"'Oh! 'twas I, love;Wandering by, love,'"
"'Oh! 'twas I, love;Wandering by, love,'"
"'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, be comforted. I was terrified in my turn by your long absence; so much so that, without a candle, I crept down-stairs, stole along the hall, and looked into the drawing-room. Seeing no one, I retreated, and gained my own 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-place step by step! A splendid situation absolutely thrown away."
"You and Mr. Potts ought to be brother and sister, you both revel so in the 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 delightNo more, O never more."
"Death is here, and death is there;Death is busy everywhere;All around, within, beneath,Above is death,—and we are death.
"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 delightNo more, O never more."
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. They have struggled manfully through their prayers. They have chanted a depressing psalm or two to the most tuneless of ancient ditties. They have even sat out an incomprehensible sermon with polite gravity and many 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 way back to Herst through the dismantled wood.
The trees are nearly naked: a short, sad, consumptive wind is soughing through them. The grass—what remains of it—is brown, of an unpleasant hue. No flowers smile up at them as they pass quietly along. The sky is leaden. There is a general air of despondency over everything. It is a day laid aside for dismal reflection; a day on which hateful "might have 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 of good when coupled; messengers of evil when apart) fly past them directly across their path.
"'Two for joy!'" cries Molly, gayly, glad of any interruption to her depressing thoughts. "I saw them first. The luck is mine."
"I thinkIsaw them first," says Sir Penthony, with no object beyond a laudable desire to promote argument.
"Now, how could you?" says Molly. "I am quite twenty yards ahead of you, and must have seen them come round this corner first. Now, what shall I get, I wonder? Something worth getting, I do hope."
"'Blessed are they that expect nothing, for they shall not be disappointed,'" says Mr. Potts, moodily, who is as gloomy as the day. "I expect nothing."
"You are jealous," retorts Molly. "Sour grapes,"—making a smallmoueat him. "But you have no claim upon this luck; it is all my own. 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 thinking how prophetic are her words.
They continue their walk and their interrupted thoughts,—the latter leading them in all sorts of contrary directions,—some to love, some to hate, some to cold game-pie and dry champagne.
As they enter the hall at Herst, one of the footmen steps forward and hands Molly an ugly yellow envelope.
"Why, here is my luck, perhaps!" cries she, gayly. "How soon it has come! Now, what can be in it? Let us all guess."
She is surprised, and her cheeks have flushed a little. Her face is full of laughter. Her sweet eyes wander from one to another, asking them to join in her amusement. No thought, no faintest suspicion of the awful truth occurs to her, although only a thin piece of paper conceals it from her view.
"A large fortune, perhaps," says Sir Penthony; while the others close round her, laughing, too. Only Luttrell stands apart, calmly indifferent.
"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 flattering haste,—such a desire for a kind reply. Remember,"—with her finger under the lap of the envelope,—"if the last surmise proves correct I have almost said yes."
She breaks open the paper, and, smiling still, daintily unfolds the enclosure.
What a few words!—two or three strokes of the pen. Yet what a change they make in the beautiful,debonnairecountenance! Black as ink they stand out beneath her stricken eyes. Oh, cruel hand that penned them so abruptly!
"Come home at once. Make no delay. Your brother is dead."
"Come home at once. Make no delay. Your brother is dead."
Gray as death grows her face; her body turns to stone. So altered is she in this brief space, that when she raises her head some shrink away from her, and some cry out.
"Oh, Molly! what is it?" asks Lady Stafford, panic-stricken, seizing her by the arm; while Luttrell, scarcely less white than the girl herself, 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. Their silence evidently puzzles her. Her large eyes wander helplessly over all their faces, until at length they fall on Luttrell's. Here they rest, 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 and caressing her as best she can. But all her soothing and caressing falls on 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 bear than the passive one of waiting when distress and love call loudly for assistance.
Her eyes are dry and tearless; her whole body burns like fire with a dull and throbbing heat. She is composed but restless.
"Will it soon be day?" she asks Cecil, almost every half hour, with a fierce impatience,—her entire being full of but one idea, which is to reach her home as soon as possible.
And again:
"If I had not fainted I might have been there now. Why did I miss that train? Why did you let me faint?"
In vain Cecil strives to comfort; no thought comes to her but a mad craving for the busy day.
At last it comes, slowly, sweetly. The gray dawn deepens into rose, the sun flings abroad its young and chilly beams upon the earth. It is the opening of a glorious morn. How often have we noticed in our hours of direst grief how it is then Nature chooses to deck herself in all her fairest and best, as though to mock us with the very gayety and splendor of her charms!
