soul!"

"Disease of the heart. Who would have suspected it? And he has lostall. Surely something remains?"

"Only a few hundreds, sir, as I hear, --nothing to signify, --for thepoor mistress and the wee bits. It is a fearful thing, sir, and bad tothink of. And there's Miss Molly, too. I never could abide themspickilations, as they're called. "

"Poor John Massereene!" says Luttrell, taking off his hat. "He meant noharm to any one, --least of all to those who were nearest to his kindlyheart. "

"Ay, ay, man and boy I knew him. He was always kind and true, was themaster, --with no two ways about him. When the letter came as told himall was gone, and that only beggary was before him, he said nothing, only went away to his study dazed like, an' read it, an' read it, andthen fell down heart-broken upon the floor. Dead he was--stonedead--afore any of us came to him. The poor missis it was as found himfirst. "

"It is too horrible, " says Luttrell, shuddering. He nods his head tothe old man and walks away from him down to the village inn, depressedand saddened. 

The gardener's news has been worse than even he anticipated. To bebereft of their dearest is bad enough, but to be thrown penniless onthe mercies of the cold and cruel--nay, rather thoughtless--world issurely an aggravation of their misery. Death at all times is acalamity; but when it leaves the mourners without actual means ofsupport, how much sadder a thing it is! To know one's comforts shallremain unimpaired after the loss of one's beloved is--in spite of allindignant denial--a solace to the most mournful. 

CHAPTER XXVIII. 

"As the earth when leaves are dead, As the night when sleep is sped, As the heart when joy is fled, I am left lone--alone. "

 --Shelley. 

Meantime, Molly, having listened vaguely and without interest, yet witha curious intentness, to his parting footfalls, as the last one diesaway draws herself up and, with a sigh or two, moves instinctivelytoward the door she had pointed out to Luttrell. 

No one has told her, no hint has reached her ears. It is not his usualbedroom, yet she knows that within that door lies all that remains toher of the brother so fondly loved. 

With slow and lagging steps, with bent head and averted eyes, shecreeps tardily near, resting with her hand upon the lock to summoncourage to meet what must be before her. She feels faint, --sick with abodily sickness, --for never yet has she come face to face with Death. 

At last, bringing her teeth firmly together, and closing her eyes, byan immense effort she compels herself to turn the handle of the door, and enters. 

Letitia is seated upon the floor beside the bed, her head lowered, herhands folded tightly in her lap. There is no appearance of mourning sofar as garments are concerned. Of course, considering the shortness ofthe time, it would be impossible: yet it seems odd, out of keeping, that she should still be wearing that soft blue serge, which isassociated with so many happy hours. 

She is not weeping: there are no traces, however faint, of tears. Hercheeks look a little thinner, more haggard, and she has lost thedelicate girlish color that was her chief charm; but her eyes, thoughblack circles surround them, --so black as to suggest the appliance ofart, --have an unnatural brilliancy that utterly precludes thepossibility of crying. 

Some one has pulled a piece of the blind to one side, and a fitfulgleam of sunlight, that dances in a heartless manner, flickers in andout of the room, nay, even strays in its ghastly mirth across the bedwhere the poor body lies. 

As Molly walks, or rather drags her limbs after her, into the chamber(so deadly is the terror that has seized upon her), Letitia slowlyraises her eyes. 

She evinces no surprise at her sister's home-coming. 

"There is all that is left you, " she says, in a hard, slow voice, thatmakes Molly shiver, turning her head in the direction of the bed, andopening and shutting her hands with a peculiarly expressive, emptygesture. Afterward she goes back to her original position, her facebent downward, her body swaying gently to and fro. 

Reluctantly, with trembling steps and hidden eyes, Molly forces herselfto approach the dreaded spot. For the first time she is about to lookon our undying foe, --to make acquaintance with the last great change ofall. 

A cold hand has closed upon her heart; she is consumed by an awesome, unconquerable shrinking. She feels a difficulty in breathing; almostshe thinks her senses are about to desert her. 

As she reaches the side of the bed opposite to where Letitia crouches, she compels herself to look, and for the moment sustains a passionatefeeling of relief, as the white sheet that covers all alone meets hergaze. 

And yet not all. A second later, and a dread more awful than the firstoverpowers her, for there, beneath the fair, pure linen shroud, thefeatures are clearly marked, the form can be traced; she can assureherself of the shape of the head, --the nose, --the hands folded soquietly, so obediently, in their last eternal sleep upon the coldbreast. But no faintest breathing stirs them. He is dead!

Her eyes grow to this fearful thing. To steady herself she lays herhand upon the back of a chair. Not for all the world contains would shelean upon that bed, lest by any chance she should disturb the quietsleeper. The other hand she puts out in trembling silence to raise acorner of the sheet. 

"I _cannot_, " she groans aloud, withdrawing her fingersshudderingly. But no one heeds. Three times she essays to throw backthe covering, to gaze upon her dead, and fails; and then at last thedeed is accomplished, and Death in all its silent majesty lies smilingbefore her. 

Is it John? Yes, it is, of course. And yet--_is it_? Oh, thechangeless sweetness of the smile, --the terrible shading, --the movelessserenity!

Spell-bound, heart-broken, she gazes at him for a minute, and thenhastily, though with the tenderest reverence, she hides away his face. A heavy, bursting sigh escapes her; she raises her head, and becomesconscious that Letitia is upon her knees and is staring at her fixedlyacross the bed. 

There is about her an expression that is almost wild in its surpriseand horror. 

"_You_ do not cry either, " says she, in a clear, intense whisper. "I thought I was the only thing on earth so unnatural. I have not wept. I have not lost my senses. I can still think. I have lost my all, --myhusband, --John!--and yet I have not shed one single tear. And you, Molly, --he loved you so dearly, and I fancied you loved him too, --andstill you are as cold, as poor a creature as myself. "

There is no reply. Molly is regarding her speechlessly. In truth, sheis dumb from sheer misery and the remembrance of what she has justseen. Are Letitia's words true? _Is_ she heartless?

There is a long silence, --how long neither of them ever knows, --andthen something happens that achieves what all the despair and sorrowhave failed in doing. In the house, through it, awakening all thesilence, rings a peal of childish laughter. It echoes; it tremblesalong the corridor outside; it seems to shake the very walls of thedeath-chamber. 

Both the women start violently. Molly, raising her hands to her head, falls back against the wall nearest to her, unutterable horror in herface. Letitia, with a quick, sharp cry, springs to her feet, and then, running to Molly, flings her arms around her. 

"Molly, Molly, " she exclaims, wildly, "am I going mad? That cannot--itcannot be _his_ child. "

Then they cling to each other in silent agony, until at length somecruel band around their hearts gives way, and the sorrowful, healing, blessed tears spring forth. 

 * * * * *

The last sad scene is over; the curtain has fallen. The final separationhas taken place. Their dead has been buried out of their sight. 

The room in which he lay has been thrown open, the blinds raised, thewindows lifted. Through them the sweet, fresh wind comes rushing in. The heartless sun--now grown cold and wintry--has sent some of its raysto peer curiously where so lately the body lay. 

The children are growing more demonstrative. More frequently, and withless fear of reproof, the sound of their mirth is heard throughout thesilent house. Only this very morning the boy Lovat--the eldest born, his father's idol--went whistling through the hall. No doubt it was ina moment of forgetfulness he did it; no doubt the poor lad checkedhimself an instant later, with a bitter pang of self-reproach; but hismother heard him, and the sound smote her to the heart. 

Mr. Buscarlet (who is a kind little man, in spite of his "ways and hismanners" and a few eccentricities of speech), at a word from Mollycomes to Brooklyn, and, having carefully examined letters, papers, andaffairs generally, turns their fears into unhappy certainty. Onethousand pounds is all that remains to them on which to live or starve. 

The announcement of their ruin is hardly news to Letitia. She has beenprepared for it. The letter found crushed in her dead husband's hand, although suppressing half the truth, did not deceive her. Even at thatawful moment she quite realized her position. Not so Molly. With allthe unreasoning trust of youth she hoped against hope until it was nolonger possible to do so, trying to believe that something forgottenwould come to light, some unremembered sum, to relieve them fromabsolute want. But Mr. Buscarlet's search has proved ineffective. 

Now, however, when hope is actually at an end, all her naturalself-reliance and bravery return to her; and in the very mouth ofdespair she makes a way for herself and for those whom she loves toescape. 

After two nights' wakeful hesitation, shrinking, doubt, and fear, sheforms a resolution, from which she never afterward turns aside untilcompelled to do so by unrestrainable circumstances. 

"It is a very distressing case, " says Mr. Buscarlet, blowing his noseoppressively, --the more so that he feels for her very sincerely;"distressing, indeed. I don't know one half so afflicting. I reallydo--not--see what is to be done. "

"Do not think me presumptuous if I say I do, " says Molly. "I have aplan already formed, and, if it succeeds, I shall at least be able toearn bread for us all. "

"My dear young lady, how? You with--ahem!--you must excuse me if Isay--your youth and beauty, how do you propose to earn your bread?"

"It is my secret as yet, "--with a faint wan smile. "Let me keep it alittle longer. Not even Mrs. Massereene knows of it. Indeed, it is toosoon to proclaim my design. People might scoff it; though for all thatI shall work it out. And something tells me I shall succeed. "

"Yes, yes, we all think we shall succeed when young, " says the oldlawyer, sadly, moved to keenest compassion at sight of the beautiful, earnest face before him. "It is later on, when we are faint and wearywith the buffetings of fortune, the sad awakening comes. "

"I shall not be disheartened by rebuffs; I shall not fail, " says Molly, intently. "However cold and ungenerous the world may prove, I shallconquer it at last. Victory shall stay with me. "

"Well, well, I would not discourage any one. There are none so worthyof praise as those who seek to work out their own independence, whetherthey live or die in the struggle. But work--of the sort you mean--ishard for one so young. You have a plan. Well, so have I. But have younever thought of your grandfather? He is very kindly disposed towardyou; and if he----"

"I have no time for 'buts' and 'ifs, '" she interrupts him, gently. "Mygrandfather may be kindly disposed toward _me_, but not toward_mine_, --and that counts for much more. No, I must fall back uponmyself alone. I have quite made up my mind, " says Molly, throwing upher small proud head, with a brave smile, "and the knowledge makes memore courageous. I feel so strong to do, so determined to vanquish allobstacles, that I know I shall neither break down nor fail. "

"I trust not, my dear; I trust not. You have my best wishes, at least. "

"Thank you, " says Molly, pressing his kind old hand. 

CHAPTER XXIX. 

"I fain would follow love, if that could be. "

 --Tennyson. 

Letitia in her widowed garments looks particularly handsome. All the"trappings and the signs" of woe suit well her tall, full figure, herfair and placid face. 

Molly looks taller, slenderer than usual in her mourning robes. She isone of those who grow slight quickly under affliction. Her roundedcheeks have fallen in and show sad hollows; her eyes are larger, darker, and show beneath them great purple lines born of many tears. 

She has not seen Luttrell since her return home, --although Letitiahas, --and rarely asks for him. Her absorbing grief appears to haveswallowed up all other emotions. She has not once left the house. Sheworks little, she does not read at all; she is fast falling into asettled melancholy. 

"Molly, " says Letitia, "Tedcastle is in the drawing-room. Heparticularly asks to see you. Do not refuse him again. Even though yourengagement, as you say, is at an end, still remember, dearest, howkind, how more than thoughtful, he has been in many ways since--oflate----"

Her voice breaks. 

"Yes, yes, I will see him, " Molly says, wearily, and, rising, wends herway slowly, reluctantly, to the room which contains her lover. 

At sight of him some chords that have lain hushed and forgotten in herheart for many days come to life again. Her pulses throb, albeitlanguidly, her color deepens; a something that is almost gladnessawakes within her. Alas! how human are we all, how short-lived ourkeenest regrets! With the living love so near her she for the firsttime (though only for a moment) forgets the dead one. 

In her trailing, sombre dress, with her sorrowful white cheeks, andquivering lips, she goes up to him and places her hand in his; whilehe, touched with a mighty compassion, stares at her, marking with alover's careful eye all the many alterations in her face. So much havocin so short a time!

"How changed you are! How you must have suffered!" he says, tenderly. 

"I have, " she answers; and then, grown nervous, because of her troubleand the fluttering of her heart, and that tears of late are so ready toher, she covers her face with her hands, and, with the action of atired and saddened child, turning, hides it still more effectually uponhis breast. 

"It is all very miserable, " he says, after a pause, occupied in tryingto soothe. 

"Ah! is it not? What trouble can be compared with it? To find him dead, without a word, a parting sign!" She sighs heavily. "The bittereststing of all lies in the fact that but for my own selfishness I mighthave seen him again. Had I returned home as I promised at the end ofthe month I should have met my brother living; but instead I lingeredon, enjoying myself, "--with a shudder, --"while he was slowly breakinghis heart over his growing difficulties. It must all have happenedduring this last month. He had no care on his mind when I left him; youknow that. You remember how light-hearted he was, how kindly, how goodto all. "

"He was indeed, poor--poor fellow!"

"And some have dared to blame him, " she says, in a pained whisper. "Youdo not?"

"No--_no_. "

"I have been calculating, " she goes on, in a distressed tone, "and thevery night I was dancing so frivolously at that horrible ball he musthave been lying awake here waiting with a sick heart for the news thatwas to--kill him. I shall never go to a ball again; I shall never danceagain, " says Molly, with a passionate sob, scorning, as youth will, thepower of time to cure. 

"Darling, why should you blame yourself? Such thoughts are morbid, "says Luttrell, fondly caressing the bright hair that still lies looselyagainst his arm. "Which of us can see into the future? And, if wecould, do you think it would add to our happiness? Shake off suchdepressing ideas. They will injure not only your mind, but your body. "

"I do not think I should feel it all quite so much, " says Molly, in alow, miserable, expressionless voice, "if I could only see him now andthen. No, not in the flesh--I do not mean that, --but if I could onlybring his face before my mind I might be content. For hours together Isit, with my hands clasped before my eyes, trying to conjure him up, and I cannot. Almost every casual acquaintance I possess, all thepeople whose living or dying matters to me not at all, rise at mycommand; but he never. Is it not curious?"

"Perhaps it is because your mind dwells too much upon him. But tell meof your affairs, " says Luttrell, abruptly but kindly, leading her to asofa and seating himself beside her, with a view of drawing her fromher unhappy thoughts. "Are they as bad as Mrs. Massereene says?"

"Quite as bad. "

"Then what do they mean to do?" In a tone of the deepest commiseration. 

"'They'? We, you mean. What others, I suppose, have learned to dobefore us--work for our daily bread. "

An incredulous look comes into his eyes, but he wisely subdues it. 

"And what do you propose doing?" he asks, calmly, meaning in his ownmind to humor her. 

"You are like Mr. Buscarlet, --he would know everything, " says Molly, with a smile; "but this is a question you must not ask me, --just yet. Ihave a hope, --perhaps I had better say an idea; and until it isconfirmed or rejected I shall tell no one of it. No, not even you. "

"Well, never mind. Tell me instead when you intend leaving Brooklyn. "

"In a fortnight we must leave it. Is it not a little while?--only twoshort weeks in which to say good-bye forever to my home, --(how muchthat word comprises!)--to the place where all my life has beenspent, --where every stone, and tree, and path is endeared to me by athousand memories. "

"And after?"

"We go to London. There I hope to work out my idea. "

"You have forgotten to tell me, " says Luttrell, slowly, "my part in allthese arrangements. "

"Yours? Ah, Teddy, you put an end to our engagement in good time. Nowit must have been broken, whether we liked it or not. "

"Meaning that I must not throw in my lot with yours? Do you know whatfolly you are talking?" says Luttrell, almost roughly. "Ours, I amassured, is an engagement that _cannot_ be broken. Not all thecruel words that could be spoken--that have been spoken"--in a low toneof reproach--"have power to separate us. You are mine, Molly, as I amyours, forever. I will never give you up. And now--now--in the hour ofyour trouble----" Breaking off, he gets up from his seat and commencesto pace the room excitedly. 

She has risen too, and is standing with her eyes fixed anxiously uponhim. At length, "Let us put an end now to all misconceptions anddoubts, " he says, stopping before her. "Your manner that last eveningat Herst, your greeting of to-day, have led me to hope again. I wouldknow without further delay whether I am wrong in thinking you care morefor me than for any other man. Am I? Speak, Molly, tell menow--here--if you love me. "

"I do--I do!" cries she, bursting into tears again, and flingingherself in an abandonment of grief into his longing arms. "And that iswhat makes my task so hard. That is why I have not allowed myself tosee you all these past days. It was not coldness, Teddy, it was love. Idared not see you, because all must be at an end between us. "

"Do you think, with you in my arms like this, with the assurance ofyour love fresh upon your lips, and now"--stooping--"upon mine, I cando anything but laugh at such treason as that?"

"Nay, but you must listen, Teddy, and believe that I am earnest in allthat I say. For the future I shall neither see you nor hear from you: Imust even try to forget you, if I would succeed in what lies before me. From henceforth I shall do my best to regard you as a stranger, to keepyou at arm's length. "

"Never, " says Luttrell, emphatically, tightening his arms around her, as though to enforce the meaning of the word and show the absurdity ofher last remark. "You talk as though you meant to convince me, butunhappily you don't. The more you say the more determined I am to marryyou at once, and put a stop to all such nonsense as your trying towork. "

"And are you going to marry Letitia also, and Lovat, and the two littlegirls, and the baby?" asks she, quietly. "Who is talking nonsense now?You seem to forget that they and I are one. "

"Something must be done, " says Luttrell, wretchedly. 

"I quite agree with you; but who is going to do it?"

"I will"--decidedly; "I shall cut the army. My father has been a memberand a staunch Conservative for years, and surely he must have someinterest. I have heard of posts under government where one has littleor nothing to do, and gets a capital salary for doing it; why shouldnot I drop into one of them? Then we might all live together, andperhaps you might be happy. "

"But in the meantime"--sadly--"we poor folks must live. "

"That is the worst of it, " says Luttrell, with questionable taste, biting his moustache. "Well"--angrily--"I see you are as bent on havingyour own way as ever. Tell me about this mighty plan of yours. "

"I cannot, indeed, and you must not ask me. If I did tell you, probablyyou would scoff at it, or perhaps be angry, and I will not let myselfbe discouraged. It is quite useless your pressing me about this matter. I will not tell. "

"And do you mean to tell me you purpose going alone into the greatLondon world to seek your fortune, without a protector? You must bemad. "

"I have Letitia. "

"Letitia"--indignantly--"is a very handsome woman, not more than tenyears older than yourself. _She_ a protector!"

