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