At half-past seven an early train is starting. Long before that time she is dressed, with her hat and jacket on, fearful lest by any delay she should miss it; and when at length the carriage is brought round to the door she runs swiftly down the stairs to meet it.
In the hall below, awaiting her, stands Luttrell, ready to accompany her.
"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 kisses Molly, who hardly returns the caress, and puts her into the carriage, and, pressing Luttrell's hand warmly, watches them until they are driven out of her sight.
During all the long drive not one word does Molly utter. Neither does Luttrell, 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 empty carriage, and, placing a rug round her, seats himself at the farthest end of the compartment from her,—so little does he seek to intrude upon her grief. And yet she takes no heed of him. He might, indeed, be absent, or the veriest stranger, so little does his presence seem to affect her. Leaning rather forward, with her hands clasped upon her knees, 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, moved by compassion, he ventures to address her.
"I wish you could cry, my poor darling," he says, tenderly, taking her hand and fondling it between his own.
"Tears could not help me," she answers. And then, as though aroused by his voice, she says, uneasily, "Why are you here?"
"Because I am his friend and—yours," he returns, gently, making allowance for her small show of irritation.
"True," she says, and no more. Five minutes afterward they reach Brooklyn.
The door stands wide open. All the world could have entered unrebuked into that silent hall. What need now for bars and bolts? When the Great Thief has entered in and stolen from them their best, what heart have they to guard against lesser thefts?
Luttrell follows Molly into the house, his face no whit less white than her own. A great pain is tugging at him,—a pain that is almost an agony. For what greater suffering is there than to watch with unavailing sympathy the anguish of those we love?
He touches her lightly on the arm to rouse her, for she has stood stock-still in the very middle of the hall,—whether through awful fear, 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 with Mrs. Massereene. I am afraid for you. Suppose you should—suppose—you do not even know—theroom," he winds up, desperately. "Let me guard you against such an awful surprise as that."
"I do," she answers, pointing, with a shudder, to one room farther on that branches off the hall. "It—is there. Leave me; I shall be better by 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 care of the garden and general out-door work at Brooklyn.
"It is a terrible thing, sir," this ancient individual says, touching his hat to Luttrell, who had been rather a favorite with him during his stay last summer. He speaks without being addressed, feeling as though the sad catastrophe that has occurred has leveled some of the etiquette existing 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 has understood for many years most of John Massereene's affairs, having lived with him from boy to man; "'twas money that did it. He had invested all he had, as it might be, and he lost it, and the shock went to his heart and killed him. Poor soul! poor soul!"
"Disease of the heart. Who would have suspected it? And he has lost all. Surely something remains?"
"Only a few hundreds, sir, as I hear,—nothing to signify,—for the poor mistress and the wee bits. It is a fearful thing, sir, and bad to think of. And there's Miss Molly, too. I never could abide them spickilations, as they're called."
"Poor John Massereene!" says Luttrell, taking off his hat. "He meant no harm to any one,—least of all to those who were nearest to his kindly heart."
"Ay, ay, man and boy I knew him. He was always kind and true, was the master,—with no two ways about him. When the letter came as told him all 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, and then fell down heart-broken upon the floor. Dead he was—stone dead—afore any of us came to him. The poor missis it was as found him first."
"It is too horrible," says Luttrell, shuddering. He nods his head to the old man and walks away from him down to the village inn, depressed and saddened.
The gardener's news has been worse than even he anticipated. To be bereft of their dearest is bad enough, but to be thrown penniless on the mercies of the cold and cruel—nay, rather thoughtless—world is surely an aggravation of their misery. Death at all times is a calamity; but when it leaves the mourners without actual means of support, how much sadder a thing it is! To know one's comforts shall remain unimpaired after the loss of one's beloved is—in spite of all indignant 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."
"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."
"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 with a curious intentness, to his parting footfalls, as the last one dies away draws herself up and, with a sigh or two, moves instinctively toward the door she had pointed out to Luttrell.
No one has told her, no hint has reached her ears. It is not his usual bedroom, yet she knows that within that door lies all that remains to her of the brother so fondly loved.
With slow and lagging steps, with bent head and averted eyes, she creeps tardily near, resting with her hand upon the lock to summon courage to meet what must be before her. She feels faint,—sick with a bodily sickness,—for never yet has she come face to face with Death.