"I can't help that. "

"Yes, you can; but your--obstinacy--won't allow you. Do you, then, intend to let no one know of your affairs?"

"I shall confide in Cecil Stafford, because I can't avoid it. But Iknow she will keep my secret until I give her leave to speak. "

"It comes to this, then, that you consider every one before me. It isnothing to you whether I eat my heart out in ignorance of whether youare alive or dead. "

"Cecil"--hastily--"may tell you so much. "

"Thank you; this is a wonderful concession. "

"Why should I concede at all, when, as I have said, you are no longerbound to me?"

"But I am, --more strongly so than ever; and I insist, I desire you, Molly, to let me know what it is you intend doing. "

He looks sterner than one would have conceived possible for him; MissMassereene evidently thinks him inhumanly so. 

"Don't speak to me like that, " she says, with quivering lips. "Youshould not. I have made a vow not to disclose my secret to you of allpeople, and would you have me break it?"

"But why?" impatiently. 

"Because--have I not told you already?--because"--with a little drysob--"I love you so dearly that to encourage thoughts of you wouldunfit me for my work. And it is partly for your own sake I do it, forsomething tells me we shall never marry each other; and why should youspend your life dreaming of a shadow?"

"It is the cruelest resolution a woman ever formed, " replies he, ignoring as beneath notice the latter part of her speech, and, puttingaway her hands, takes once more to his irritable promenade up and downthe room. 

Molly is crying, silently, exhaustedly. "My burden is too heavy forme, " she murmurs, faintly. 

"Then why not let me help you to bear it?"

"If it will comfort you, Teddy"--brokenly--"I will give in so far as topromise to write to you in six months. I ask you to wait till then. Isit too long? If so, remember you are free--believe me it will be betterso--and I perhaps shall be happier in the thought----" And hereincontinently she breaks down. 

"Don't, " says Luttrell, hurriedly, whose heart grows faint within himat the sight of her distress. "Molly, I give in. I am satisfied withyour last promise. I shall wait forever, if that will please you. Whoam I, that I should add one tear to the many you have already shed?Forgive me, my own love. "

"Yes, but do not say anything more to me to-day; I am tired, " saysMolly, submitting to his caresses, though still a little sore at heart. 

"Only one thing more, " says this insatiable young man, who evidentlyholds in high esteem the maxim to "strike while the iron is hot. " "Youagree to a renewal of our engagement?"

"I suppose so. Although I know it is an act of selfishness on my part. Nothing can possibly come of it. "

"And if it is selfishness in you, what is it in me?" asks he, humbly. "You know as well as I do I am no match for you, who, with your face, your voice" (Molly winces perceptibly), "your manner, might marry whomyou choose. Yet I do ask you to wait"--eagerly--"until something comesto our aid, to be true to me, no matter what happens, until I can claimyou. "

"I will wait; I _will_ be true to you, " she answers, with dewyeyes uplifted to his, and a serene, earnest face. As she gives herpromise a little sigh escapes her, more full of content, I think, thanany regret. 

After coming to this conclusion they talk more rationally for an houror so (a lover's hour, dear reader, is not as other hours; it neverdrags; it is not full of yawns; it does not make us curse the day wewere born); and then Luttrell, by some unlucky chance, discovers hemust tear himself away. 

As Molly rises to bid him good-bye, she catches her breath, and pressesher hand to her side. 

"I have such a pain here, " she says. 

"You don't go out, " says her lover, severely; "you want air. I shallspeak to Letitia if you won't take more care of yourself. "

"I have not been out of the house for so long, I quite dread going. "

"Then go to-morrow. If you will walk to the wood nearest you, --whereyou will see no one, --I will meet you there. "

"Very well, " says Molly, obediently; and when they have said good-byefor the fifth time, he really takes his departure. 

How to reveal her weighty secret to Letitia troubles Molly much, --anintimate acquaintance with her sister-in-law's character causing her toknow its disclosure will be received not only with discouragement, butwith actual disapproval. And yet--disclose it she must. 

But how to break it happily. Having thought of many ways and means, andrejected them all, she decides, with a sigh, that plain speaking willbe best. 

"Letitia, " she says, this very evening, --Luttrell having been gone somehours, --"do you know Signor Marigny's address?"

She is leaning her elbows on the writing-table, and has let her roundedchin sink into her palms' embrace; while her eyes fix themselvessteadily upon the pen, the paper, anything but Letitia. 

"Signor Marigny! Your old singing-master? No. Why do you ask, dear?"

"Because I want to write to him. "

"Do you? And what----? No, I have not got his address; I don't believeI ever had it. How shall you manage?"

"I dare say I have it somewhere myself; don't trouble, " says Molly, knowing guiltily it lies just beneath her hand within the table-drawer. She is glad of a respite, Letitia having forborne to press thequestion. 

Not for long, however; human nature can stand a good many things, butcuriosity conquers most. 

"Why are you writing to Signor Marigny?" Letitia asks, in a gentle toneof indifference, after a full five minutes' pause, during which she hasbeen devoured with a desire to know. 

"Because I believe he will help me, " says Molly, slowly. "I have beenthinking, Letty, --thinking very seriously, --and I have decided uponmaking my fortune--_our_ fortune--out of my voice. "

"Molly!"

"Well, dear, and why not? Do not dishearten me, Letty; you know we mustlive, and what other plan can you suggest?"

"In London I thought perhaps we might get something todo, "--mournfully, --"and there no one would hear of us. I have rather afancy for millinery, and one of those large establishments might takeme, while you could go as a daily governess, " regarding her sisterdoubtfully. 

"Governess! oh, no! The insipidity, the drudgery of it, would kill me. I should lose sight of the fact that I was my own mistress in suchgenteel slavery. Besides, as a concert singer (and I _can_ sing), I should earn as much in one night, probably, as I should otherwise ina year. "

"Oh, Molly!"--clasping her hands--"I cannot bear to think of it. It ishorrible; the publicity, --the dreadful ordeal. And you of allothers, --my pretty Molly----"

"It is well I am pretty, " says Molly, with a supreme effort atcalmness; "they say a pretty woman with a voice takes better. "

"Every word you say only convinces me more and more how cruel a task itwould be. And Molly, darling, I know he would not wish it. "

"I think he would wish me to do my duty, " says Molly, gazing with greattearless eyes through the window into space, while her slender fingersmeet and twine together nervously. "Letitia, why cannot you bethankful, as I am, that I have a voice, --a sure and certainprovision?--because I know I can sing as very few can. (I say thisgratefully, and without any vanity. ) Why, without it we might starve. "

"And what will Tedcastle say? For, in spite of all your arguments, Molly, I am sure he is devoted to you still. "

"That must not matter. Our engagement, to all intents and purposes, isat an end, because"--sighing--"we shall never marry. He is too poor, and I am too poor, and, besides"--telling her lie bravely, --"I do notwish to marry him. "

"I find it hard to believe you, " says Letitia, examining the girl'sface critically. "Do you mean to tell me you have ceased to care forhim?"

"How do I know?"--pettishly, her very restlessness betraying the truth. "At times I am not sure myself. At all events, everything is at an endbetween us, which is the principal thing, as he cannot now interferewith my decision. "

"Do not think you can deceive me, " says Letitia, in a trembling tone. "Ah, how cruel it all is! Death when it visits most homes, leaves atleast hope behind, but here there is none. Other women lose fortune, orperhaps position, or it may be love; but I have lost all; whileyou--with all your young life before you--would sacrifice yourself forus. I am not wholly selfish, Molly; I refuse to accept your offer. Irefuse to take your happiness at your hands. "

"My happiness is yours, " returns Molly, tenderly; "refuse to let mehelp you, and the little shred of comfort that still remains to mevanishes with the rest. Letitia, you are my home now: do not rejectme. "

Two sad little tears run down her pale cheeks unchecked. Letitia, unable to bear the sight, turns away; and presently two kindred dropssteal down her face, and fall with a faint splashing sound upon herheavy crape. 

"It would be such a hateful life for you, " she says, with a sigh. 

"I don't think so. I like singing; and the knowledge that by it I wasactually helping you--who all my life have been my true and lovingsister--would make my task sweet. What shall I say to Signor Marigny, Letty?" with a sudden air of business. "He has a great deal to do withconcerts and that; and I know he will assist me in every way. "

"Tell him you are about to sacrifice your love, your happiness, everything that makes life good, for your family, " says Letitia, whohas begun to cry bitterly, "and ask him what will compensate you forit; ask him if gold, or fame, or praise, will fill the void thatalready you have begun to feel. "

"Nonsense, my dear! he would justly consider me a lunatic, were I towrite to him in such a strain. I shall simply tell him that I wish tomake use of the talent that has been given me, and ask him for hisadvice how best to proceed. Don't you think something like that wouldanswer? Come now, Letty, " cheerfully and coaxingly, kneeling downbefore Mrs. Massereene, "say you are pleased with my plan, and all willbe well. "

"What would become of me without you?" says Letitia, irrelevantly, kissing her; and Molly, taking this for consent, enters into a long andanimated discussion of the subject of her intended _début_ as apublic singer. 

CHAPTER XXX. 

"Who ne'er have loved, and loved in vain, Can neither feel nor pity pain. "

 --Byron. 

True to her promise, the next day Molly wraps herself up warmly andtakes her way toward the wood that adjoins but does not belong toBrooklyn. 

At first, from overmuch inactivity and spiritless brooding, a sort oflanguor--a trembling of the limbs--oppresses her; but presently, as thecold, crisp air creeps into her young blood, she quickens her steps, and is soon walking with a brisk and healthy motion toward the desiredspot. 

Often her eyes fill with unbidden tears, as many a well-rememberedplace is passed, and she thinks of a kindly word or a gay jest utteredhere by lips now cold and mute. 

There is a sadness in the wood itself that harmonizes with herthoughts. The bare trees, the fast-decaying leaves beneath her feet, all speak of death and change. Swinburne's exquisite lines riseinvoluntarily to her mind:

 "Lo, the summer is dead, the sun is faded, Even like as a leaf the year is withered. All the fruit of the day from all her branches Gathered, neither is any left to gather. All the flowers are dead, the tender blossoms, All are taken away; the season wasted Like an ember among the fallen ashes. "

Seating herself upon a little grassy mound, with her head thrown backagainst the trunk of a gnarled but kindly beech, she waits her lover'scoming. She is very early, almost by her own calculation half an hourmust elapse before he can join her. Satisfied that she cannot see himuntil then, she is rapidly falling into a gentle doze, when footstepsbehind her cause her to start into a sitting posture. 

"So soon, " she says, and, rising, finds herself face to facewith--Philip Shadwell. 

"You see, I have followed you, " he says, slowly. 

He does not offer to shake hands with her; he gives her no greeting; heonly stands before her, suffering his eyes to drink in hungrily hersaddened but always perfect beauty. 

"So I see, " she answers, quite slowly. 

"You have been in trouble. You have grown thin, " he says, presently, inthe same tone. 

"Yes. "

She is puzzled, dismayed, at his presence here, feeling anunaccountable repugnance to his society, and a longing for hisdeparture, as she notes his unwonted agitation, --the unknown butevident purpose in his eyes. 

"When last we met, " says Philip, with a visible effort at calmness, andwith his great dark, moody eyes bent upon the ground, "you told meyou--hated me. "

"Did I? The last time? How long ago it seems!--years--centuries. Ah!"--clasping her hands in a very ecstasy of regret--"how happy I wasthen! and yet--I thought myself miserable! That day I spoke to you"(gazing at him as one gazes at something outside and beyond thequestion altogether), "I absolutely believed I knew what unhappinessmeant; and now----"

"Yes. You said you hated me, " says the young man, still bent upon hisown wrongs to the exclusion of all others. He is sorry for her, verysorry; but what is her honest grief for her beloved dead compared withthe desperate craving for the unattainable that is consuming himdaily, --hourly?

"I hardly remember, " Molly says, running her slender fingers across herbrow. "Well, "--with a sigh, --"I have fallen into such low estate sincethen that I think I have no power within me now to hate any one. "

"You did not mean it, perhaps?" still painfully calm, although he knowsthe moments of grace are slipping surely, swiftly, trying vainly toencourage hope. "You said it, perhaps, in an instant of passion? Oneoften does. One exaggerates a small offense. Is it not so?"

"Yes, "--with her thoughts as far from him as the earth is from theheavens, --"it may be so. "

"You think so? You did _not_ mean it?" with a sudden gleam ofmisplaced confidence. "Oh! if you only knew how I have suffered sincethat fatal word passed your lips!--but you did not mean it. Intime--who knows?--you may even bring yourself to care for me a little. Molly, "--seizing her hand, --"speak--speak, and say it will be so. "

"No, no, " exclaims she, at last, coming back to the present, andunderstanding him. "Never. Why do you so deceive yourself? Do not thinkit; do not try to believe it. And"--with a quick shudder--"to speak tome so now, --at this time----"

"Perhaps, had I known you first, you might have loved me, " persists he. 

"I am sure not, " replies she, gently but decidedly. "Your dark looks, your vehemence, --all--frighten me. "

"Once assured of your love, I could change all that, " he perseveres, unwisely, in a low tone, his passionate, gloomy eyes still fixed uponthe ground, his foot uneasily stirring the chilled blades of grassbeneath him. "In such a case, what is it I could not do? Molly, willyou not take pity on me? Will you not give me a chance?"

"I cannot. Why will you persist? I tell you, if we two were to liveforever, you are the very last man I should ever love. It is thekindest thing I can do for you to speak thus plainly. "

"Kind!"--bitterly; "_can_ you be kind? With your fair, soft face, and your angel eyes, you are the most bitterly cruel woman I ever metin my life. I curse the day I first saw you! You have ruined myhappiness. "

"Philip, do not speak like that. You cannot mean it. In a few shortmonths you will forget you have ever uttered such words, --or felt them. See, now, "--laying the tips of her fingers kindly upon his arm, --"putaway from you this miserable fancy, and I will be your friend--if youwill. "

"Friend!" retorts he, roughly. "Who that had seen and loved you couldcoldly look upon you as a friend? Every thought of my heart, everyaction of my life, has you mixed up in it. Your face is burned into mybrain. I live but in recollection of you, and you speak to me offriendship! I tell you, " says Philip, almost reducing himself again tocalmness through intensity of emotion, "I am fighting for my veryexistence. I must and will have you. "

"Why will you talk so wildly?"--turning a little pale, and retreating astep: "you know what you propose, to be impossible. "

"There is nothing impossible, if you will only try to look upon me morekindly. "

"Am I to tell you again, " she says, still gently, but with some naturalindignation, "that if I knew you for ever and ever, I could not feelfor you even the faintest spark of affection of the kind you mean! Iwould not marry you for all the bribes you could offer. It is not yourfault that it is so, nor is it mine. You say 'try' to love you. Canlove be forced? Did ever any one grow to love another through trying?You know better. The more one would have to try, the less likely wouldone be to succeed. Love is free, and yet a very tyrant. Oh, Philip, forget such vain thoughts. Do not waste your life hoping for what cannever be. "

"It shall be, " cries he, vehemently, suddenly, with an unexpectedmovement catching her in his arms. "Molly, if I cannot buy your love, let me at least buy yourself. Remember how you are now situated. You donot yet know the horrors of poverty--real poverty; and I--at least Ihave prospects. Herst will be mine beyond all doubt (who can bepreferred before me?), and that old man cannot live forever. Think ofyour sister and all her children; I swear I will provide for all; notone but shall be to me as my own, for your sake. You shall do what youlike with me. Body and soul I am yours for good or evil. Let it be forgood. "

"How dare you speak to me like this?" says Molly, who has tried vainlyto escape from his detested embrace during the short time it has takenhim to pour forth his last words. "Let me go instantly. Do you hear me, Philip?--release me. "

Her blue eyes have turned almost black with a little fear and unlimitedanger, her lips are white but firm, her very indignation only makingher more fair. 

"I will, when you have given me some ground for hope. Promise you willconsider my words. "

"Not for a single instant. When a few moments ago I hinted howabhorrent you are to me, I spoke truly; I only lied when I tried tosoften my words. I would rather ten thousand times be _dead_ thanyour wife. Now I hope you understand. Your very touch makes meshudder. "

She ceases, more from want of breath than words, and a deep silencefalls between them. Even through the bare and melancholy trees the windhas forgotten to shiver. Above, the clouds, rain-filled, scudhurriedly. A storm is in the air. Upon Philip's face a deadlier stormis gathering. 

"Have you anything more to say?" he asks, an evil look coming into hiseyes. Not for a second has he relaxed his hold. 

Molly's heart sinks a little lower. Oh! if Tedcastle would only come!yet with a certain bravery she compels herself to return withoutflinching the gaze of the dark passionate face bent above hers. Sheknows every limb in her body is trembling, that a deadly sickness iscreeping over her, yet by a supreme effort she maintains her calmness. 

"Nothing, " she answers, quietly, with just a touch of scorn. "I shouldhave thought I had said enough to convince any _man_. Now will youlet me go home? You cannot want to keep me here after what I havesaid. "

"I wonder you are not afraid of me, " says Shadwell, who is absolutelybeside himself with anger. "Do not put unlimited faith in myforbearance. A worm, you know, will turn. Do you think you can goad aman to desperation and leave him as cool as when you began? I confess Iam not made of such stuff. Do you know you are in my power? What is toprevent my killing you here, now, this moment?"

He speaks slowly, as though his breath comes with difficulty, so muchhas anger overmastered him; yet her eyes have never fallen before his, and he knows, in spite of his words, he has not the smallest masteryover her, he has gained no triumph. 

"I wish you were dead, " he goes on, in a compressed tone, "and myselftoo. To be sure, that if you were not mine you would never beanother's, has in it a sweetness that tempts me. They say extremesmeet. I hardly know, now, where my love for you ends, or where myhatred begins. "

His violence terrifies Molly. 

"Philip, be generous, " she says, laying her hand against his chest witha vain attempt to break from him; "and--and--try to be calm. Your eyeshave madness in them. Even if you were to kill me, what good would itdo you? And think of the afterward. Oh, what have I ever done to youthat you should seek to--to--unnerve me like this?"

"'What have you done?' Shall I tell you? You have murdered me surely asthough your knife had entered my heart. You have killed every goodthought in me, every desire that might perhaps have had some element ofnobleness in it. I was bad enough before I met you, I dare say; but youhave made me ten times worse. "

"It is all false. I will not listen to you, "--covering her ears withher hands. But he takes them down again, gently but determinedly, andcompels her to hear him. 

"When you first came to Herst for your own amusement, to pass away thehours that perhaps hung a little heavily upon your hands, or to rouse afeeling of jealousy in the heart of Luttrell, or to prove the power youhave over all men by the right of your fatal beauty, you played offupon me all the pretty airs and graces, all the sweet looks and tenderwords, that come so easy to you, never caring what torment I might haveto endure when your dainty pastime had palled upon you. Day by day Iwas led to believe that I was more to you than those others who alsowaited on your words. "

"That is false, --false. Your own vanity misled you. "

"I was the one singled out to escort you here, to bear your messagesthere. Now and again you threw me flowers, not half so honeyed as yoursmiles. And when you had rendered me half mad--nay, I think whollyso--for love of you, and I asked you to be my wife, you asked me inreturn 'what I meant, ' pretending an innocent ignorance of having doneanything to encourage me. "

"I do not think I have done all this, " says Molly, with a littlegasping sigh; "but if I have I regret it. I repent it. I pray yourforgiveness. "

"And I will grant it on one condition. Swear you will be my wife. "

She does not answer. He is so vehement that she fears to provoke himfurther; yet nothing but a decided refusal can be given. She raises herhead and regards him with a carefully-concealed shudder, and as shedoes so Luttrell's fair, beautiful face--even more true than beautiful, his eyes so blue and earnest, his firm but tender mouth--rises beforeher. She thinks of his devotion, his deep, honest love, and withoutthinking any further she says, "No, " with much more decided emphasisthan prudence would have permitted. 

"'No!'" repeats he, furiously. "Do you still defy me? Are you then sofaithful to the memory of the man who cast you off? Have you, perhaps, renewed your engagement with him? If I thought that, --if I was sure ofthat---- Speak, and say if it be so. "

The strain is too great. Molly's brave heart fails her. She gives alittle gasping cry, and with it her courage disappears. Raising herface in mute appeal to the bare trees, to the rushing, comfortlesswind, to the murky sky, she bursts into a storm of tears. 

"Oh, if my brother were but alive, " cries she, in passionate protest, "you would not dare treat me like this! Oh, John, John, where are you?It is I, your Molly Bawn. _Why_ are you silent?"

Her sobs fall upon the chilly air. Her tears drop through her fingersdown upon the brown-tinged grass, upon a foolish frozen daisy that hasoutlived its fellows, --upon her companion's heart!

With a groan he comes to his senses, releases her, and, moving away, covers his face with his hands. 

"Don't do that, " he says. "Stop crying. What a brute I am! Molly, Molly, be silent, I desire you. I am punished enough already. "

Hardly daring to believe herself free, and dreading a relapse onPhilip's part, and being still a good deal over-strung and frightened, Miss Massereene sobs on very successfully, while even at this momentsecretly reproaching herself in that she did not pocket her pride halfan hour ago, and give way to the tears that have had such a fortunateeffect. 

Just at this juncture, Luttrell, clearing a stile that separates himfrom them, appears upon the scene. His dismay on seeing Molly in tearsalmost obliterates the displeased amazement with which he regardsPhilip's unexpected appearance. 

"Molly, " he calls out to her, even from the distance, some undefinedinstinct telling him she will be glad of his presence. And Molly, hearing him, raises her head, and without a word or cry runs to him, and flings herself into the fond shelter of his arms. 

As he holds her closely in his young, strong, ardent embrace, a greatpeace--a joy that is almost pain--comes to her. Had she still anylingering doubts of her love for him, this moment, in which he standsby her as a guardian, a protector, a true lover, would forever dispelthem. 

"You here, " says Luttrell, addressing Philip with a frown, while hisface flames, and then grows white as Shadwell's own, "and MissMassereene in tears! Explain----"

"Better leave explanation to another time, " interrupts Philip, withinsolent _hauteur_, his repentant mood having vanished withLuttrell's arrival, "and take Miss Massereene home. She is tired. "

So saying, he turns coolly on his heel, and walks away. 

Luttrell makes an angry movement as though to follow him; but Mollywith her arms restrains him. 

"Do not leave me, " she says, preparing to cry again directly if heshows any determination to have it out with Shadwell. "Stay with me. Ifeel so nervous and--and faint. "

"Do you, darling?" Regarding her anxiously. "You do look pale. What wasShadwell saying to you? Why were you crying? If I thought he----"

"No, no, "--laying five hasty, convincing little fingers on hisarm, --"nothing of the kind. Won't you believe me? He only reminded meof past days, and I was foolish, and--that was all. "

"But what brought him at all?"

"To see me, " says Molly, longing yet fearing to tell him of Philip'sunpardonable behavior. "But do not let us talk of him. I cannot bearhim. He makes me positively nervous. He is so dark, so vehement, so--uncanny!"

"The fellow isn't much of a fellow, certainly, " says Luttrell, withcharming explicitness. 

For the mile that lies between them and home, they scarcelyspeak, --walking together, as children might, hand in hand, but in asilence unknown to our household pests. 

"How quiet you are!" Molly says, at length awakening to the fact of herlover's dumbness. "What are you thinking about?"

"You, of course, " he answers, with a rather joyless smile. "I havereceived my marching orders. I must join my regiment in Dublin nextSaturday. "

"And this is Tuesday!" Aghast at the terrible news. "Oh, Teddy! Couldthey not have left us together for the few last days that remain tous?"

"It appears they could not, " replies he, with a prolonged and audiblesigh. 

"I always said your colonel was a bear, " says Miss Massereene, vindictively. 

"Well, but you see, he doesn't know how matters stand; he never heardof _you_, " replies Luttrell, apologetically. 

"Well, he ought to know; and even if he did, he would do it all themore. Oh, Teddy! dear Teddy!"--with a sudden change of tone, thoroughlyappreciated by one individual at least, --"what shall I do without you?"

CHAPTER XXXI. 

"When we two parted in silence and tears, Half broken-hearted, to sever for years, Pale grew thy cheek, and cold, colder thy kiss. "

 --Byron. 

They have wandered down once more by the river-side where first he toldher how he loved her. To-night, again the moon is shining brightly, again the stream runs rippling by, but not, as then, with a joyouslove-song; now it sounds sad as death, and "wild with all regret, " asthough mourning for the flowers--the sweet fond forget-me-nots--thatused to grace its banks. 

Their hands are clasped, his arm is round her; her head drooping, dejected (unlike the gay capricious Molly of a few months back), isleaning on his breast. 

Large tears are falling silently, without a sob, down her white cheeks, because to-night they say their last farewell. It is one of thosebitter partings, such as "press the life from out young hearts" andmakes them doubt the good that this world conceals even in the verycore of its disappointments. 

"I feel as though I were losing all, " says Molly, in a despairing tone. "First John, and now--you. Oh, how difficult a thing is life! how hard, how cruel!" Yet only a month before she was singing its praises withall the self-confidence of foolish ignorant youth. 

"While I am alive you do not lose me, " he answers, pressing his lips toher soft hair and brow. "But I am unhappy about you, my own: at therisk of letting you think me importunate, I would ask you again toreconsider your decision, and let me know how it is you proposefighting this cold world. "

Unable to refuse him audibly, and still determined to adhere to herresolution to let nothing interfere with her self-imposed task, shemaintains a painful silence, merely turning her head from side to sideupon his chest uneasily. 

"You still refuse me? Do you not think, Molly, "--reproachfully, --"yourconduct toward me is a little cold and unfeeling?"

"No, no. Do not misjudge me: indeed I am acting for the best. See, "--placing two bare white arms around his neck, that gleam withsnowy softness in the moonlight against the mournful draperies thatfall away from them, --"if I were cold and unfeeling would I do this?"pressing her tender lips to his. "Would I? You know I would not. I am acoward too, and fear you would not look upon my plan as favorably as Ido. Darling, forgive and trust me. "

"Are you going on the stage?" asks he, after a pause, and with evidenthesitation. 

"Why?" with a forlorn little smile. "If I were, would you renounce me?"

"Need I answer that? But you are so young, so pretty, --I am afraid, mydarling, it--it would be unpleasant for you. "

"Be satisfied: I am not thinking of the stage. But do not question me, Teddy. I shall write to you, as I have promised, in six months, --if Isucceed. "

"And if you fail?"

"I suppose then--I shall write to you too, " she answers, with a sighand a faint smile. "But I shall not fail. After all, success will bringme no nearer to you: I shall always have the children to provide for, "she says, despondingly. 

"We can at least live and hope. "

He draws her shawl, which has slipped to the ground, close round her, and mutely, gloomily, they stand listening to the murmuring of thesympathetic stream. 

"I always think of this spot as the dearest on earth, " he says, after apause. "Here I picture you to myself with your hands full offorget-me-nots. I have a large bunch of them yet, the same yougathered; faded, it is true, to others, but never so to me. They willalways be as fresh in my eyes as on the evening I took them from you. 'My sweet love's flowers. ' Darling, darling, " pressing her to his heartin a very agony of regret, "when shall we two stand here againtogether?"

"Never, " she whispers back, in a prophetic tone, and with a trembling, sobbing sigh more sad than any tears. 

"Give me something to remember you by, --something to remind me ofto-night. "

"Shall you need it?" asks she, and then raising her hands she loosensall her pretty hair, letting it fall in a bright shower around her. "You shall have one little lock all to yourself, " she says. "Choose, and cut it where you will. "

Tenderly he selects a shining tress, --a very small one, so loath is he, even for his own benefit, to lessen the glory of her hair, --and, severing it, consigns it to the back case of his watch. 

"That is a good place to keep it, " she says, with an upward glance thatpermits him to see the love that lives for him in her dewy eyes. "Atleast every night when you wind your watch you must think of me. "

"I shall think of you morning, noon, and night, for that matter. "

"And I, --when shall I think of you? And yet of what avail?" cries she, in despair; "all our thought will be of no use. It will not bring ustogether. We must be always separate, --always apart. Not all ourlonging will bring us one day nearer to each other. Our lives arebroken asunder. "

"Do not let us waste our last moments talking folly, " replies he, calmly; "nothing earthly shall separate us. "

"Yet time, they say, kills all things. It may perhaps--kill--even yourlove. "

"You wrong me, Molly, in even supposing it. 'They sin, who tell us lovecan die, '" quotes he, softly, in a tender, solemn tone. "My love foryou is deathless. Beloved, be assured of this, were we two to liveuntil old age crept on us, I should still carry to my grave my love foryou. "

He is so earnest that in spite of herself a little unacknowledgedcomfort comes into her heart. She feels it is no flimsy passion of anhour he is giving her, but a true affection that will endure forever. 

"How changed you are!" he says presently; "you, who used to be soself-reliant, have now lost all your courage. Try to be brave, Molly, for both our sakes. And--as I must soon go--tell me, what is yourparting injunction to me?"

"The kindest thing I can say to you is--forget me. "

"Then say something unkind. Do you imagine I shall take two suchhateful words as a farewell?"

"Then don't forget me; be _sure_ you don't, " cries she, burstinginto tears. 

The minutes are flying: surely never have they flown with such cruelhaste. 

"Come, let us go in-doors, " she says, when she has recovered herself. "I suppose it is growing late. "

"I shall not go in again; I have said good-bye to Mrs. Massereene. Itonly remains to part from you. "

They kiss each other tenderly. 

"I shall walk as far as the gate with you, " says Molly; and, with alast lingering glance at their beloved nook, they go silently away. 

When they reach the gate they pause and look at each other inspeechless sorrow. Like all partings, it seems at the moment final, andplants within their hearts the germs of an unutterable regret. 

"Good-bye, my life, my darling, " he whispers, brokenly, straining herto him as though he never means again to let her go: then, almostpushing her away, he turns and leaves her. 

But she cannot part from him yet. When he has gone a hundred yards ormore, she runs after him along the quiet moonlit road and throwsherself once more into his arms. 

"Teddy, Teddy, " she cries, "do not go yet, " and falls to weeping asthough her heart would break. "It is the bitterness of death, " shesays, "and it _is_ death. I know we shall never meet again. "

"Do not speak like that, " he entreats, in deep agitation. "I know--Ibelieve--we shall indeed meet again, and under happier circumstances. "

"Ah, you can find comfort!" Reproachfully. "You are not half sorry topart from me. "

"Oh, Molly, be reasonable. "

"If you can find _any_ consolation at this moment, you are not. And--if you meet any one--anywhere--and--like her better than me--youwill kill me: remember that. "

"Now, where, " argues he, in perfect sincerity, "could I meet any one tobe compared with you?"

"But how shall I know it--not hearing from you for so many months?" Shesays this as though he, not she, had forbidden the correspondence. 

"Then why not take something from those wretched six months?" he says, craftily. 

"I don't know. Yes, "--doubtfully, --"it is too long a time. In fourmonths, then, I shall write, --yes, in four months. Now I do not feelquite so bad. Sixteen weeks will not be so long going by. "

"One would be shorter still. "

"No, no. " Smiling. "Would you have me break through all my resolution?Be faithful to me, Teddy, and I will be faithful to you. Here, "--lifting her hands to her neck, --"I am not half satisfied withthat stupid lock of hair: it may fall out, or you may lose it some way. Take this little chain"--loosening it from round her throat and givingit to him--"and wear it next your heart until we meet again, --ifindeed"--sighing--"we ever do meet again. Does not all this sound likethe sentiment of a hundred years ago? But do not laugh at me: I meanit. "

"I will do as you bid me, " replies he, kissing the slender chain asthough it were some sacred relic, --and as such, indeed, he regardsit, --while ready tears spring to his eyes. "It and I shall never part. "

"Well, good-bye really now, " she says, with quivering lips. "I feelmore cheerful, more hopeful. I don't feel as if--I were going tocry--another tear. " With this she breaks into a perfect storm of tears, and tearing herself from his embrace, runs away from him down theavenue out of sight of his longing eyes. 

CHAPTER XXXII. 

 "Why, look you, how you storm!I would be friends with you, and have your love. "

 --_Merchant of Venice. _

"She is indeed perfection. "

 --_Othello. _

The fourth day before that fixed upon for leaving Brooklyn, Molly, coming down to breakfast, finds upon her plate a large envelopedirected in her grandfather's own writing, --a rather shaky writing now, it is true, but with all the remains of what must once have been boldand determined calligraphy. 

"Who can it be from?" says Molly, regarding the elaborate seal andcrest with amazement, --both so scarlet, both so huge. 

"Open it, dear, and you will see, " replies Letitia, who is merelycurious, and would not be accused of triteness for the world. 

Breaking the alarming seal, Molly reads in silence; while Letitia, unable to bear suspense, rises and reads it also over her sister'sshoulder. 

It consists of a very few lines, and merely expresses a desire--that isplainly a command--that Molly will come the following day to Herst, asher grandfather has something of importance to say to her. 

"What can it be?" says Molly, glancing over her shoulder at Mrs. Massereene, who has taken the letter to re-read it. 

"Something good, perhaps. " Wistfully. "There may be some luck in storefor you. "

"Hardly. I have ceased to believe in my own good luck, " says Molly, bitterly. "At all events, I suppose I had better go. Afterward I mightreproach myself for having been inattentive to his wishes. "

"Go, by all means, " says Letitia; and so it is arranged. 

Feeling tired and nervous, she arrives the next day at Herst, and ismet in the hall by her friend the housekeeper in subdued spirits andthe unfailing silk gown, who receives her in a good old motherlyfashion and bestows upon her a warm though deferential kiss. 

"You have come, my dear, and I am glad of it, " she says in a mysterioustone. "He has been asking for you incessant. Miss Amherst, she is awayfrom home. " This in a pleased, confidential tone, Miss Amherst beingdistinctly unpopular among the domestics, small and great. "Mr. Amhersthe sent her to the Latouches' for a week, --against her will, I mustsay. And the captain, he has gone abroad. "

"Has he?" Surprised. 

"Yes, quite suddent like, and no one the wiser why. When last he comehome, after being away a whole day, he seemed to me daft like, --quite, "says Mrs. Nesbitt, raising her eyes and hands, whose cozy plumpnessalmost conceals the well-worn ring that for twenty years of widowhoodhas rested there alone, "quite as though he had took leave of hissenses. "

"Yes?" says Molly, in a faltering tone, feeling decidedly guilty. 

"Ah, indeed, Miss Massereene, and so 'twas. But you are tired, my dear, no doubt, and a'most faint for a glass of wine. Come and take off yourthings and rest yourself a bit, while I tell Mr. Amherst of yourarrival. "

In half an hour, refreshed and feeling somewhat bolder, Molly descends, and, gaining the library door, where her grandfather awaits her, sheopens it and enters. 

As, pale, slender, black-robed, she advances to his side, Mr. Amherstlooks up. 

"You have come, " he says, holding out his hand to her, but not rising. There is a most unusual nervousness and hesitancy about his manner. 

"Yes. You wrote for me, and I came, " she answers simply, stooping, asin duty bound, to press her lips to his cheek. 

"Are you well?" he asks, scrutinizingly, struck by the difference inher appearance since last he saw her. 

"Yes, thank you, quite well. "

"I am sorry to see you in such trouble. " There is a callousness aboutthe way in which these words are uttered that jars upon Molly. Sheremembers on the instant all his narrow spleen toward the one now gone. 

"I am, --in sore trouble, " she answers, coldly. 

A pause. Mr. Amherst, although apparently full of purpose, clearlyfinds some difficulty about proceeding. Molly is waiting in impatientsilence. 

"You wished to speak to me, grandpapa?" she says, at length. 

"Yes, --yes. Only three days ago I heard you had been left--badlyprovided for. Is this so?"

"It is. "

"And that"--speaking slowly--"you had made up your mind to earn yourown living. Have I still heard correctly?"

"Quite correctly. Mr. Buscarlet would be sure to give you a trueversion of the case. "

"The news has upset me. " For the first time he turns his head andregards her with a steady gaze. "I particularly object to your doinganything of the kind. It would be a disgrace, a blot upon our nameforever. None of our family has ever been forced to work for dailybread. And I would have you remember you are an Amherst. "

"Pardon me, I am a Massereene. "

"You are an Amherst. " With some excitement and considerable irritation. "Your mother must count in some way, and you--you bear a strongresemblance to every second portrait of our ancestors in the galleryupstairs. I wrote, therefore, to bring you here that I might personallydesire you to give up your scheme of self-support and come to live atHerst as its mistress. "

"'Its mistress'!" repeats Molly, in utter amazement. "And how aboutMarcia?"