At last, bringing her teeth firmly together, and closing her eyes, by an 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, her hands folded tightly in her lap. There is no appearance of mourning so far as garments are concerned. Of course, considering the shortness of the time, it would be impossible: yet it seems odd, out of keeping, that she should still be wearing that soft blue serge, which is associated with so many happy hours.
She is not weeping: there are no traces, however faint, of tears. Her cheeks look a little thinner, more haggard, and she has lost the delicate girlish color that was her chief charm; but her eyes, though black circles surround them,—so black as to suggest the appliance of art,—have an unnatural brilliancy that utterly precludes the possibility of crying.
Some one has pulled a piece of the blind to one side, and a fitful gleam of sunlight, that dances in a heartless manner, flickers in and out of the room, nay, even strays in its ghastly mirth across the bed where 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 slowly raises 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, that makes Molly shiver, turning her head in the direction of the bed, and opening and shutting her hands with a peculiarly expressive, empty gesture. Afterward she goes back to her original position, her face bent downward, her body swaying gently to and fro.
Reluctantly, with trembling steps and hidden eyes, Molly forces herself to approach the dreaded spot. For the first time she is about to look on our undying foe,—to make acquaintance with the last great change of all.
A cold hand has closed upon her heart; she is consumed by an awesome, unconquerable shrinking. She feels a difficulty in breathing; almost she 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 passionate feeling of relief, as the white sheet that covers all alone meets her gaze.
And yet not all. A second later, and a dread more awful than the first overpowers her, for there, beneath the fair, pure linen shroud, the features are clearly marked, the form can be traced; she can assure herself of the shape of the head,—the nose,—the hands folded so quietly, so obediently, in their last eternal sleep upon the cold breast. But no faintest breathing stirs them. He is dead!
Her eyes grow to this fearful thing. To steady herself she lays her hand upon the back of a chair. Not for all the world contains would she lean upon that bed, lest by any chance she should disturb the quiet sleeper. The other hand she puts out in trembling silence to raise a corner of the sheet.
"Icannot," she groans aloud, withdrawing her fingers shudderingly. But no one heeds. Three times she essays to throw back the covering, to gaze upon her dead, and fails; and then at last the deed is accomplished, and Death in all its silent majesty lies smiling before her.
Is it John? Yes, it is, of course. And yet—is it? Oh, the changeless sweetness of the smile,—the terrible shading,—the moveless serenity!
Spell-bound, heart-broken, she gazes at him for a minute, and then hastily, though with the tenderest reverence, she hides away his face. A heavy, bursting sigh escapes her; she raises her head, and becomes conscious that Letitia is upon her knees and is staring at her fixedly across the bed.
There is about her an expression that is almost wild in its surprise and horror.
"Youdo 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,—my husband,—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,—and still you are as cold, as poor a creature as myself."
There is no reply. Molly is regarding her speechlessly. In truth, she is dumb from sheer misery and the remembrance of what she has just seen. Are Letitia's words true?Isshe heartless?
There is a long silence,—how long neither of them ever knows,—and then something happens that achieves what all the despair and sorrow have failed in doing. In the house, through it, awakening all the silence, rings a peal of childish laughter. It echoes; it trembles along the corridor outside; it seems to shake the very walls of the death-chamber.
Both the women start violently. Molly, raising her hands to her head, falls back against the wall nearest to her, unutterable horror in her face. 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—it cannot behischild."
Then they cling to each other in silent agony, until at length some cruel 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 separation has taken place. Their dead has been buried out of their sight.
The room in which he lay has been thrown open, the blinds raised, the windows lifted. Through them the sweet, fresh wind comes rushing in. The heartless sun—now grown cold and wintry—has sent some of its rays to peer curiously where so lately the body lay.
The children are growing more demonstrative. More frequently, and with less fear of reproof, the sound of their mirth is heard throughout the silent house. Only this very morning the boy Lovat—the eldest born, his father's idol—went whistling through the hall. No doubt it was in a moment of forgetfulness he did it; no doubt the poor lad checked himself an instant later, with a bitter pang of self-reproach; but his mother heard him, and the sound smote her to the heart.
Mr. Buscarlet (who is a kind little man, in spite of his "ways and his manners" and a few eccentricities of speech), at a word from Molly comes to Brooklyn, and, having carefully examined letters, papers, and affairs generally, turns their fears into unhappy certainty. One thousand 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 been prepared for it. The letter found crushed in her dead husband's hand, although suppressing half the truth, did not deceive her. Even at that awful moment she quite realized her position. Not so Molly. With all the unreasoning trust of youth she hoped against hope until it was no longer possible to do so, trying to believe that something forgotten would come to light, some unremembered sum, to relieve them from absolute want. But Mr. Buscarlet's search has proved ineffective.