"She shall be amply portioned, --if you consent to my proposal. "

She is quite silent for a moment or two, pondering slowly; then, in alow, curious tone, she says:

"And what is to become of my sister?"

"Your step-sister-in-law, you mean. " Contemptuously. "I dare say shewill manage to live without your assistance. "

Molly's blue eyes here show signs of coming fight; so do her hands. Although they hang open and motionless at her sides, there is a certaintension about the fingers that in a quick, warm temperament betokenspassion. 

"And my dead brother's children?"

"They too can live, no doubt. They are no whit worse off than if youhad never been among them. "

"But I _have_ been among them, " cries she, with suddenuncontrollable anger that can no longer be suppressed. "For all theyears of my life they have been my only friends. When I was thrown uponthe world without father or mother, my brother took me and gave me afather's care. I was left to him a baby, and he gave me a mother'slove. He fed me, clothed me, guarded me, educated me, did all that mancould do for me; and now shall I desert those dear to him? They are hischildren, therefore mine. As long as I can remember, he was my true andloving friend, while you--you--what are you to me? A stranger--amere----"

She stops abruptly, fearing to give her passion further scope, and, casting her eyes upon the ground, folds one hand tightly over theother. 

"You are talking sentimental folly, " replies he, coolly. "Listen. Youshall hear the truth. I ill-treated your mother, as you know. I flungher off. I refused her prayer for help, although I knew that for monthsbefore your birth she was enduring absolute want. Your father was inembarrassed circumstances at that time. Now I would make reparation toher, through her child. I tell you"--vindictively--"if you will consentto give up the family of the man who stole my Eleanor from me I willmake you my heiress. All the property is unentailed. You shall haveHerst and twenty thousand pounds a year at my death. "

"Oh! hush, hush!"

"Think it over, girl. Give it your fullest consideration. Twentythousand pounds a year! It will not fall to your lot every day. "

"You strangely forget yourself, " says Molly, with chilling_hauteur_, drawing herself up to her full height. "Has all yourvaunted Amherst blood failed to teach you what honor means? You bribeme with your gold to sell myself, my better feelings, all that is goodin me! Oh, shame! Although I am but a Massereene, and poor, I wouldscorn to offer any one money to forego their principles and betraythose who loved and trusted in them!"

"You refuse me?" asks he, in tones that tremble with rage anddisappointment. 

"I do. "

"Then go, " cries he, pointing to the door with uplifted fingers thatshake perceptibly. "Leave me, and never darken my doors again. Go, earnyour bread. Starve for those beggarly brats. Work until your youngblood turns to gall and all the youth and freshness of your life hasgone from you. "

"I hope I shall manage to live without all you predict coming to pass, "the girl replies, faintly though bravely, her face as white as death. Is it a curse he is calling down upon her?

"May I ask how you intend doing so?" goes on this terrible old man. "Few honest paths lie open to a woman. You have not yet counted thecost of your refusal. Is the stage to be the scene of your futuretriumphs?"

She thinks of Luttrell, and of how differently he had put the very samequestion. Oh, that she had him near her now to comfort and support her!She is cold and trembling. 

"You must pardon me, " she says, with dignity, "if I refuse to tell youany of my plans. "

"You are right in refusing. It is no business of mine. From henceforthI have no interest whatsoever in you or your affairs. Go, --_go_. Why do you linger, bandying words with me, when I bid you begone?"

In a very frenzy of mortification and anger he turns his back upon her, and sinking down into the chair from which in his rage he has arisen, he lets his head fall forward into his hands. 

A great and sudden sadness falls on Molly. She forgets all the cruelwords that have been said, while a terrible compassion for theloneliness, the utter barrenness of his drear old age, grows withinher. 

Crossing the room with light and noiseless footsteps, treading asthough in the presence of one sick unto death, she comes up to him, lays her hands upon his shoulders, and stooping, presses her freshyoung lips to his worn and wrinkled forehead. 

"Good-bye, grandpapa, " she says, softly, kindly. Then, silently, andwithout another farewell, she leaves him--forever. 

 * * * * *

She hardly remembers how she makes the return journey; how she took herticket; how cavalierly she received the attentions of the exceedinglynice young man with flaxen hair suggestive of champagne who _would_ tuckhis railway rug around her, heroically unmindful of the cold thatpenetrated his own bones. Such trifling details escaped her then andafterward, leaving not so much as the smallest track upon her memory. Yet that yellow-haired young man dreamt of her for a week afterward, andwould not be comforted, although all that could be done by a managingmother with two marriageable daughters was done to please him and bringhim to see the error of his ways. 

All the way home she ponders anxiously as to whether she shall or shallnot reveal to Letitia all that has taken place. To tell her will bebeyond doubt to grieve her; yet not to tell her, --how impossible thatwill be! The very intensity of her indignation and scorn creates in heran imperative desire to open her heart to somebody. And who so sympatheticas Letitia? And, after all, even if she hides it now, will not Letitiadiscover the truth sooner or later? Still----

She has not yet decided on her line of action when Brooklyn is reached. She is still wavering, even when Letitia, drawing, her into the parlor, closes the door, and, having kissed her, very naturally says, "Well?"

And Molly says "Well" also, but in a different tone; and then she turnspale, and then red, --and then she makes up her mind to tell the wholestory. 

"What did he want with you?" asks Letitia, while she is still wonderinghow she shall begin. 

"Very little. " Bitterly. "A mere trifle. He only wanted to buy me. Heasked me to sell myself body and soul to him, --putting me at a highvaluation, too, for he offered me Herst in exchange if I would renounceyou and the children. "

"Molly!"

"Yes. Just that. Oh, Letty! only a month ago I thought how sweet andfair and good a thing was life, and now--and now--that old man, tottering into his grave, has taught me the vileness of it. "

"He offered you Herst? He offered you twenty thousand pounds a year?"

"He did, indeed. Was it not noble? Does it not show how highly heesteems me? I was to be sole mistress of the place; and Marcia was tobe portioned off and--I saw by his eyes--banished. "

"And you--_refused_?"

"Letty! How can you ask me such a question? Besides refusing, I had thesmall satisfaction of telling him exactly what I thought of him and hisproposal. I do not think he will make such overtures to me again. Areyou disappointed, Letty, that you look so strangely? Did you think, dear, I should bring you home some good news, instead of thisdisgraceful story?"

"No. " In a low tone, and with a gesture of impatience. "I am notthinking of myself. Last week, Molly, you relinquished your love--forus; to-day you have resigned fortune. Will you never repent? In thedays to come, how will you forgive us? Before it is too late, think itover and----"

"Letitia, " says Molly, laying her hand upon her sister's lips, "if youever speak to me like that again I shall--_kill you_. "

CHAPTER XXXIII. 

"Mute and amazed was Alden; and listen'd and look'd at Priscilla, Thinking he never had seen her more fair, more divine in her beauty. "

 --Longfellow. 

It is the 2d of March--four months later (barely four months, for somedays must still elapse before that time is fully up)--and a rawevening, --very raw, and cold even for the time of year, --when thetrain, stopping at the Victoria Station, suffers a young man to alightfrom it. 

He is a tall young man, slight and upright, clad in one of thecomfortable long coats of the period, with an aristocratic face andsweet, keen blue eyes. His moustache, fair and lengthy, is droopingsadly through dampness and the general inclemency of the weather. 

Pushing his way through the other passengers, with a discontentedexpression upon his genial face that rather misbecomes it, he emergesinto the open air, to find that a smart drizzle, unworthy the name ofrain, is falling inhospitably upon him. 

There is a fog, --not as thick as it might be, but a decided fog, --andeverything is gloomy to the last degree. 

Stumbling up against another tall young man, dressed almost to a tiethe same as himself, he smothers the uncivil ejaculation that rises sonaturally to his lips, and after a second glance changes it to one ofgreeting. 

"Ah, Fenning, is it you?" he says. "This beastly fog prevented myrecognizing you at first. How are you? It is ages since last we met. "

"Is it indeed you, Luttrell?" says the new-comer, stopping short andaltering his sour look to one of pleased astonishment. "You in theflesh? Let us look at you?" Drawing Luttrell into the neighborhood ofan unhappy lamp that tries against its conscience to think it isshowing light and grows every minute fainter and more depressed in itsstruggle against truth. "All the way from Paddyland, where he has spentfour long months, " says Mr. Fenning, "and he is still alive! It isinconceivable. Let me examine you. Sound, I protest, --sound in wind andlimb; not a defacing mark! I wouldn't have believed it if I hadn't seenit. I am awful glad to see you, old boy. What are you going to do withyourself this evening?"

"I wish I knew. I am absolutely thrown upon the world. You will take mesomewhere with you, if you have any charity about you. "

"I'm engaged for this evening. " With a groan. "Ain't I unlucky? Hang itall, something told me to refuse old Wiggins's emblazoned card, but Iwouldn't be warned. Now, what can I do for you?"

"You can at least advise me how best to kill time to-night. "

"The Alhambra has a good thing on, " says young Fenning, brightening;"and the Argyll----"

"I'm used up, morally and physically, " interrupts Luttrell, ratherimpatiently. "Suggest something calmer--musical, or that. "

"Oh, musical! That _is_ mild. I have been educated in the beliefthat a sojourn in Ireland renders one savage for the remainder of hisdays. I blush for my ignorance. If it is first-class music you want, goto hear Wynter sing. She does sing this evening, happily for you, andanything more delicious, both in face and voice, has not aroused Londonto madness for a considerable time. Go, hear her, but leave your heartat your hotel before going. The Grosvenor, is it, or the Langham? TheLangham. Ah, I shall call to-morrow. By-bye, old man. Go and seeWynter, and you will be richly rewarded. She is tremendously lovely. "

"I will, " says Luttrell; and having dined and dressed himself, he goesand does it. 

Feeling listless, and not in the slightest degree interested in thecoming performance, he enters the concert room, to find himselfdecidedly late. Some one has evidently just finished singing, and theapplause that followed the effort has not yet quite died away. 

With all the air of a man who wonders vaguely within himself what inthe world has brought him here, Luttrell makes his way to a vacantchair and seats himself beside an elderly, pleasant-faced man, toodarkly-skinned and too bright-eyed to belong to this country. 

"You are late, --late, " says this stranger, in perfect English, and, with all the geniality of most foreigners, making room for him. "Shehas just sung. "

"Has she?" Faintly amused. "Who?"

"Miss--Wynter. Ah! you have sustained a loss. "

"I am unlucky, " says Luttrell, feeling some slightdisappointment, --very slight. Good singers can be heard again. "I cameexpressly to hear her. I have been told she sings well. "

"Well--_well_!" Disdainfully. "Your informant was careful not tooverstep the truth. It is marvelous--exquisite--her voice, " says theItalian, with such unrepressed enthusiasm as makes Luttrell smile. "These antediluvian attachments, " thinks he, "are always severe. "

"You make me more regretful every minute, " he says, politely. "I feelas though I had lost something. "

"So you have. But be consoled. She will sing again later on. "

Leaning back, Luttrell takes a survey of the room. It is crowded toexcess, and brilliant as lights and gay apparel can make it. Fans areflashing, so are jewels, so are gems of greater value still, --blackeyes, blue and gray. Pretty dresses are melting into other prettydresses, and there is a great deal of beauty everywhere for those whochoose to look for it. 

After a while his gaze, slowly traveling, falls on Cecil Stafford. Sheis showing even more than usually bonny and winsome in some _chef-d'oeuvre_of Worth's, and is making herself very agreeable to a tall, lanky, eighteenth century sort of man who sits beside her, and is kindlyallowing himself to be amused. 

An intense desire to go to her and put the fifty questions that in aninstant rise to his lips seizes Luttrell; but she is unhappily sosituated that he cannot get at her. Unless he were to summon upfortitude to crush past three grim dowagers, two elaborately-attiredgirls, and one sour old spinster, it cannot be done; and Tedcastle, atleast, has not the sort of pluck necessary to carry him through withit. 

Cecil, seeing him, starts and colors, and then nods and smiles gayly athim in pleased surprise. A moment afterward her expression changes, andsomething so like dismay as to cause Luttrell astonishment covers herface. 

Then the business of the evening proceeds, and she turns her attentionto the singers, and he has no more time to wonder at her sudden changeof countenance. 

A very small young lady, hidden away in countless yards of pink silk, delights them with one of the ballads of the day. Her voice is far thebiggest part of her, and awakens in one's mind a curious craving toknow where it comes from. 

Then a wonderfully ugly man, with a delightful face, plays on theviolin something that reminds one of all the sweetest birds that sing, and is sufficiently ravishing to call forth at intervals theexclamation, "Good, good!" from Luttrell's neighbor. 

Then a very large woman warbles a French _chansonnette_ in thetiniest, most flute-like of voices; and then----

_Who_ is it that comes with such grave and simple dignity acrossthe boards, with her small head proudly but gracefully upheld, herlarge eyes calm and sweet and steady?

For a moment Luttrell disbelieves his senses. Then a mist rises beforehim, a choking sensation comes into his throat. Laying his hand uponthe back of the chair nearest him, he fortunately manages to retain hiscomposure, while heart, and mind, and eyes, are centred on Molly Bawn. 

An instantaneous hush falls upon the assembly; the very fans dropsilently into their owners' laps; not a whisper can be heard. Theopening chords are played by some one, and then Molly begins to sing. 

It is some new, exquisite rendering of Kingsley's exquisite words shehas chosen:

 "Oh, that we two were maying!--"

and she sings it with all the pathos, the genius, of which she iscapable. 

She has no thought for all the gay crowd that stays entranced upon hertones. She looks far above them, her serene face--pale, but full ofgentle self-possession--more sweet than any poem. She is singing withall her heart for her beloved, --for Letitia, and Lovat, and thechildren, and John in heaven. 

A passionate longing to be near her--to touch her--to speak--to beanswered back again--seizes Luttrell. He takes in hungrily all theminutiæ of her clothing, her manner, her expression. He sees the soft, gleaming bunches of snow-drops at her bosom and in her hair. Her hands, lightly crossed before her, are innocent of rings. Her simple blackgown of some clinging, transparent material--barely opened at theneck--makes even more fair the milk-white of her throat (that isscarcely less white than the snowy flowers). 

Her hair is drawn back into its old loose knot behind, in the simplestyle that suits her. She has a tiny band of black velvet round herneck. How fair she is, --how sweet, yet full of a tender melancholy! Heis glad in his heart for that little pensive shade, and thinks, thoughmore fragile, she never looked so lovely in her life. 

She has commenced the last verse:

 "Oh, that we two lay sleeping In our nest in the church-yard sod, With our limbs at rest On the quiet earth's breast, And our souls at home with God!"

She is almost safely through it. There is such a deadly silence as everpresages a storm, when by some luckless chance her eyes, that seldomwander, fall full on Luttrell's upturned, agitated face. 

His fascinated, burning gaze compels her to return it. Oh, that heshould see her here, singing before all these people! For the firsttime a terrible sense of shame overpowers her; a longing to escape theeyes that from all parts of the hall appear to stare at her andcriticise her voice--herself!

She turns a little faint, wavers slightly, and then breaks down. 

Covering her face with her hands, and with a gesture of passion andregret, she falls hurriedly into the background and is gone. 

Immediately kindly applause bursts forth. What has happened to thefavorite? Is she ill, or faint, or has some lost dead chord of her lifesuddenly sounded again? Every one is at a loss, and every one iscurious. It is interesting, --perhaps the most interesting part of thewhole performance, --and to-morrow will tell them all about it. 

Tedcastle starts to his feet, half mad with agitation, his face ashenwhite. There is no knowing what he might not have done in this momentof excitement had not his foreign neighbor, laying hands upon him, gently forced him back again into his seat. 

"My friend, consider _her_, " he whispers, in a firm but softvoice. Then, after a moment's pause, "Come with me, " he says, and, leading the way, beckons to Luttrell, who rises mechanically andfollows him. 

Into a small private apartment that opens off the hall the Italiantakes him, and, pushing toward him a chair, sinks into another himself. 

"She is the woman you love?" he asks, presently, in such a kindly toneas carries away all suspicion of impertinence. 

"Yes, " answers Luttrell, simply. 

"Well, and I love her too, --as a pupil, --a beloved pupil, " says theelder man, with a smile, removing his spectacles. "My name is Marigny. "

Tedcastle bows involuntarily to the great teacher and master of music. 

"How often she has spoken of you!" he says warmly, feeling already afriendship for this gentle preceptor. 

"Yes, yes; mine was the happiness to give to the world this gloriousvoice, " he says, enthusiastically. "And what a gift it is!Rare, --wonderful. But you, sir, --you are engaged to her?"

"We were--we are engaged, " says Luttrell, his eyes dark with emotion. "But it is months since we have met. I came to London to seek her; butdid not dream that here--here---- Misfortune has separated us; but if Ilived for a hundred years I should never cease--to----"

He stops, and, getting up abruptly, paces the room in silentimpatience. 

"You have spoiled her song, " says the Italian, regretfully. "And shewas in such voice to-night! Hark!" Raising his hand as the clapping andapplause still reach him through the door. "Hark! how they appreciateeven her failures!"

"Can I see her?"

"I doubt it. She is so prudent. She will speak to no one. And thenmadame her sister is always with her. I trust you, sir, --your face isnot to be disbelieved; but I cannot give you her address. I have swornto her not to reveal it to any one, and I must not release myself frommy word without her consent. "

"The fates are against me, " says Luttrell, drearily. 

Then he bids good-night to the Signor, and, going out into the night, paces up and down in a fever of longing and disappointment. 

At length the concert is over, and every one is departing. Tedcastle, making his way to the private entrance, watches anxiously, though withlittle hope for what may come. 

But others are watching also to catch a glimpse of the admired singer, and the crowd round the door is immense. 

Insensibly, in spite of his efforts, he finds himself less near theentrance than when first he took up his stand there; and just as he istrying, with small regard to courtesy, to retrieve his position, thereis a slight murmur among those assembled, and a second later some one, slender, black-robed, emerges, heavily cloaked, and with some light, fleecy thing thrown over her head, so as even to conceal her face, andquickly enters the cab that awaits her. 

As she places her foot upon the step of the vehicle a portion of thewhite woolen shawl that hides her features falls back, and for oneinstant Luttrell catches sight of the pale, beautiful face that, wakingand sleeping, has haunted him all these past months, and will haunt himtill he dies. 

She is followed by a tall woman, with a full _posée_ figure alsodraped in black, whom even at that distance he recognizes as Mrs. Massereene. 

He makes one more vigorous effort to reach them, but too late. Almostas his hand touches the cab the driver receives his orders, whips uphis emaciated charger, and disappears down the street. 

They are gone. With a muttered exclamation, that savors not ofthanksgiving, Luttrell turns aside, and, calling a hansom, drivesstraight to Cecil Stafford's. 

Whether Molly slept or did not sleep that night remains a mystery. Thefollowing morning tells no tales. There are fresh, faint roses in hercheeks, a brightness in her eyes that for months has been absent fromthem. If a little quiet and preoccupied in manner, she is gayer andhappier in voice and speech once her attention is gained. 

Sitting in her small drawing-room, with her whole being in a verytumult of expectation, she listens feverishly to every knock. 

It is not yet quite four months since she and Luttrell parted. Theprescribed period has not altogether expired; and during theirseparation she has indeed verified her own predictions, --she has provedan undeniable success. Under the assumed name of Wynter she has soughtand obtained the universal applause of the London world. 

She has also kept her word. Not once during all these trying months hasshe written to her lover; only once has she received a line from him. 

Last Valentine's morning Cecil Stafford, dropping in, brought her asmall packet closely sealed and directed simply to "Molly Bawn. " Themere writing made poor Molly's heart beat and her pulses throb to pain, as in one second it recalled to mind all her past joys, all the gooddays she had dreamed through, unknowing of the bitter wakening. 

Opening the little packet, she found inside it a gold bracelet, embracing a tiny bunch of dead forget-me-nots, with this inscriptionfolded round them:

 "There shall not be one minute in an hour Wherein I will not kiss my sweet love's flower. "

Except this one token of remembrance, she has had nothing to make herknow whether indeed she still lives in his memory or has beenforgotten, --perhaps superseded, until last night. Then, as she met hiseyes, that told a story more convincing than any words, and marking thepassionate delight and longing on his face, she dared to assure herselfof his constancy. 

Now, as she sits restlessly awaiting what time may bring her, shethinks, with a smile, that, sad as her life may be and is, she issurely blessed as few are in a possession of which none can rob her, the tender, faithful affection of one heart. 

She is still smiling, and breathing a little glad sigh over thisthought, when the door opens and Lady Stafford comes in. She isradiant, a very sunbeam, in spite of the fact that Sir Penthony isagain an absentee from his native land, having bidden adieu to Englishshores three months ago in a fit of pique, brought on by Cecil'sperversity. 

Some small dissension, some trivial disagreement, anger on his part, seeming indifference on hers, and the deed was done. He left herindignant, enraged, but probably more in love with her than ever; whileshe---- But who shall fathom a woman's heart?

"You saw him last night?" asks Molly, rising, with a brilliant blush, to receive her visitor. "Cecil, did you know he was coming? You mighthave told me. " For her there is but one "he. "

"So I should, my dear, directly; but the fact is, I _didn't_ know. The stupid boy never wrote me a line on the subject. It appears he gota fortnight's leave, and came posthaste to London to find you. Such alover as he makes. And where should he go by the merest chance, thevery first evening, but into your actual presence? It is a romance, "says her ladyship, much delighted; "positively it is a shame to let itsink into oblivion. Some one should recommend it to the Laureate as atheme for his next production. "

"Well?" says Molly, who at this moment is guilty of irreverence in herthoughts toward the great poet. 

"Well, now, of course he wants to know when he may see you. "

"You didn't give him my address?" With an amount of disappointment inher tone impossible to suppress. 

"I always notice, " says Cecil, in despair, "that whenever (which isseldom) I do the right thing it turns out afterward to be the wrongthing. You swore me in to keep your secret four months ago, and I havedone so religiously. To-day, sorely against my will, I honestlyconfess, I still remained faithful to my promise, and see the result. You could almost beat me, --don't deny it, Molly; I see it in your eyes. If we were both South Sea Islanders I should be black and blue thisinstant. It is the fear of scandal alone restrains you. "

"You were quite right. " Warmly. "I admire you for it; only----"

"Yes, just so. It was all I could do to refuse the poor dear fellow, hepressed me so hard; but for the first (and now I shall make it thelast) time in my life, I was firm. I'm sure I wish I hadn't been. Iearned both your displeasure and his. "

"Not mine, dearest. "

"Besides, another motive for my determination was this: both he and Idoubted if you would receive him until the four months were verilyup, --you are such a Roman matron in the way of sternness. "

"My sternness, as you call it, is a thing of the past. Yes, I will seehim whenever he may choose to come. "

"Which will be in about two hours precisely; that is, the moment hesees me and learns his fate. I told him to call again about oneo'clock, when I supposed I should have news for him. It is almost thatnow. " With a hasty glance at her watch. "I must fly. But first, give mea line for him, Molly, to convince him of your fallibility. "

"Have you heard anything of Sir Penthony?" asks Molly, when she hasscribbled a tiny note and given it to her friend. 

"Yes; I hear he either is in London or was yesterday, or will beto-morrow, --I am not clear which. " With affected indifference. "I toldyou he was sure to turn up again all right, like a bad halfpenny; so Iwas not uneasy about him. I only hope he will reappear in better temperthan when he left. "

"Now, confess you are delighted at the idea of so soon seeing himagain, " says Molly, laughing. 

"Well, I'm not in such radiant spirits as somebody I could mention. "Mischievously. "And as to confessing, I never do that. I should make abad Catholic. I should be in perpetual hot water with my spiritualadviser. But if he comes back penitent, and shows himself lessexigeant, I shan't refuse his overtures of peace. Now, don't make mekeep your Teddy waiting any longer. He is shut up in my boudoirenduring grinding torments all this time, and without a companion orthe chance of one, as I left word that I should be at home to no onebut him this morning. Good-bye, darling. Give my love to Letitia andthe wee scraps. And--these bonbons--I had almost forgotten them. "

"Oh, by the bye, did you hear what Daisy said the other day_apropos_ of your china?"

"No. "

"When we had left your house and walked for some time in a silence mostunusual where _she_ is, she said, in her small, solemn way, 'Molly, why does Lady Stafford have her kitchen in her drawing-room?'Now, was it not a capital bit of china-mania? I thought it very severeon the times. "

"It was cruel. I shall instantly send my plates and jugs, and thatdelicious old Worcester tureen down-stairs to their proper place, " saysCecil, laughing. "There is no criticism so cutting as a child's. "

CHAPTER XXXIV. 

"Ask me no more; thy fate and mine are sealed. I strove against the stream, and all in vain. Let the great river take me to the main. No more, dear love, for at a touch I yield;Ask me no more. "

 --_The Princess. _

Almost as Cecil steps into her carriage, Sir Penthony Stafford isstanding on her steps, holding sweet converse with her footman at herown hall-door. 

"Lady Stafford at home?" asks he of the brilliant but superciliouspersonage who condescends to answer to his knock. 

"No, sir. " Being a new acquisition of Cecil's, he is blissfullyignorant of Sir Penthony's name and status. "My lady is hout. "

"When will she be home?" Feeling a good deal of surprise at her earlywanderings, and, in fact, not believing a word of it. 

"My lady won't be at home all this morning, sir. "

"Then I shall wait till the afternoon, " says Sir Penthony, faintlyamused, although exasperated at what he has decided is a heinous lie. 

"Lady Stafford gave strict horders that no one was to be admittedbefore two, " says flunkey, indignant at the stranger's persistence, whohas come into the hall and calmly divested himself of his overcoat. 

"She will admit _me_, I don't doubt, " says Sir Penthony, calmly. "I am Sir Penthony Stafford. "

"Oh, indeed! Sir Penthony, I beg your pardon. Of course, Sir Penthony, if you wish to wait----"

Here Sir Penthony, who has slowly been mounting the stairs all thistime, with Chawles, much exercised in his mind, at his heels--(forCecil's commands are not to be disputed, and the situation is a goodone, and she has distinctly declared no one is to be received)--SirPenthony pauses on the landing and lays his hand on the boudoir door. 

"Not there, Sir Penthony, " says the man, interposing hurriedly, andthrowing open the drawing-room door, which is next to it. "If you willwait here I don't think my lady will be long, as she said she should be'ome at one to keep an appointment. "

"That will do. " Sternly. "Go!--I dare say, " thinks Stafford, angrily, as the drawing-room door is closed on him, "if I make a point of it, she will dismiss that fellow. Insolent and noisy as a parrot. Awell-bred footman never gets beyond 'Yes' or 'No' unless required, andeven then only under heavy pressure. But what appointment can she have?And who is secreted in her room? Pshaw! Her dressmaker, no doubt. "

But, for all that, he can't quite reconcile himself to the dressmakertheory, and, but that honor forbids, would have marched straight, without any warning, into "my lady's chamber. "

Getting inside the heavy hanging curtains, he employs his time watchingthrough the window the people passing to and fro, all intent upon thegreat business of life, --the making and spending of money. 

After a little while a carriage stops beneath him, and he sees Cecilalight from it and go with eager haste up the steps. He hears herenter, run up the stairs, pause upon the landing, and then, going intothe boudoir, close the door carefully behind her. 

He stifles an angry exclamation, and resolves, with all the airs of aSpartan, to be calm. Nevertheless, he is _not_ calm, and quitedoubles the amount of minutes that really elapse before thedrawing-room door is thrown open and Cecil, followed by Luttrell, comesin. 

"Luttrell, of all men!" thinks Sir Penthony, as though he would havesaid, "Et tu, Brute?" forgetting to come forward, --forgettingeverything, --so entirely has a wild, unreasoning jealousy mastered him. The curtains effectually conceal him, so his close proximity remains asecret. 

Luttrell is evidently in high spirits. His blue eyes are bright, hiswhole air triumphant. Altogether, he is as unlike the moony young manwho left the Victoria Station last evening as one can well imagine. 

"Oh, Cecil! what should I do without you?" he says, in a most heartfeltmanner, gazing at her as though (thinks Sir Penthony) he would muchlike to embrace her there and then. "How happy you have made me! Andjust as I was on the point of despairing! I owe you all, --everything, --thebest of my life. "

"I am glad you rate what I have done for you so highly. But you know, Tedcastle, you were always rather a favorite of mine. Have you forgivenme my stony refusal of last night? I would have spoken willingly, butyou know I was forbidden. "

"What is it I would _not_ forgive you?" exclaims Luttrell, gratefully. 

("Last night; and again this morning: probably he will dine thisevening, " thinks Sir Penthony, who by this time is black with rage andcold with an unnamed fear. )

Cecil is evidently as interested in her topic as her companion. Theirheads are very near together, --as near as they can well be withoutkissing. She has placed her hand upon his arm, and is speaking in alow, earnest tone, --so low that Stafford cannot hear distinctly, theroom being lengthy and the noise from the street confusing. Howhandsome Luttrell is looking! With what undisguised eagerness he isdrinking in her every word!

Suddenly, with a little movement as though of sudden remembrance, Cecilputs her hand in her pocket and draws from it a tiny note, which shesqueezes with much _empressement_ into Tedcastle's hand. Thenfollow a few more words, and then she pushes him gently in thedirection of the door. 

"Now go, " she says, "and remember all I have said to you. Are theconditions so hard?" With her old charming, bewitching smile. 

"How shall I thank you?" says the young man, fervently, his whole facetransformed. He seizes her hands and presses his lips to them in whatseems to the looker-on at the other end of the room an impassionedmanner. "You have managed that we shall meet, --and alone?"

"Yes, alone. I have made sure of that. I really think, considering allI have done for you, Tedcastle, you owe me something. "

"Name anything, " says Luttrell, with considerable fervor. "I owe you, as I have said, everything. You are my good angel!"

"Well, that is as it may be. All women are angels, --at one time orother. But you must not speak to me in that strain, or I shall mentionsome one who would perhaps be angry. " ("That's me, I presume, " thinksSir Penthony, grimly. ) "I suppose"--archly--"I need not tell you to bein time? To be late under such circumstances, with _me_, wouldmean dismissal. Good-bye, dear boy: go, and my good wishes will followyou. "

As the door closes upon Luttrell, Sir Penthony, cold, and with analarming amount of dignity about him, comes slowly forward. 

"Sir Penthony! you!" cries Cecil, coloring certainly, but whether fromguilt, or pleasure, or surprise, he finds it hard to say. He inclines, however, toward the guilt. "Why, I thought you safe in Algiers. " (Thisis not strictly true. )

"No doubt. I thought _you_ safe in London--or anywhere else. Ifind myself mistaken!"

"I am, dear, perfectly safe. " Sweetly. "Don't alarm yourselfunnecessarily. But may I ask what all this means, and why you werehiding behind my curtains as though you were a burglar or aBashi-Bazouk? But that the pantomime season is over, I should say youwere practicing for the Harlequin's window trick. "

"You can be as frivolous as you please. " Sternly. "Frivolity suits youbest, no doubt. I came in here a half an hour ago, having first almostcome to blows with your servant before being admitted, --showing meplainly the man had received orders to allow no one in but the oneexpected. "

"That is an invaluable man, that Charles, " murmurs her ladyship, _sotto voce_. "I shall raise his wages. There is nothing likeobedience in a servant. "

"I was standing there at that window, awaiting your arrival, when youcame, hurried to your boudoir, spent an intolerable time there withLuttrell, and finally wound up your interview here by giving him abillet, and permitting him to kiss your hands until you ought to havebeen ashamed of yourself and him. "

"You ought to be ashamed of yourself, lying _perdu_ in thecurtains and listening to what wasn't meant for you. " Maliciously. "Youought also to have been a detective. You have wasted your talentsfrightfully. _Did_ Teddy kiss my hands?" Examining the littlewhite members with careful admiration. "Poor Ted! he might be tired ofdoing so by this. Well, --yes; and--you were saying----"

"I insist, " says Sir Penthony, wrathfully, "on knowing what Luttrellwas saying to you. "

"I thought you heard. "

"And why he is admitted when others are denied. "

"My dear Sir Penthony, he is my cousin. Why should he not visit me ifhe likes?"

"Cousins be hanged!" says Sir Penthony, with considerable more forcethan elegance. 

"No, no, " says Cecil, smoothing a little wrinkle off the front of hergown, "not always; and I'm sure I hope Tedcastle won't be. To my way ofthinking, he is quite the nicest young man I know. It would make mepositively wretched if I thought Marwood would ever have him in hisclutches. You, "--reflectively--"are my cousin too. "

"I am, --and something more. You seem to forget that. Do you mean toanswer my question?"

"Certainly, --if I can. But do sit down, Sir Penthony. I am sure youmust be tired, you are so dreadfully out of breath. Have you come justnow, this moment, straight from Algiers? See, that little chair overthere is so comfortable. All my gentlemen visitors adore that littlechair. No? You won't sit down? Well----"

"Are you in the habit of receiving men so early?"

"I assure you, " says Cecil, raising her brows with a gentle air ofmartyrdom, and making a very melancholy gesture with one hand, "Ihardly know the hour I don't receive them. I am absolutely persecutedby my friends. They _will_ come. No matter how disagreeable it maybe to me, they arrive just at any hour that best suits them. And I amso good-natured I cannot bring myself to say 'Not at home. '"

"You brought yourself to say it this morning. "

"Ah, yes. But that was because I was engaged on very particularbusiness. "

"What business?"

"I am sorry I cannot tell you. "

"You shall, Cecil. I will not leave this house until I get an answer. Iam your husband. I have the right to demand it. "

"You forget our little arrangement. I acknowledge no husband, " saysCecil, with just one flash from her violet eyes. 

"Do you refuse to answer me?"

"I do, " replies she, emphatically. 

"Then I shall stay here until you alter your mind, " says Sir Penthony, with an air of determination, settling himself with what in a low classof men would have been a bang, in the largest arm-chair the roomcontains. 

With an unmoved countenance Lady Stafford rises and rings the bell. 

Dead silence. 

Then the door opens, and a rather elderly servant appears upon thethreshold. 

"Martin, Sir Penthony will lunch here, " says Cecil, calmly. "And--stay, Martin. Do you think it likely you will dine, Sir Penthony?"

"I do think it likely, " replies he, with as much grimness as etiquettewill permit before the servant. 

"Sir Penthony thinks it likely he will dine, Martin. Let cook know. And--can I order you anything you would specially prefer?"

"Thank you, nothing. Pray give yourself no trouble on my account. "

"It would be a pleasure, --the more so that it is so rare. Stay yet amoment, Martin. May I order you a bed, Sir Penthony?"

"I am not sure. I will let you know later on, " replies Stafford, who, to his rage and disgust, finds himself inwardly convulsed withlaughter. 

"That will do, Martin, " says her ladyship, with the utmost_bonhommie_. And Martin retires. 

As the door closes, the combatants regard each other steadily for afull minute, and then they both roar. 

"You are the greatest little wretch, " says Sir Penthony, going over toher and taking both her hands, "it has ever been my misfortune to meetwith. I am laughing now against my will, --remember that. I am in afrantic rage. Will you tell me what all that scene between you andLuttrell was about? If you don't I shall go straight and ask him. "

"What! And leave me here to work my wicked will? Reflect--reflect. Ithought you were going to mount guard here all day. Think on all thesins I shall be committing in your absence. "

She has left her hands in his all this time, and is regarding him witha gay smile, under which she hardly hides a good deal of offendedpride. 

"Don't be rash, I pray you, " she says, with a gleam of malice. 

"The man who said pretty women were at heart the kindest lied, " saysSir Penthony, standing over her, tall, and young, and very nearlyhandsome. "You know I am in misery all this time, and that a word fromyou would relieve me, --yet you will not speak it. "

"Would you"--very gravely--"credit the word of such a sinner as youwould make me out to be?"

"A sinner! Surely I have never called you that. "

"You would call me anything when you get into one of those horridpassions. Come, are you sorry?"

"I am more than sorry. I confess myself a brute if I ever even hintedat such a word, --which I doubt. The most I feared was your imprudence. "

"From all I can gather, that means quite the same thing when said of awoman. "

"Well, _I_ don't mean it as the same. And, to prove my words, ifyou will only grant me forgiveness, I will not even mention Tedcastle'sname again. "

"But I insist on telling you every word he said to me, and all aboutit. "

"If you had insisted on that half an hour ago you would have savedthirty minutes, " says Stafford, laughing. 

"_Then_ I would not gratify you; _now_--Tedcastle came here, poorfellow, in a wretched state about Molly Massereene, whose secret he hasat length discovered. About eleven o'clock last night he rushed in herealmost distracted to get her address; so I went to Molly early thismorning, obtained leave to give it, --and a love-letter as well, whichyou saw me deliver, --and all his raptures and tender epithets were meantfor her, and not for me. Is it not a humiliating confession? Even whenhe kissed my hands it was only in gratitude, and his heart was full ofMolly all the time. "

"Then it was not you he was to meet alone?"--eagerly. 