Now, however, when hope is actually at an end, all her natural self-reliance and bravery return to her; and in the very mouth of despair she makes a way for herself and for those whom she loves to escape.
After two nights' wakeful hesitation, shrinking, doubt, and fear, she forms a resolution, from which she never afterward turns aside until compelled to do so by unrestrainable circumstances.
"It is a very distressing case," says Mr. Buscarlet, blowing his nose oppressively,—the more so that he feels for her very sincerely; "distressing, indeed. I don't know one half so afflicting. I really do—not—see what is to be done."
"Do not think me presumptuous if I say I do," says Molly. "I have a plan already formed, and, if it succeeds, I shall at least be able to earn bread for us all."
"My dear young lady, how? You with—ahem!—you must excuse me if I say—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 a little longer. Not even Mrs. Massereene knows of it. Indeed, it is too soon to proclaim my design. People might scoff it; though for all that I shall work it out. And something tells me I shall succeed."
"Yes, yes, we all think we shall succeed when young," says the old lawyer, sadly, moved to keenest compassion at sight of the beautiful, earnest face before him. "It is later on, when we are faint and weary with 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 shall conquer it at last. Victory shall stay with me."
"Well, well, I would not discourage any one. There are none so worthy of praise as those who seek to work out their own independence, whether they live or die in the struggle. But work—of the sort you mean—is hard for one so young. You have a plan. Well, so have I. But have you never thought of your grandfather? He is very kindly disposed toward you; and if he——"
"I have no time for 'buts' and 'ifs,'" she interrupts him, gently. "My grandfather may be kindly disposed towardme, but not towardmine,—and that counts for much more. No, I must fall back upon myself alone. I have quite made up my mind," says Molly, throwing up her small proud head, with a brave smile, "and the knowledge makes me more courageous. I feel so strong to do, so determined to vanquish all obstacles, 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."
"I fain would follow love, if that could be."
"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, her fair and placid face.
Molly looks taller, slenderer than usual in her mourning robes. She is one of those who grow slight quickly under affliction. Her rounded cheeks 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 Letitia has,—and rarely asks for him. Her absorbing grief appears to have swallowed up all other emotions. She has not once left the house. She works little, she does not read at all; she is fast falling into a settled melancholy.
"Molly," says Letitia, "Tedcastle is in the drawing-room. He particularly asks to see you. Do not refuse him again. Even though your engagement, as you say, is at an end, still remember, dearest, how kind, how more than thoughtful, he has been in many ways since—of late——"
Her voice breaks.
"Yes, yes, I will see him," Molly says, wearily, and, rising, wends her way slowly, reluctantly, to the room which contains her lover.
At sight of him some chords that have lain hushed and forgotten in her heart for many days come to life again. Her pulses throb, albeit languidly, her color deepens; a something that is almost gladness awakes within her. Alas! how human are we all, how short-lived our keenest regrets! With the living love so near her she for the first time (though only for a moment) forgets the dead one.
In her trailing, sombre dress, with her sorrowful white cheeks, and quivering lips, she goes up to him and places her hand in his; while he, touched with a mighty compassion, stares at her, marking with a lover's careful eye all the many alterations in her face. So much havoc in 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 trouble and the fluttering of her heart, and that tears of late are so ready to her, she covers her face with her hands, and, with the action of a tired and saddened child, turning, hides it still more effectually upon his breast.
"It is all very miserable," he says, after a pause, occupied in trying to 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 bitterest sting of all lies in the fact that but for my own selfishness I might have seen him again. Had I returned home as I promised at the end of the month I should have met my brother living; but instead I lingered on, enjoying myself,"—with a shudder,—"while he was slowly breaking his heart over his growing difficulties. It must all have happened during this last month. He had no care on his mind when I left him; you know that. You remember how light-hearted he was, how kindly, how good to all."
"He was indeed, poor—poor fellow!"
"And some have dared to blame him," she says, in a pained whisper. "You do not?"
"No—no."
"I have been calculating," she goes on, in a distressed tone, "and the very night I was dancing so frivolously at that horrible ball he must have been lying awake here waiting with a sick heart for the news that was to—kill him. I shall never go to a ball again; I shall never dance again," says Molly, with a passionate sob, scorning, as youth will, the power of time to cure.