"What! Still suspicious? No, sir, it was not your wife he was to meet'alone, ' Now, are you properly abashed? Are you satisfied?"

"I am, and deeply contrite. Yet, Cecil, you must know what it is causesme such intolerable jealousy, and, knowing, you should pardon. My lovefor you only increases day by day. Tell me again I am forgiven. "

"Yes, quite forgiven. "

"And"--stealing his arm gently round her--"are you in the smallestdegree glad to see me again?"

"In a degree, --yes. " Raising to his, two eyes, full of something morethan common gladness. 

"Really?"

"Really. "

He looks at her, but she refuses to understand his appealingexpression, and regards him calmly in return. 

"Cecil, how cold you are!" he says, reproachfully. "Think how long Ihave been away from you, and what a journey I have come. "

"True; you must be hungry. " With willful ignorance of his meaning. 

"I am not. " Indignantly. "But I think you might--after three wearymonths, that to me, at least, were twelve--you might----"

"You want me to--kiss you?" says Cecil, promptly, but with a risingblush. "Well, I will, then. "

Lifting her head, she presses her lips to his with a fervor that takeshim utterly by surprise. 

"Cecil, " whispers he, growing a little pale, "do you mean it?"

"Mean what?" Coloring crimson now, but laughing also. "I mean this: ifwe don't go down-stairs soon luncheon will be cold. And, remember, Ihold you to your engagement. You dine with me to-day. Is not that so?"

"You know how glad I shall be. "

"Well, I hope now, " says Cecil, "you intend to reform, and give uptraveling aimlessly all over the unknown world at stated intervals. Ihope for the future you mean staying at home like a respectableChristian. "

"If I had a home. You can't call one's club a home, can you? I wouldstay anywhere, --with you. "

"I could not possibly undertake such a responsibility. Still, I shouldlike you to remain in London, where I could look after you a little bitnow and then, and keep you in order. I adore keeping people in order. Iam thrown away, " says Cecil, shaking her flaxen head sadly. "I know Iwas born to rule. "

"You do a great deal of it even in your own limited sphere, don't you?"says her husband, laughing. "I know at least one unfortunate individualwho is completely under your control. "

"No. I am dreadfully cramped. But come; in spite of all the joy Inaturally feel at your safe return, I find my appetite unimpaired. Luncheon is ready. Follow me, my friend. I pine for a cutlet. "

They eat their cutlets _tête-à-tête_, and with evidentappreciation of their merits; the servants regarding the performancewith intense though silent admiration. In their opinion (and who shalldispute the accuracy of a servant's opinion?), this is the beginning ofthe end. 

When luncheon is over, Lady Stafford rises. 

"I am going for my drive, " she says. "But what is to become of youuntil dinner-hour?"

"I shall accompany you. " Audaciously. 

"You! What! To have all London laughing at me?"

"Let them. A laugh will do _them_ good, and _you_ no harm. How can it matter to you?"

"True. It cannot. And after all to be laughed at one must be talkedabout. And to be talked about means to create a sensation. And I shouldlike to create a sensation before I die. Yes, Sir Penthony, "--with adetermined air, --"you shall have a seat in my carriage to-day. "

"And how about to-morrow?"

"To-morrow probably some other fair lady will take pity on you. Itwould be much too slow, "--mischievously--"to expect you to go drivingwith your wife every day. "

"I don't think I can see it in that light. Cecil, "--coming to her side, and with a sudden though gentle boldness, taking her in hisarms, --"when are you going to forgive me and take me to your heart?"

"What is it you want, you tiresome man?" asks Cecil, with a miserableattempt at a frown. 

"Your love, " replies he, kissing the weak-minded little pucker off herforehead and the pretended pout from her lips, without this timesaying, "by your leave, " or "with your leave. "

"And when you have it, what then?"

"I shall be the happiest man alive. "

"Then _be_ the happiest man alive, " murmurs she, with tears in hereyes, although the smile still lingers round her lips. 

It is thus she gives in. 

"And when, " asks Stafford, half an hour later, all the retrospectiveconfessions and disclosures having taken some time to getthrough, --"when shall I install a mistress in the capacious butexceedingly gloomy abode my ancestors so unkindly left to me?"

"Do not even think of such a thing for ever so long. Perhaps nextsummer I may----"

"Oh, nonsense! Why not say this time ten years?"

"But at present my thoughts are full of my dear Molly. Ah! when shall Isee her as happy as--as--I am?"

Here Sir Penthony, moved by a sense of duty and a knowledge of thefitness of things, instantly kisses her again. 

He has barely performed this necessary act when the redoubtable Charlesputs his head in at the door and says:

"The carriage is waiting, my lady. "

"Very good, " returns Lady Stafford, who, according to Charles's versionof the affair, a few hours later, is as "red as a peony. " "You willstay here, Penthony, "--murmuring his name with a grace and a sweethesitation quite irresistible, --"while I go and make ready for ourdrive. "

CHAPTER XXXV. 

"When I arose and saw the dawn, I sigh'd for thee;When light rode high, and the dew was gone, And noon lay heavy on flower and tree, And the weary day turn'd to his rest, Lingering like an unloved guest, I sighed for thee. "

 --Shelley. 

In her own small chamber, with all her pretty hair falling looselyround her, stands Molly before her glass, a smile upon her lips. For isnot her lover to be with her in two short hours? Already, perhaps, heis on his way to her, as anxious, as eager to fold her in his arms asshe will be to fly to them. 

A sweet agitation possesses her. Her every thought is fraught with joy;and if at times a misgiving, a suspicion of the hopelessness of it all, comes as a shadow between her and the sun of her content (for is nother marriage with Luttrell a thing as remote now as when they parted?), she puts it from her and refuses to acknowledge a single flaw in thisone day's happiness. 

She brushes out her long hair, rolling it into its usual soft knotbehind, and weaves a kiss or two and a few tender words into each richcoil. She dons her prettiest gown, and puts on all the bravery shepossesses, to make herself more fair in the eyes of her beloved, lestby any means he should think her less worthy of regard than when lasthe saw her. 

With a final, almost dissatisfied, glance at the mirror she goesdown-stairs to await his coming, all her heart one glad song. 

She tries to work to while away the time, but her usually cleverfingers refuse their task, and the canvas falls unheeded to the floor. 

She tries to read; but, alas! all the words grow together and formthemselves into one short sentence: "He is coming--coming--coming. "

Insensibly Tennyson's words come to her, and, closing her eyes, sherepeats them softly to herself:

 "O days and hours, your work is this, To hold me from my proper place A little while from his embrace, For fuller gain of after-bliss. 

 * * *

 "That out of distance might ensue Desire of nearness doubly sweet, And unto meeting, when we meet, Delight a hundredfold accrue!"

At length the well-known step is heard upon the stairs, the well-knownvoice, that sends a very pang of joy through every pulse in her body, sounds eagerly through the house. His hand is on the door. 

With a sudden trembling she says to herself:

"I will be calm. He must not know how dearly he is loved. "

And then the door opens. He is before her. A host of recollections, sweet and bitter, rise with his presence; and, forgetful of herdetermination to be calm and dignified as well for his sake as her own, she lets the woman triumph, and, with a little cry, sad from the longingand despair of it, she runs forward and throws herself, with a sob, intohis expectant arms. 

At first they do not speak. He does not even kiss her, only holds herclosely in his embrace, as one holds some precious thing, some pricelesspossession that, once lost, has been regained. 

Then they do kiss each other, gravely, tenderly, with a gentle lingering. 

"It is indeed you, " she says, at last, regarding him wistfully with acertain pride of possession, he looks so tall, and strong, and handsomein her eyes. She examines him critically, and yet finds nothingwanting. He is to her perfection, as, indeed (unhappily), a man alwaysis to the woman who loves him. Could she at this moment concentrate herthoughts, I think she would apply to him all the charms contained inthe following lines:

 "A mouth for mastery and manful work; A certain brooding sweetness in the eyes; A brow the harbor of fair thought, and hair Saxon in hue. "

"You are just the same as ever, " she says, presently, "only taller, Ireally think, and broader and bigger altogether. " Then, in a littlesoft whisper, "My dear, --my darling. "

"And you, " he says, taking the sweet face he has so hungered forbetween his hands, the better to mark each change time may havewrought, "you have grown thinner. You are paler. Darling, "--a heavyshadow falling across his face, --"you are well, --quite well?"

"Perfectly, " she answers, lightly, pleased at his uneasiness. "Townlife--the city air--has whitened me; that is all. "

"But these hollows?" Touching gently her soft cheeks with adissatisfied air. They are a little sunk. She is altogether thinner, frailer than of yore. Her very fingers as they lie in his lookslenderer, more fragile. 

"Perhaps a little fretting has done it, " she answers, with a smile anda half-suppressed sigh. 

He echoes the sigh; and it may be a few tears for all the long hoursspent apart gather in their eyes, "in thinking of the days that are nomore. "

Presently, when they are calmer, more forgetful of their separation, they seat themselves upon a sofa and fall into a happy silence. His armis round her; her hand rests in his. 

"Of what are you thinking, sweetheart?" he asks, after a while, stooping to meet her gaze. 

"A happy thought, " she answers. "I am realizing how good a thing it is'to feel the arms of my true love round me once again. '"

"And yet it was of your own free will they were ever loosened. "

"Of my free will?" Reproachfully. "No; no. " Then, turning away fromhim, she says, in a low tone, "What did you think when you saw mesinging last night?"

"That I had never seen you look so lovely in my life. "

"I don't mean that, Teddy. What did you think when you saw mesinging--so?"

"I wished I was a millionaire, that I might on the instant rescue youfrom such a life, " replies he, with much emotion. 

"Ah! you felt like that? I, too, was unhappy. For the first time sinceI began my new life it occurred to me to be ashamed. To know that yousaw me reminded me that others saw me too, and the knowledge brought aflush to my cheek. I am singing again on Tuesday; but you must not cometo hear me. I could not sing before you again. "

"Of course I will not, if it distresses you. May I meet you outside andaccompany you home?"

"Better not. People talk so much; and--there is always such a crowdoutside that door. "

"The nights _you_ sing. Have you had any lovers, Molly?" asks he, abruptly, with a visible effort. 

"Several, "--smiling at his perturbation, --"and two _bona fide_proposals. I might have been the blushing bride of a baronet now had Iso chosen. "

"Was he--rich?"

"Fabulously so, I was told. And I am sure he was comfortably providedfor, though I never heard the exact amount of his rent-roll. "

"Why did you refuse him?" asks Luttrell, moodily, his eyes fixed uponthe ground. 

"I shall leave you to answer that question, " replies she, with all herold archness. "I cannot. Perhaps because I didn't care for him. Not butwhat he was a nice old gentleman, and wonderfully preserved. I met himat one of Cecil's 'at homes, ' and he professed himself deeply enamoredof me. I might also have been the wife of a very young gentleman in theForeign Office, with a most promising moustache; but I thought ofyou, "--laughing, and giving his hand a little squeeze, --"and I bestowedupon him such an emphatic 'No' as turned his love to loathing. "

"To-morrow or next day you may have a marquis at your feet, or someother tremendous swell--and----"

"Or one of our own princes. I see nothing to prevent it, " says Molly, still laughing. "Nonsense, Teddy; don't be an old goose. You shouldknow by this time how it is with me. "

"I am a selfish fellow, am I not?" says Luttrell, wistfully. "The verythought that any one wants to take you from me renders me perfectlymiserable. And yet I know I ought to give you up, --to--to encourage youto accept an offer that would place you in a position I shall never beable to give you. But I cannot. Molly, I have come all this way to askyou again to marry me, and----"

"Hush, Teddy. You know it is impossible. "

"Why is it impossible? Other people have lived and been happy on fivehundred pounds a year. And after a while something might turn up toenable us to help Letitia and the children. "

"You are a little selfish now, " she says, with gentle reproach. "Icould not let Letitia be without my help for even a short time. Andwould you like your wife to sing in public, for money? Look at it inthat light, and answer me truly. "

"No, " without hesitation. "Not that your singing in public lowers youin the faintest degree in any one's estimation; but I would not let mywife support herself. I could not endure the thought. But might notI----"

"You might not, "--raising her eyes, --"nor would I let you. I work forthose I love, and in that no one can help me. "

"Are both our lives, then, to be sacrificed?"

"I will not call it a sacrifice on my part, " says the girl, bravely, although tears are heavy in her voice and eyes. "I am only doing somelittle thing for him who did all for me. There is a joy that is almostsacred in the thought. It has taken from me the terrible sting of hisdeath. To know I can still please him, can work for him, brings himback to me from the other world. At times I lose the sense of farness, and can feel him almost near. "

"You are too good for me, " says the young man, humbly, taking her handsand kissing them twice. 

"I am not. You must not say so, " says Molly, hastily, the touch of hislips weakening her. 

Two large tears that have been slowly gathering roll down her cheeks. 

"Oh, Teddy!" cries she, suddenly, covering her face with her hands, "attimes, when I see certain flowers or hear some music connected with theolden days, my heart dies within me, --I lose all hope; and then I missyou sorely, --_sorely_. "

Her head is on his breast by this time; his strong young arms are roundher, holding her as though they would forever shield her from the painsand griefs of this world. 

"I have felt just like you, " he says, simply. "But after all, whatevercomes, we have each other. There should be comfort in that. Had deathrobbed us--you of me or me of you--then we might indeed mourn. But asit is there is always hope. Can you not try to find consolation in thethought that, no matter where I may be, however far away, I am yourlover forever?"

"I know it, " says Molly, inexpressibly comforted. 

Their trust is of the sweetest and fullest. No cruel coldness has creptin to defile their perfect love. Living as they are on a mere shadow, afaint streak of hope, that may never break into a fuller gleam, theystill are almost happy. He loves her. Her heart is all his own. Theseare their crumbs of comfort, --sweet fragments that never fail them. 

Now he leads her away from the luckless subject of their engagementaltogether, and presently she is laughing over some nonsensical tale heis telling her connected with the old life. She is asking himquestions, and he is telling her all he knows. 

Philip has been abroad--no one knows where--for months; but suddenly, and just as mysteriously as he departed, he turned up a few days ago atHerst, where the old man is slowly fading. The winter has been a severeone, and they think his days are numbered. 

The Darleys have at last come to an open rupture, and a friendlyseparation is being arranged. 

"And what of my dear friend, Mr. Potts?" asks Molly. 

"Oh, Potts! I left him behind me in Dublin. He is uncommonly well, andhas been all the winter pottering--by the bye, that is an appropriateword, isn't it?--reminds one of one of his own jokes--after a girl whorather fancies him, in spite of his crimson locks, or perhaps becauseof them. That particular shade is, happily, rare. She has a littlemoney, too, --at least enough to make her an heiress in Ireland. "

"Poor Ireland!" says Molly. "Some day perhaps I shall go there, andjudge of its eccentricities myself. "

"By the bye, Molly, " says Luttrell, with an impromptu air, "did youever see the Tower?"

"Never, I am ashamed to say. "

"I share your sentiments. Never have I planted my foot upon so much asthe lowest step of its interminable stairs. I feel keenly the disgraceof such an acknowledgment. Shall we let another hour pass withoutretrieving our false position? A thousand times 'no. ' Go and put yourbonnet on, Molly, and we will make a day of it. "

And they do make a day of it, and are as foolishly, thoughtlessly, unutterably happy as youth and love combined can be in the very face oflife's disappointments. 

 * * * * *

The first flush of her joy on meeting Luttrell being over, Molly growsonce more depressed and melancholy. 

Misfortune has so far subdued her that now she looks upon her future, not with the glad and hopeful eyes of old, but through a tearful mist, while dwelling with a sad uncertainty upon its probable results. 

When in the presence of her lover she rises out of herself, and for thetime being forgets, or appears to forget, her troubles; but when awayfrom him she grows moody and unhappy. 

Could she see but a chance of ever being able to alter her present modeof life--before youth and hope are over--she would perhaps take hercourage by both hands and compel it to remain. But no such chancepresents itself. 

To forsake Letitia is to leave her and the children to starve. For howcould Luttrell support them all on a miserable pittance of five hundredpounds a year? The idea is preposterous. It is the same old story overagain; the same now as it was four months ago, without alteration orimprovement; and, as she tells herself, will be the same four yearshence. 

Whatever Luttrell himself may think upon the subject he keeps withinhis breast, and for the first week of his stay is apparently supremelyhappy. 

Occasionally he speaks as though their marriage is a thing that sooneror later must be consummated, and will not see that when he does soMolly maintains either a dead silence or makes some dishearteningremark. 

At last she can bear it no longer; and one day toward the close of his"leave, " when his sentiments appear to be particularly sanguine, shemakes up her mind to compel him to accept a release from what must bean interminable waiting. 

"How can we go on like this, " she says, bursting into tears, "youforever entreating, I forever denying? It breaks my heart, and isunfair to you. Our engagement must end. It is for your sake I speak. "

"You are too kind. Will you not let me judge what is best for my ownhappiness?"

"No; because you are mad on this one matter. "

"You wish to release me from my promise?"

"I do. For your own good. "

"Then I will not be released. Because freedom would not lead to thedesired result. "

"It would. It must. It is useless our going on so. I can never marry. You see yourself I cannot. If you were rich, or if I were rich, why, then----"

"If you were I would not marry you, in all probability. "

"And why? Should I not be the same Molly then?" With a wan littlesmile. "Well, if you were rich I would marry you gladly, because I knowyour love for me is so great you would not feel my dear ones a burden. But as it is--yes--yes--we must part. "

"You can speak of it with admirable coolness, " says he, rathersavagely. "After all, at the best of times your love for me waslukewarm. "

"Was it?" she says, and turns away from him hurt and offended. 

"Is my love the thing of an hour, " he goes on, angry with her and withhimself in that he has displeased her, "that you should talk of thegood to be derived from the sundering of our engagement? I wish to knowwhat it is you mean. Do you want to leave yourself free to marry aricher man?"

"How you misjudge me?" she says, shrinking as if from a blow. "I shallnever marry. All I want to do is to leave you free to"--with asob--"to--choose whom you may. "

"Very good. If it pleases you to think I am free, as you call it, be itso. Our engagement is at an end. I may marry my mother's cook to-morrowmorning, if it so pleases me, without a dishonorable feeling. Is thatwhat you want? Are you satisfied now?"

"Yes. " But she is crying bitterly as she says it. 