"Darling, why should you blame yourself? Such thoughts are morbid," says Luttrell, fondly caressing the bright hair that still lies loosely against his arm. "Which of us can see into the future? And, if we could, do you think it would add to our happiness? Shake off such depressing 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 a low, miserable, expressionless voice, "if I could only see him now and then. No, not in the flesh—I do not mean that,—but if I could only bring his face before my mind I might be content. For hours together I sit, with my hands clasped before my eyes, trying to conjure him up, and I cannot. Almost every casual acquaintance I possess, all the people whose living or dying matters to me not at all, rise at my command; but he never. Is it not curious?"
"Perhaps it is because your mind dwells too much upon him. But tell me of your affairs," says Luttrell, abruptly but kindly, leading her to a sofa and seating himself beside her, with a view of drawing her from her 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 do before 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 own mind 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. I have a hope,—perhaps I had better say an idea; and until it is confirmed 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 two short weeks in which to say good-bye forever to my home,—(how much that word comprises!)—to the place where all my life has been spent,—where every stone, and tree, and path is endeared to me by a thousand 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 all these arrangements."
"Yours? Ah, Teddy, you put an end to our engagement in good time. Now it must have been broken, whether we liked it or not."
"Meaning that I must not throw in my lot with yours? Do you know what folly you are talking?" says Luttrell, almost roughly. "Ours, I am assured, is an engagement thatcannotbe broken. Not all the cruel words that could be spoken—that have been spoken"—in a low tone of reproach—"have power to separate us. You are mine, Molly, as I am yours, forever. I will never give you up. And now—now—in the hour of your trouble——" Breaking off, he gets up from his seat and commences to pace the room excitedly.
She has risen too, and is standing with her eyes fixed anxiously upon him. At length, "Let us put an end now to all misconceptions and doubts," he says, stopping before her. "Your manner that last evening at Herst, your greeting of to-day, have led me to hope again. I would know without further delay whether I am wrong in thinking you care more for me than for any other man. Am I? Speak, Molly, tell me now—here—if you love me."
"I do—I do!" cries she, bursting into tears again, and flinging herself in an abandonment of grief into his longing arms. "And that is what makes my task so hard. That is why I have not allowed myself to see you all these past days. It was not coldness, Teddy, it was love. I dared 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 of your love fresh upon your lips, and now"—stooping—"upon mine, I can do anything but laugh at such treason as that?"
"Nay, but you must listen, Teddy, and believe that I am earnest in all that I say. For the future I shall neither see you nor hear from you: I must 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 keep you 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 of her last remark. "You talk as though you meant to convince me, but unhappily you don't. The more you say the more determined I am to marry you at once, and put a stop to all such nonsense as your trying to work."
"And are you going to marry Letitia also, and Lovat, and the two little girls, 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 member and a staunch Conservative for years, and surely he must have some interest. I have heard of posts under government where one has little or nothing to do, and gets a capital salary for doing it; why should not I drop into one of them? Then we might all live together, and perhaps 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 having your 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, probably you would scoff at it, or perhaps be angry, and I will not let myself be 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 great London world to seek your fortune, without a protector? You must be mad."
"I have Letitia."
"Letitia"—indignantly—"is a very handsome woman, not more than ten years older than yourself.Shea 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 I know 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 is nothing to you whether I eat my heart out in ignorance of whether you are 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 longer bound 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; Miss Massereene evidently thinks him inhumanly so.
"Don't speak to me like that," she says, with quivering lips. "You should not. I have made a vow not to disclose my secret to you of all people, and would you have me break it?"
"But why?" impatiently.
"Because—have I not told you already?—because"—with a little dry sob—"I love you so dearly that to encourage thoughts of you would unfit me for my work. And it is partly for your own sake I do it, for something tells me we shall never marry each other; and why should you spend 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, putting away her hands, takes once more to his irritable promenade up and down the room.
Molly is crying, silently, exhaustedly. "My burden is too heavy for me," 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 to promise to write to you in six months. I ask you to wait till then. Is it too long? If so, remember you are free—believe me it will be better so—and I perhaps shall be happier in the thought——" And here incontinently she breaks down.
"Don't," says Luttrell, hurriedly, whose heart grows faint within him at the sight of her distress. "Molly, I give in. I am satisfied with your last promise. I shall wait forever, if that will please you. Who am 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," says Molly, submitting to his caresses, though still a little sore at heart.