"And do you think, my sweet, " whispers he, folding her in his arms, "that all this nonsense can take your image from my heart, or blot outthe remembrance of all your gentle ways? For my part, I doubt it. Come, why don't you smile? You have everything your own way now; you should, therefore, be in exuberant spirits. You may be on the lookout for anelderly merchant prince; I for the dusky heiress of a Southern planter. But I warn you, Molly, you shan't insist upon my marrying her, unless Ilike her better than you. "

"You accept the words, but not the spirit, of my proposition, " shesays, sadly. 

"Because it is a spiritless proposition altogether, without grace ormeaning. Come, now, don't martyr yourself any more. I am free, and youare free, and we can go on loving each other all the same. It isn'thalf a bad arrangement, and so soothing to the conscience! I always hada remorseful feeling that I was keeping you from wedding with a duke, or a city magnate, or an archbishop. In the meantime I suppose I may beallowed to visit your Highness (in anticipation) daily, as usual?"

"I suppose so. " With hesitation. 

"I wonder you didn't say no, you hard-hearted child. Not that it wouldhave made the slightest difference, as I should have come whether youliked it or not. And now come out--do; the sun is shining, and willmelt away this severe attack of the blues. Let us go into the Park andwatch for our future prey, --you for your palsied millionaire, I for myswarthy West Indian. "

CHAPTER XXXVI. 

"Turn, Fortune, turn thy wheel, and lower the proud. "

 --_Idylls of the King. _

The very next morning brings Molly the news of her grandfather's death. He had died quietly in his chair the day before without a sign, andwithout one near him. As he had lived, so had he died--alone. 

The news conveyed by Mr. Buscarlet shocks Molly greatly, and causesher, if not actual sorrow, at least a keen regret. To have him diethus, without reconciliation or one word of forgiveness, --to have himgo from this world to the next, hard of heart and unrelenting, saddensher for his soul's sake. 

The funeral is to be on Thursday, and this is Tuesday. So Mr. Buscarletwrites, and adds that, by express desire of Mr. Amherst, the will is tobe opened and read immediately after the funeral before all those whospent last autumn in his house. "Your presence, " writes the attorney, "is particularly desired. "

In the afternoon Lady Stafford drops in, laden, as usual, with goldengrain (like the Argosy), in the shape of cakes and sweetmeats for thechildren, who look upon her with much reverence in the light of amodern and much-improved Santa Claus. 

"I see you have heard of your grandfather's death by your face, " shesays, gravely. "Here, children, "--throwing them their severalpackages, --"take your property and run away while I have a chat withmamma and Auntie Molly. "

"Teddy brought us such nice sugar cigars yesterday, " says Renee, who, in her black frock and white pinafore and golden locks, looks perfectlyangelic: "only I was sorry they weren't real; the fire at the enddidn't burn one bit. "

"How do you know?"

"Because"--with an enchanting smile--"I put it on Daisy's hand, to seeif it would, and it wouldn't; and wasn't it a pity?"

"It was, indeed. I am sure Daisy sympathizes with your grief. There, goaway, you blood-thirsty child; we are very busy. "

While the children, in some remote corner of the house, are growinggradually happier and stickier, their elders discuss the last newtopic. 

"I received a letter this morning, " Cecil says, "summoning me to Herst, to hear the will read. You, too, I suppose?"

"Yes; though why I don't know. "

"I am sure he has left you something. You are his grandchild. It wouldbe unkind of him and most unjust to leave you out altogether, oncehaving acknowledged you. "

"You forget our estrangement. "

"Nevertheless, something tells me there is a legacy in store for you. Ishall go down to-morrow night, and you had better come with me. "

"Very well, " says Molly, indifferently. 

At Herst, in spite of howling winds and drenching showers, Nature isspreading abroad in haste its countless charms. Earth, strugglingdisdainfully with its worn-out garb, is striving to change its browngarment for one of dazzling green. Violets, primroses, all the myriadjoys of spring, are sweetening the air with a thousand perfumes. 

Within the house everything is subdued and hushed, as must be when themaster lies low. The servants walk on tiptoe; the common smile ischecked; conversation dwindles into compressed whispers, as though theyfear by ordinary noise to bring to life again the unloved departed. Allis gloom and insincere melancholy. 

Cecil and Molly, traveling down together, find Mrs. Darley, minus herhusband, has arrived before them. She is as delicately afflicted, asproperly distressed, as might be expected; indeed, so faithfully, andwith such perfect belief in her own powers, does she perform the pensive_rôle_, that she fails not to create real admiration in the hearts ofher beholders. Molly is especially struck, and knows some natural regretthat it is beyond _her_ either to feel or look the part. 

Marcia, thinking it wisdom to keep herself invisible, maintains a strictseclusion. The hour of her triumph approaches; she hardly dares letothers see the irrepressible exultation that her own heart knows. 

Philip has been absent since the morning; so Molly and Lady Stafforddine in the latter's old sitting-room alone, and, confessing as thehours grow late to an unmistakable dread of the "uncanny, " sleeptogether, with a view to self-support. 

 * * * * *

About one o'clock next day all is over. Mr. Amherst has been consignedto his last resting-place, --a tomb unstained by any tears. At three thewill is to be read. 

Coming out of her room in the early part of the afternoon, Cecil meetsunexpectedly with Mr. Potts, who is meandering in a depressed andaimless fashion all over the house. 

"You here, Plantagenet! Why, I thought you married to some fascinatingdamsel in the Emerald Isle, " she cannot help saying in a low voice, giving him her hand. She is glad to see his ugly, good-humored, comicalface in the gloomy house, although it _is_ surmounted by hisoffending hair. 

"So I was, --very near it, " replies he, modestly, in the same suppressedwhisper. "You never knew such a narrow escape as I had: they weredetermined to marry me----"

"'They'! You terrify me. How many of them? I had no idea they were sobad as that, --even in Ireland. "

"Oh, I mean the girl and her father. It was as near a thing aspossible; in fact, it took me all I knew to get out of it. "

"I'm not surprised at that, " says Cecil, with a short but comprehensiveglance at her companion's cheerful but rather indistinct features. 

"I don't exactly mean it was my personal appearance was theattraction, " he returns, feeling a strong inclination to explode withlaughter, as is his habit on all occasions, but quickly suppressing thedesire, as being wicked under the circumstances. The horror of deathhas not yet vanished from among them. "It was my family they wereafter, --birth, you know, --and that. Fact is, she wasn't up to themark, --wasn't good enough. Not but that she was a nice-looking girl, and had a lovely brogue. She had money too--and she had a--father! Sucha father! I think I could have stood the brogue, but I could _not_stand the father. "

"But why? Was he a lunatic? Or perhaps a Home-ruler?"

"No, "--simply, --"he was a tailor. When first I met Miss O'Rourke shetold me her paternal relative had some appointment in the Castle. So hehad. In his youthful days he had been appointed tailor to hisExcellency. It wasn't a bad appointment, I dare say; but I confess Ididn't see it. "

"It was a lucky escape. It would take a good deal of money to make meforget the broadcloth. Are you coming down-stairs now? I dare say weought to be assembling. "

"It is rather too early, I am afraid. I wish it was all done with, andI a hundred miles away from the place. The whole affair has made medownright melancholy. I hate funerals: they don't agree with me. "

"Nor yet weddings, as it seems. Well, I shall be as glad as you to quitHerst once we have installed Miss Amherst as its mistress. "

"Why not Shadwell as its master?"

"If I were a horrible betting-man, " says Cecil, "I should put all mymoney upon Marcia. I do not think Mr. Amherst cared for Philip. However, we shall see. And"--in a yet lower tone--"I hope he has notaltogether forgotten Molly. "

"I hope not indeed. But he was a strange old man. To forget MissMassereene----" Here he breathes a profound sigh. 

"Don't sigh, Plantagenet: think of Miss O'Rourke, " says Cecil, unkindly, leaving him. 

 * * * * *

One by one, and without so much as an ordinary "How d'ye do?" they haveall slipped into the dining-room. The men have assumed a morose air, which they fondly believe to be indicative of melancholy; the women, being by nature more hypocritical, present a more natural and suitableappearance. All are seated in sombre garments and dead silence. 

Marcia, in crape and silk of elaborate design, is looking calm but fullof decorous grief. Philip--who has grown almost emaciated during thesepast months--is the only one who wears successfully an impression ofthe most stolid indifference. He is leaning against one of the windows, gazing out upon the rich lands and wooded fields which so soon will beeither all his or nothing to him. After the first swift glance ofrecognition he has taken no notice of Molly, nor she of him. Ashuddering aversion fills her toward him, a distaste bordering onhorror. His very pallor, the ill-disguised misery of his wholeappearance, --which he seeks but vainly to conceal under a cold andsneering exterior, --only adds to her dislike. 

A sickening remembrance of their last meeting in the wood at Brooklynmakes her turn away from him with palpable meaning on his entrance, adding thereby one pang the more to the bitterness of his regret. Themeeting is to her a trial, --to him an agony harder to endure than hehad even imagined. 

Feeling strangely out of place and nervous, and saddened by memories ofhappy days spent in this very room so short a time ago, Molly has takena seat a little apart from the rest, and sits with loosely-folded handsupon her knees, her head bent slightly downward. 

Cecil, seeing the dejection of her attitude, leaves her own place, and, drawing a chair close to hers, takes one of her hands softly betweenher own. 

Then the door opens, and Mr. Buscarlet, with a sufficiently subduedthough rather triumphant and consequential air, enters. 

He bows obsequiously to Marcia, who barely returns the salute. Detestable little man! She finds some consolation in the thought thatat all events his time is nearly over; that probably--nay, surely--heis now about to administer law for the last time at Herst. 

He bows in silence to the rest of the company, --with marked deferenceto Miss Massereene, --and then involuntarily each one stirs in his orher seat and settles down to hear the will read. 

A will is a mighty thing, and requires nice handling. Would that I werelawyer enough to give you this particular one in full, with all itsmany bequests and curious directions. But, alas! ignorance forbids. Thesense lingers with me, but all the technicalities and running phrasesand idiotic repetitions have escaped me. 

To most of those present Mr. Amherst has left bequests; to LadyStafford five thousand pounds; to Plantagenet Potts two thousandpounds; to Mrs. Darley's son the same; to all the servants handsomesums of money, together with a year's wages; to Mrs. Nesbit, thehousekeeper, two hundred pounds a year for her life. And then theattorney pauses and assumes an important air, and every one knows theend is nigh. 

All the rest of his property of which he died possessed--all thehouses, lands, and moneys--all personal effects--"I give and bequeathto----"

Here Mr. Buscarlet, either purposely or otherwise, stops short to coughand blow a sonorous note upon his nose. All eyes are fixed upon him;some, even more curious or eager than the others, are leaning forwardin their chairs. Even Philip has turned from the window and is waitingbreathlessly. 

"To my beloved grandchild, Eleanor Massereene!"

Not a sound follows this announcement, not a movement. Then Marcia halfrises from her seat; and Mr. Buscarlet, putting up his hand, says, hurriedly, "There is a codicil, " and every one prepares once more tolisten. 

But the codicil produces small effect. The old man at the last momentevidently relented so far in his matchless severity as to leave MarciaAmherst ten thousand pounds (and a sealed envelope, which Mr. Buscarlethands her), on the condition that she lives out of England; and toPhilip Shadwell ten thousand pounds more, --and another sealedenvelope, --which the attorney also delivers on the spot. 

As the reading ceases, another silence, even more profound than thefirst, falls upon the listeners. No one speaks, no one so much asglances at the other. 

Marcia, ghastly, rigid, rises from her seat. 

"It is false, " she says, in a clear, impassioned tone. "It is the willof an imbecile, --a madman. It shall not be. " She has lost allself-restraint, and is trembling with fear and rage and a terriblecertainty of defeat. 

"Pardon me, Miss Amherst, " says Mr. Buscarlet, courteously, "but I fearyou will find it unwise to lay any stress on such a thought. To disputethis will would be madness indeed: all the world knows my old friend, your grandfather, died in perfect possession of his senses, and thiswill was signed three months ago. "

"You drew up this will, sir?" she asks in a low tone, only intended forhim, drawing closer to him. 

"Certainly I did, madam. "

"And during all these past months understood thoroughly how matterswould be?"

"Certainly, madam. "

"And knowing, continued still--with a view to deceive me--to treat meas the future mistress of Herst?"

"I trust, madam, I always treated you with proper respect. You wouldnot surely have had me as rude to you as you invariably were to me? Imay not be a gentleman, Miss Amherst, in your acceptation of that term, but I make it a rule never to be--offensive. "

"It was a low--a mean revenge, " says Marcia, through her teeth, hereyes aflame, her lips colorless; "one worthy of you. I understand you, sir; but do not for an instant think you have crushed _me_. "Raising her head haughtily, she sweeps past him back to her originalseat. 

Molly has risen to her feet. She is very pale and faint; her eyes, large and terrified, like a fawn's, are fixed, oddly enough, uponPhilip. The news has been too sudden, too unexpected, to cause her eventhe smallest joy as yet. On the contrary, she knows only pity for himwho, but a few minutes before, she was reviling in her thoughts. Perhaps the sweetness of her sympathy is the one thing that could haveconsoled Philip just then. 

"'Farewell, a long farewell to all my greatness, '" he says, with alittle sneering laugh, shrugging his shoulders. Then, rousing himself, he draws a long breath, and goes straight up to Molly. 

"Permit me to congratulate you, " he says, with wonderful grace, considering all things. He is standing before her, with his handsomehead well up, a certain pride of birth about him, strong enough tocarry him successfully through this great and lasting disaster. "It is, after all, only natural that of the three you should inherit. Surpriseshould lie in the fact that never did such a possibility occur to us. We might have known that even our grandfather's worn and stony heartcould not be proof against such grace and sweetness as yours. "

He bows over her hand courteously, and, turning away, walks back againto the window, standing with his face hidden from them all. 

Never has he appeared to such advantage. Never has he been sothoroughly liked as at this moment. Molly moves as though she would goto him; but Cecil, laying her hand upon her arm, wisely restrains her. What can be said to comfort him, who has lost home, and love, and all?

"It is all a mistake; it cannot be true, " says Molly, piteously. "It isa mistake. " She looks appealingly at Cecil, who, wise woman that sheis, only presses her arm again meaningly, and keeps a discreet silence. To express her joy at the turn events have taken at this time would begross; though not to express it goes hard with Cecil. She contentsherself with glancing expressively at Sir Penthony every now and then, who is standing at the other end of the room. 

"I also congratulate you, " says Luttrell, coming forward, and speakingfor the first time. He is not nearly so composed as Shadwell, and hisvoice has a strange and stilted sound. He speaks so that Molly andCecil alone can hear him, delicacy forbidding any open expression ofpleasure. "With all my heart, " he adds; but his tone is strange. Thewhole speech is evidently a lie. His eyes meet hers with an expressionin them she has never seen there before, --so carefully cold it is, sostudiously unloving. 

Molly is too agitated to speak to him, but she lifts her head, andshows him a face full of the keenest reproach. Her pleading look, however, is thrown away, as he refuses resolutely to meet her gaze. With an abrupt movement he turns away and leaves the room, and, as theyafterward discover, the house. 

Meantime, Marcia has torn open her envelope, and read its enclosure. Ablotted sheet half covered with her own writing, --the very letter begunand lost in the library last October; that, being found, has condemnedher. With a half-stifled groan she lets it flutter to the ground, whereit lies humbled in the dust, an emblem of all her falsely-cherishedhopes. 

Philip, too, having examined his packet, has brought to light thatfatal letter of last summer that has so fully convicted him of unlawfuldealings with Jews. Twice he reads it, slowly, thoughtfully, and then, casting one quick, withering glance at Marcia (under which she cowers), he consigns it to his pocket without a word. 

The play is played out. The new mistress of Herst has been carried awayby Cecil Stafford to her own room; the others have dispersed. Philipand Marcia Amherst are alone. 

Marcia, waking from her reverie, makes a movement as though she, too, would quit the apartment, but Shadwell, coming deliberately up to her, bars her exit. Laying his hand gently but firmly on her wrist, hecompels her to both hear and remain. 

"You betrayed me?" he says, between his teeth. "You gave thisletter"--producing it--"to my grandfather? I trusted you, and youbetrayed me. "

"I did, " she answers, with forced calmness. 

"Why?"

"Because--I loved you. "

"You!" with a harsh grating laugh. It is with difficulty he restrainshis passion. "_You_ to love! And is it by ruining those upon whomyou bestow your priceless affection you show the depth of yourdevotion? Pah! Tell me the truth. Did you want all, and have you beenjustly punished?"

"I _have_ told you the truth, " she answers, vehemently. "I was madenough to love you even then, when I saw against my will your wildinfatuation for that designing----"

"Hush!" he interrupts her, imperiously, in a low, dangerous tone. "Ifyou are speaking of Miss Massereene, I warn you it is unsafe toproceed. Do not mention her. Do not utter her name. I forbid you. "

"So be it! Your punishment has been heavier than any I could inflict. --Youwant to know why I showed that letter to the old man, and I will tellyou. I thought, could I but gain _all_ Herst, I might, through it, winyou back to my side. I betrayed you for that alone. I debased myself inmy own eyes for that sole purpose. I have failed in all things. Myhumiliation is complete. I do not ask your forgiveness, Philip; I craveonly--your forbearance. Grant me that at least, for the old days' sake!"

But he will not. He scarcely heeds her words, so great is the fury thatconsumes him. 

"You would have bought my love!" he says, with a bitter sneer. "Know, then, that with a dozen Hersts at your back, I loathe you too much everto be more to you than I now am, and that is--nothing. "

Quietly but forcibly he puts her from him, and leaves the room. Outsidein the hall he encounters Sir Penthony, who has been lingering therewith intent to waylay him. However rejoiced Stafford may be at Molly'sluck, he is profoundly grieved for Philip. 

"I know it is scarcely form to express sympathy on such occasions, " hesays, with some hesitation, laying his hand on Shadwell's shoulder. "But I must tell you how I regret, for your sake, all that has takenplace. "

"Thank you, Stafford. You are one of the very few whose sympathy isnever oppressive. But do not be uneasy about me, " with a short laugh. "I dare say I shall manage to exist. I have five hundred a year of myown, and my grandfather's thoughtfulness has made it a thousand. Nodoubt I shall keep body and soul together, though there is nodisguising the fact that I feel keenly the difference between onethousand and twenty. "

"My dear fellow, I am glad to see you take it so well. I don't believethere are a dozen men of my acquaintance who would be capable ofshowing such pluck as you have done. "

"I have always had a fancy for exploring. I shall go abroad and seesome life; the sooner the better. I thank you with all my heart, Stafford, for your kindness. I thank you--and"--with a slight break inhis voice--"good-bye!"