"Only one thing more," says this insatiable young man, who evidently holds in high esteem the maxim to "strike while the iron is hot." "You agree 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 whom you choose. Yet I do ask you to wait"—eagerly—"until something comes to our aid, to be true to me, no matter what happens, until I can claim you."
"I will wait; Iwillbe true to you," she answers, with dewy eyes uplifted to his, and a serene, earnest face. As she gives her promise a little sigh escapes her, more full of content, I think, than any regret.
After coming to this conclusion they talk more rationally for an hour or so (a lover's hour, dear reader, is not as other hours; it never drags; it is not full of yawns; it does not make us curse the day we were born); and then Luttrell, by some unlucky chance, discovers he must tear himself away.
As Molly rises to bid him good-bye, she catches her breath, and presses her 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 shall speak 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,—where you will see no one,—I will meet you there."
"Very well," says Molly, obediently; and when they have said good-bye for the fifth time, he really takes his departure.
How to reveal her weighty secret to Letitia troubles Molly much,—an intimate acquaintance with her sister-in-law's character causing her to know its disclosure will be received not only with discouragement, but with actual disapproval. And yet—disclose it she must.
But how to break it happily. Having thought of many ways and means, and rejected them all, she decides, with a sigh, that plain speaking will be best.
"Letitia," she says, this very evening,—Luttrell having been gone some hours,—"do you know Signor Marigny's address?"
She is leaning her elbows on the writing-table, and has let her rounded chin sink into her palms' embrace; while her eyes fix themselves steadily 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 believe I 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 the question.
Not for long, however; human nature can stand a good many things, but curiosity conquers most.
"Why are you writing to Signor Marigny?" Letitia asks, in a gentle tone of indifference, after a full five minutes' pause, during which she has been devoured with a desire to know.
"Because I believe he will help me," says Molly, slowly. "I have been thinking, Letty,—thinking very seriously,—and I have decided upon making my fortune—ourfortune—out of my voice."
"Molly!"
"Well, dear, and why not? Do not dishearten me, Letty; you know we must live, and what other plan can you suggest?"
"In London I thought perhaps we might get something to do,"—mournfully,—"and there no one would hear of us. I have rather a fancy for millinery, and one of those large establishments might take me, while you could go as a daily governess," regarding her sister doubtfully.
"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 such genteel slavery. Besides, as a concert singer (and Icansing), I should earn as much in one night, probably, as I should otherwise in a year."
"Oh, Molly!"—clasping her hands—"I cannot bear to think of it. It is horrible; the publicity,—the dreadful ordeal. And you of all others,—my pretty Molly——"
"It is well I am pretty," says Molly, with a supreme effort at calmness; "they say a pretty woman with a voice takes better."
"Every word you say only convinces me more and more how cruel a task it would 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 great tearless eyes through the window into space, while her slender fingers meet and twine together nervously. "Letitia, why cannot you be thankful, as I am, that I have a voice,—a sure and certain provision?—because I know I can sing as very few can. (I say this gratefully, 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, is at 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 not wish to marry him."
"I find it hard to believe you," says Letitia, examining the girl's face critically. "Do you mean to tell me you have ceased to care for him?"
"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 end between us, which is the principal thing, as he cannot now interfere with 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 at least hope behind, but here there is none. Other women lose fortune, or perhaps position, or it may be love; but I have lost all; while you—with all your young life before you—would sacrifice yourself for us. I am not wholly selfish, Molly; I refuse to accept your offer. I refuse to take your happiness at your hands."
"My happiness is yours," returns Molly, tenderly; "refuse to let me help you, and the little shred of comfort that still remains to me vanishes with the rest. Letitia, you are my home now: do not reject me."
Two sad little tears run down her pale cheeks unchecked. Letitia, unable to bear the sight, turns away; and presently two kindred drops steal down her face, and fall with a faint splashing sound upon her heavy 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 was actually helping you—who all my life have been my true and loving sister—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 with concerts 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, who has begun to cry bitterly, "and ask him what will compensate you for it; ask him if gold, or fame, or praise, will fill the void that already you have begun to feel."
"Nonsense, my dear! he would justly consider me a lunatic, were I to write to him in such a strain. I shall simply tell him that I wish to make use of the talent that has been given me, and ask him for his advice how best to proceed. Don't you think something like that would answer? Come now, Letty," cheerfully and coaxingly, kneeling down before Mrs. Massereene, "say you are pleased with my plan, and all will be well."
"What would become of me without you?" says Letitia, irrelevantly, kissing her; and Molly, taking this for consent, enters into a long and animated discussion of the subject of her intendeddébutas a public singer.