He presses Stafford's hand warmly, and, before the other can reply, isgone. 

Half an hour later, Marcia, sweeping into her room in a torrent ofpassion impossible to quell, summons her maid by a violent attack onher bell. 

"Take off this detested mourning, " she says to the astonished girl. "Remove it from my sight. And get me a colored gown and a Bradshaw. "

The maid, half frightened, obeys, and that night Marcia Amherst quitsher English home forever. 

CHAPTER XXXVII. 

"Fare thee well! and if forever, Still forever, fare thee well!"

 --Byron. 

"Oh, Cecil! now I can marry Tedcastle, " says Molly, at the end of along and exhaustive conversation that has taken place in her own room. She blushes a little as she says it; but it is honestly her firstthought, and she gives utterance to it. "Letitia, too, and thechildren, --I can provide for them. I shall buy back dear old Brooklyn, and give it to them, and they shall be happy once more. "

"I agree with Lord Byron, " says Cecil, laughing. "'Money makes the man;the want of it, his fellow. ' You ought to feel like some princess outof the Arabian Nights' Entertainments. "

"I feel much more like an intruder. What right have I to Herst? Whatshall I do with so much money?"

"Spend it. There is nothing simpler. Believe me, no one was ever inreality embarrassed by her riches, notwithstanding all they say. Thewhole thing is marvelous. Who could have anticipated such an event? Iam sorry I ever said anything disparaging of that dear, delightful, genial, kind-hearted, sociable, generous old gentleman, yourgrandfather. "

"Don't jest, " says Molly, who is almost hysterical. "I feel more likecrying yet. But I am glad at least to know he forgave me before hedied. Poor grandpapa! Cecil, I want so much to see Letitia. "

"Of course, dear. Well, "--consulting her watch, --"I believe we may aswell be getting ready if we mean to catch the next train. Will not itbe a charming surprise for Letitia? I quite envy you the telling ofit. "

"I want you to tell it. I am so nervous I know I shall never getthrough it without frightening her out of her wits. Do come with me, Cecil, and break the news yourself. "

"Nothing I should like better, " says Cecil. "Put on your bonnet and letus be off. "

Ringing the bell, she orders round the carriage, and presently she andMolly are wending their way down the stairs. 

At the very end of the long, beautiful old hall, stands PhilipShadwell, taking, it may be, a last look from the window, of the placeso long regarded as his own. 

As they see him, both girls pause, and Molly's lips lose something oftheir fresh, warm color. 

"Go and speak to him now, " says Cecil, and, considerately remembering ahypothetical handkerchief, retraces her steps to the room she had justquitted. 

"Philip!" says Molly, timidly, going up to him. 

He turns with a start, and colors a dark red on seeing her, but neithermoves nor offers greeting. 

"Oh, Philip! let me do something for you, " says Molly impulsively, without preparation, and with tears in her eyes. "I have robbed you, though unwittingly. Let me make amends. Out of all I have let me giveyou----"

"The only thing I would take from you it is out of your power to give, "he interrupts her, gently. 

"Do not say so, " she pleads, in trembling tones. "I do not want all themoney. I cannot spend it. I do not care for it. _Do_ take some ofit, Philip. Let me share----"

"Impossible, child!" with a faint smile. "You don't know what you aresaying. " Then, with an effort, "You are going to marry Luttrell?"

"Yes, "--blushing, until she looks like a pale, sweet rose with adrooping head. 

"How rich to overflowing are some, whilst others starve!" he says, bitterly, gazing at her miserably, filling his heart, his senses, forthe last time, with a view of her soft and perfect loveliness. Then, ina kinder tone, "I hope you will be happy, and"--slowly--"he too, thoughthat is a foregone conclusion. " He pales a little here, and stops asthough half choking. "Yes, he has my best wishes, --for your sake, " hegoes on, unsteadily. "Tell him so from me, though we have not been goodfriends of late. "

"I will surely tell him. "

"Good-bye!" he says, taking her hand. Something in his expression makesher exclaim, anxiously:

"For the present?"

"No; forever. Herst and England have grown hateful to me. I leave themas soon as possible. Good-bye, my beloved!" he whispers, in deepagitation. "I only ask you not to quite forget me, though I hope--_Ihope_--I shall never look upon your sweet face again. "

So he goes, leaving his heart behind him, carrying with him evermore, by land and sea, this only, --the vision of her he loves as last he seesher, weeping sad and bitter tears for him. 

 * * * * *

A quarter of an hour later, as Molly and Cecil are stepping into thecarriage meant to convey them to the station, one of the servants, running up hurriedly, hands Miss Massereene a letter. 

"Another?" says Cecil, jestingly, as the carriage starts. "Sealedenvelopes, like private bomb-shells, seem to be the order of the day. Ido hope this one does not emanate from your grandfather, desiring youto refund everything. "

"It is from Tedcastle, " says Molly, surprised. Then she opens it, andreads as follows:

 "Taking into consideration the enormous change that has occurred in your fortunes since this morning, I feel it only just to you and myself to write and absolve you from all ties by which you may fancy yourself still connected with me. You will remember that in our last conversation together in London you yourself voluntarily decided on severing our engagement. Let your decision now stand. Begin your new life without hampering regrets, without remorseful thoughts of me. To you I hope this money may bring happiness; to me, through you, it has brought lasting pain; and when, a few minutes ago, I said I congratulated you from my heart, I spoke falsely. I say this only to justify my last act in your eyes. I will not tell you what it costs me to write you this; you know me well enough to understand. I shall exchange with a friend of mine, and sail for India in a week or two, or at least as soon as I can; but wherever I am, or whatever further misfortunes may be in store for me, be assured your memory will always be my greatest--possibly my only--treasure. "

"What can he mean?" says Molly, looking up. She does not appeargrieved; she is simply indignant. An angry crimson flames on her faircheeks. 

"Quixotism!" says Cecil, when she, too, has read the letter. "Was thereever such a silly boy?"

"Oh! it is worse than anything, --so cold, so terse, so stupid. And notan affectionate word all through, or a single regret. "

"My dear child, that is its only redeeming point. He is evidentlysincere in his desire for martyrdom. Had he gone into heroics I shouldmyself have gone to Ireland (where I suppose he soon must be) tochastise him. But as it is---- Poor Tedcastle! He looks upon it as apoint of honor. "

"It is unbearable, " says Molly, angrily. "Does he think such a paltrything as money could interfere with my affection for him?"

"Molly, beware! You are bordering on the heroics now. Money is not apaltry thing; it is about the best thing going. _I_ can sympathizewith Tedcastle if you cannot. He felt he had no right to claim thepromise of such a transcendently beautiful being as you, now you haveadded to your other charms twenty thousand a year. He thinks of yourfuture; he acknowledges you a bride worthy any duke in the land (men inlove"--maliciously--"_will_ dote, you know); he thinks of theworld and its opinion, and how fond they are of applying the word'fortune-hunter' when they get the chance, and it is not a prettysobriquet. "

"He should have thought of nothing but me. Had he come into a fortune, "says Molly, severely, "I should have been delighted, and I should havemarried him instantly. "

"Quite so. But who ever heard the opprobrious term 'fortune-hunter'given to a woman? It is the legitimate thing for us to sell ourselvesas dearly as we can. "

"But, Cecil, "--forlornly, --"what am I to do now?"

"If you will take my advice, nothing, --for two or three weeks. Hecannot sail for India before then, and do his best. Preserve anoffended silence. Then obtain an interview with him by fair means, or, if not, by foul. "

"You unscrupulous creature!" Molly says, smiling; but after a littlereflection she determines to abide by her friend's counsel. "Horrible, hateful letter, " she says, tearing it up and throwing it out of thewindow. "I wish I had never read you. I am happier now you are gone. "

"So am I. It was villainously worded and very badly written. "

"I don't know that, " begins Molly, warmly; and then she stops short, and they both laugh. "And you, Cecil--what of you? Am I mistaken inthinking you and Sir Penthony are--are----"

"Yes, we are, " says Cecil, smiling and coloring brilliantly. "As you sographically express it, we actually--_are_. At present, like you, we are formally engaged. "

"Really?"--delighted. "I always knew you loved him. And so you havegiven in at last?"

"Through sheer exhaustion, and merely with a view to stop furtherpersecution. When a man comes to you day after day, asking you whetheryou love him yet, ten to one you say yes in the end, whether it be thetruth or not. We all know what patience and perseverance can do. But Idesire you, Molly, never to lose sight of the fact that I am consentingto be his only to escape his importunities. "

"I quite understand. But, dear Cecil, I am so rejoiced. "

"Are you, dear?"--provokingly. "And why?--I thought to have a secondmarriage, if only for the appearance of the thing; but it seems Icannot. So we are going to Kamtschatka, or Bath, or Timbuctoo, orHong-Kong, or Halifax, for our wedding tour, I really don't know which, and I would not presume to dictate. That is, if I do not change my mindbetween that and this. "

"And when is that?"

"The seventeenth of next month. He wanted to make it the first ofApril; but I said I was committing folly enough without reminding allthe world of it. So he succumbed. I wish, Molly, you could be marriedon the same day. "

"What am I to do with a lover who refuses to take me?" says Molly, witha rueful laugh. "I dare say I shall be an old maid after all. "

CHAPTER XXXVIII. 

"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 beenterribly, wearisomely long, have dragged to their close. Not that theyhave been spent in idleness; much business has been transacted, manyplans 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 forthe first two of those interminable weeks, and of his appearance inLondon during the third, where he was seeking an exchange into someregiment ordered on foreign service; but whether he has or has not beensuccessful in his search she is supremely ignorant. 

Brooklyn, her dear old home, having been discovered on hergrandfather's death to be still in the market, has been bought back forher by Mr. Buscarlet, and here Letitia--with her children andMolly--feels happier and more contented than she could ever havebelieved to be again possible. 

Seated at breakfast, watched over by the faithful Sarah, withoutapparent cause for uneasiness, there is, nevertheless, an air ofuncertainty and expectation about Mrs. Massereene and her sister thatmakes itself known even to their attendant on this particular morningin early April of which I write. 

In vain does Sarah, with a suppressed attempt at coaxing, place thevarious 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 kindlybarter of their plates for Molly's, which leaves them an undividedprofit, contrive to clear the table. 

Presently, Molly having refused languidly some delicate steaming cakesof Sarah's own making, that damsel leaves the room in high dudgeon, andMolly leans back in her chair. 

"Tell me again, Letty, what you wrote to him, " she says, letting hereyes wander through the window, all down the avenue, up which thepostman 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. AndI also told him, to please you, "--smiling, --"what was an undeniablelie, --that, but for the children, I was here alone. "

"Quite right, " says Miss Massereene, unblushingly. Then, withconsiderable impatience, "Will that postman _never_ come?"

All country posts are irregular, and this one is not a pleasantexception. To-day, to create aggravation, it is at least one goodhalf-hour later than usual. When at length, however, it does come, itbrings the expected letter from Luttrell. 

"Open it quickly, --quickly, Letty, " says her sister, and Letitiahastens 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 twoweeks at furthest, and that, as he had never at any time contemplatedleaving England without bidding Mrs. Massereene good-bye, he wouldseize the opportunity--she being _now alone_ (heavily dashed)--torun down to Brooklyn to see her this very day. 

"Oh, Letty! to-day!" exclaims Molly, paling and flushing, and palingagain. "How I wish it was tomorrow!"

"Could there be any one more inconsistent than you, my dear Molly? Youhave been praying for three whole weeks to see him, and now your prayeris 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 Ido then?"

"Nonsense, my dear! When once he sees you, he will forget all hisridiculous pride, and throw himself, like a sensible man, at yourfeet. "

"I wish I could think so. Letty, "--tearfully, and in a distinctlywheedling tone, --"wouldn't _you_ speak to him?"

"Indeed I would not, " says Letitia, indignantly. "What, after writingthat lie! No, you must of course see him yourself. And, indeed, my dearchild, "--laughing, --"you have only to meet him, wearing the lugubriousexpression you at present exhibit, to melt his heart, were it thestoniest one in Europe. See, "--drawing her to a mirror, --"was thereever such a Dolores?"

Seeing her own forlorn visage, Molly instantly laughs, thereby ruiningforever the dismal look of it that might have stood her in such goodstead. 

"I suppose he will dine, " says Letitia, thoughtfully. "I must go speakto 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, --"youhave exactly four hours in which to make yourself beautiful, as hecannot possibly be here before two. And if in that time you cannotcreate a costume calculated to reduce him to slavery, I shall lose mygood opinion of you. By the bye, Molly, "--earnestly, and with somethingakin to anxiety, --"do you think he likes meringues?"

"How can you be so foolish?" says Miss Massereene, reprovingly. "Ofcourse if he dines he will be in the humor to like anything I like, andI _love_ meringues. But if not, --if not, "--with a heavy sigh, --"youcan 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 givenstrict orders to Sarah to send Mr. Luttrell there when he arrives, insearch of Mrs. Massereene. 

She has dressed herself with great care, and very becomingly, being oneof those people who know instantly, by instinct, the exact shade andstyle that suits them. Besides which, she has too much good taste andtoo much good sense to be a slave to that tyrant, Fashion. 

Here and there the fruit-trees are throwing out tender buds, thatglance half shrinkingly upon the world, and show a desire to nestleagain amidst their leaves, full of a regret that they have left so soontheir wiser sisters. 

There is a wonderful sweetness in the air, --a freshnessindescribable, --a rare spring perfume. Myriad violets gleam up at her, white and purple, from the roots of apple-trees, inviting her to gatherthem. 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 unutterablehope in her own heart overpowers their sweetness?

All her thoughts are centred on the impending interview. How if sheshall fail after all? What then? Her heart sinks within her, her handsgrow cold with fear. On the instant the blackness of her life in such acase spreads itself out before her like a map, --the lonelypilgrimage, --the unlovely journey, without companionship, or warmth, orpleasant sunshine. 

Then she hears the click of the garden gate, and the firm, quick stepof him who comes to her up the hilly path between the strawberry-beds. 

Drawing a deep breath, she shrinks within the shelter of a friendlylaurel 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, allher inward trembling, vanishes, and she declares to herself thatvictory shall lie with her. 

He has grown decidedly thinner. Around his beautiful mouth a line ofsadness has fallen, not to be concealed even by his drooping moustache. He looks five years older. His blue eyes, too, have lost theirlaughter, and are full of a settled melancholy. Altogether, he presentssuch 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 understoodfrom Mrs. Massereene you were at Herst. Had I known the truth, I shouldnot have come. "

"I knew that; and the lie was mine, --not Letitia's. I made her write itbecause I was determined to see you again. How do you do, Teddy?" saysMiss Massereene, coming up to him, smiling saucily, although a littletremulously. "Will you not even shake hands with me?"

He takes her hand, presses it coldly, and drops it again almostinstantly. 

"I am glad to see you looking so well, " he says, gravely, perhapsreproachfully. 

"I am sorry to see you looking so ill, " replies she, softly, and thenbegins to wonder what on earth she shall say next. 

Mr. Luttrell, with his cane, takes the heads off two unoffendingcrocuses that, most unwisely, have started up within his reach. He isthe gentlest-natured fellow alive, but he feels a vicious pleasure inthe decapitation of those yellow, harmless flowers. His eyes are on theground. He is evidently bent on silence. On such occasions what isthere that can be matched in stupidity with a man?

"I got your letter, " Molly says, awkwardly, when the silence has gonepast 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, detectingthe drop of acid in his tone. "And, even if I had written then, I shouldonly have said some harsh things that might have hurt you. I think I waswise in keeping silence. "

"You were. But I cannot see how you have followed up your wisdom byhaving me here to-day. "

There is a little pause, and, then:

"I wanted so much to see you, " murmurs she, in the softest, sweetest ofvoices. 

He winces, and shifts his position uneasily, but steadily refuses tomeet her beseeching eyes. He visits two more unhappy crocuses withcapital 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 modulatedtone. "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? Justas I began to see some chance of happiness before us, you ran away (youa soldier, to show the white feather!), and thereby ruined all theenjoyment 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 areangry 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, andwhen, by some most fortunate and unlooked-for chance, it fell to mylot, 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 knowall is over between us. The last time we met in London you yourselfbroke our engagement, and now do you think I shall suffer you to renewit? I am not so selfish as you imagine. I am no match for you now. Youmust forget me (it will not be difficult, I dare say), and it would bea 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 yourdying 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 despisethe poor concert-singer. Were you not devoted to me then, when I hadbut few friends? Were you ashamed of me then?"

"Ashamed of you!"

"Once you threw me over, " says Molly, with a smile that suits themonth, 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 thinkas I do. "

Two little tears steal from under her heavily-fringed lids, and rundown her cheeks. Going nearer to him, she hesitates, glances at himshyly, 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. Heinstantly encircles her with his arms. 

"See, I am asking you to marry me, " says Molly, raising dewy eyes tohis, and blushing one of her rare, sweet blushes. "I _beg_ you totake me. If, after that, you refuse me, I shall die of shame. Why don'tyou 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 thiscursed money----"

"Never mind the money. What do I care whether I am rich or poor? I careonly 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 facedangerously close to his; and Tedcastle, stooping, forges the last linkthat binds him to her forever. 

"Ah!" says Molly, presently, laughing gayly, although the tears stilllie wet upon her cheeks, "did you imagine for one instant you couldescape _me_? At first I was so angry I almost determined to letyou go, --as punishment; but afterward"--mischievously--"I began tothink how unhappy you would be, and I relented. "

"Then I suppose I must now buy you another ring for this dear littlefinger, " says he, smiling, and pressing it to his lips. 

"No, "--running her hand into her pocket, "at least, not an engagementring. You may get me any other kind you like, because I am fond ofrings; 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 withinthe original diamonds--his first gift to her--lying gleaming in theirrich new setting. "These are yours; I saved them from the fire that dayyou 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 naughtytemper 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 toask my hand in marriage!'"

"I will not, "--laughing. 

"You must. You are my property now, and must do as I bid you. So youmay 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 thefuture. 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? Andall because--I cannot do without you. Oh, Teddy, " cries Molly Bawn, suddenly, and without a word of warning, bursting into a passion oftears, and flinging herself into his willing arms, "are you notglad--_glad_--that we belong to each other again?"

"Time will show you how glad, " replies he, softly. "I know now I couldnot have lived without you, my sweet, --my _darling_!"

THE END.