"Oh, that we two were maying!—"
"Oh, that we two were maying!—"
"Oh, that we two were maying!—"
and she sings it with all the pathos, the genius, of which she is capable.
She has no thought for all the gay crowd that stays entranced upon her tones. She looks far above them, her serene face—pale, but full of gentle self-possession—more sweet than any poem. She is singing with all her heart for her beloved,—for Letitia, and Lovat, and the children, and John in heaven.
A passionate longing to be near her—to touch her—to speak—to be answered back again—seizes Luttrell. He takes in hungrily all the minutiæ 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 black gown of some clinging, transparent material—barely opened at the neck—makes even more fair the milk-white of her throat (that is scarcely less white than the snowy flowers).
Her hair is drawn back into its old loose knot behind, in the simple style that suits her. She has a tiny band of black velvet round her neck. How fair she is,—how sweet, yet full of a tender melancholy! He is glad in his heart for that little pensive shade, and thinks, though more fragile, she never looked so lovely in her life.
She has commenced the last verse:
"Oh, that we two lay sleepingIn our nest in the church-yard sod,With our limbs at restOn the quiet earth's breast,And our souls at home with God!"
"Oh, that we two lay sleepingIn our nest in the church-yard sod,With our limbs at restOn the quiet earth's breast,And our souls at home with God!"
"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 ever presages a storm, when by some luckless chance her eyes, that seldom wander, fall full on Luttrell's upturned, agitated face.
His fascinated, burning gaze compels her to return it. Oh, that he should see her here, singing before all these people! For the first time a terrible sense of shame overpowers her; a longing to escape the eyes that from all parts of the hall appear to stare at her and criticise 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 and regret, she falls hurriedly into the background and is gone.
Immediately kindly applause bursts forth. What has happened to the favorite? Is she ill, or faint, or has some lost dead chord of her life suddenly sounded again? Every one is at a loss, and every one is curious. It is interesting,—perhaps the most interesting part of the whole performance,—and to-morrow will tell them all about it.
Tedcastle starts to his feet, half mad with agitation, his face ashen white. There is no knowing what he might not have done in this moment of excitement had not his foreign neighbor, laying hands upon him, gently forced him back again into his seat.
"My friend, considerher," he whispers, in a firm but soft voice. Then, after a moment's pause, "Come with me," he says, and, leading the way, beckons to Luttrell, who rises mechanically and follows him.
Into a small private apartment that opens off the hall the Italian takes him, and, pushing toward him a chair, sinks into another himself.
"She is the woman you love?" he asks, presently, in such a kindly tone as carries away all suspicion of impertinence.
"Yes," answers Luttrell, simply.
"Well, and I love her too,—as a pupil,—a beloved pupil," says the elder 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 a friendship for this gentle preceptor.
"Yes, yes; mine was the happiness to give to the world this glorious voice," 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; but did not dream that here—here—— Misfortune has separated us; but if I lived for a hundred years I should never cease—to——"
He stops, and, getting up abruptly, paces the room in silent impatience.
"You have spoiled her song," says the Italian, regretfully. "And she was in such voice to-night! Hark!" Raising his hand as the clapping and applause still reach him through the door. "Hark! how they appreciate even her failures!"
"Can I see her?"
"I doubt it. She is so prudent. She will speak to no one. And then madame her sister is always with her. I trust you, sir,—your face is not to be disbelieved; but I cannot give you her address. I have sworn to her not to reveal it to any one, and I must not release myself from my 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 with little 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 the entrance than when first he took up his stand there; and just as he is trying, with small regard to courtesy, to retrieve his position, there is 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, and quickly enters the cab that awaits her.
As she places her foot upon the step of the vehicle a portion of the white woolen shawl that hides her features falls back, and for one instant Luttrell catches sight of the pale, beautiful face that, waking and sleeping, has haunted him all these past months, and will haunt him till he dies.
She is followed by a tall woman, with a fullposéefigure also draped in black, whom even at that distance he recognizes as Mrs. Massereene.
He makes one more vigorous effort to reach them, but too late. Almost as his hand touches the cab the driver receives his orders, whips up his emaciated charger, and disappears down the street.
They are gone. With a muttered exclamation, that savors not of thanksgiving, Luttrell turns aside, and, calling a hansom, drives straight to Cecil Stafford's.
Whether Molly slept or did not sleep that night remains a mystery. The following morning tells no tales. There are fresh, faint roses in her cheeks, a brightness in her eyes that for months has been absent from them. If a little quiet and preoccupied in manner, she is gayer and happier in voice and speech once her attention is gained.
Sitting in her small drawing-room, with her whole being in a very tumult of expectation, she listens feverishly to every knock.
It is not yet quite four months since she and Luttrell parted. The prescribed period has not altogether expired; and during their separation she has indeed verified her own predictions,—she has proved an undeniable success. Under the assumed name of Wynter she has sought and obtained the universal applause of the London world.
She has also kept her word. Not once during all these trying months has she written to her lover; only once has she received a line from him.
Last Valentine's morning Cecil Stafford, dropping in, brought her a small packet closely sealed and directed simply to "Molly Bawn." The mere 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 good days 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 inscription folded round them:
"There shall not be one minute in an hourWherein I will not kiss my sweet love's flower."
"There shall not be one minute in an hourWherein I will not kiss my sweet love's flower."
"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 her know whether indeed she still lives in his memory or has been forgotten,—perhaps superseded, until last night. Then, as she met his eyes, that told a story more convincing than any words, and marking the passionate delight and longing on his face, she dared to assure herself of his constancy.
Now, as she sits restlessly awaiting what time may bring her, she thinks, with a smile, that, sad as her life may be and is, she is surely 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 this thought, when the door opens and Lady Stafford comes in. She is radiant, a very sunbeam, in spite of the fact that Sir Penthony is again an absentee from his native land, having bidden adieu to English shores three months ago in a fit of pique, brought on by Cecil's perversity.
Some small dissension, some trivial disagreement, anger on his part, seeming indifference on hers, and the deed was done. He left her indignant, enraged, but probably more in love with her than ever; while she—— 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 might have told me." For her there is but one "he."
"So I should, my dear, directly; but the fact is, Ididn'tknow. The stupid boy never wrote me a line on the subject. It appears he got a fortnight's leave, and came posthaste to London to find you. Such a lover as he makes. And where should he go by the merest chance, the very first evening, but into your actual presence? It is a romance," says her ladyship, much delighted; "positively it is a shame to let it sink into oblivion. Some one should recommend it to the Laureate as a theme for his next production."
"Well?" says Molly, who at this moment is guilty of irreverence in her thoughts 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 in her tone impossible to suppress.
"I always notice," says Cecil, in despair, "that whenever (which is seldom) I do the right thing it turns out afterward to be the wrong thing. You swore me in to keep your secret four months ago, and I have done so religiously. To-day, sorely against my will, I honestly confess, 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 this instant. 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, he pressed me so hard; but for the first (and now I shall make it the last) time in my life, I was firm. I'm sure I wish I hadn't been. I earned both your displeasure and his."
"Not mine, dearest."
"Besides, another motive for my determination was this: both he and I doubted if you would receive him until the four months were verily up,—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 see him whenever he may choose to come."
"Which will be in about two hours precisely; that is, the moment he sees me and learns his fate. I told him to call again about one o'clock, when I supposed I should have news for him. It is almost that now." With a hasty glance at her watch. "I must fly. But first, give me a line for him, Molly, to convince him of your fallibility."
"Have you heard anything of Sir Penthony?" asks Molly, when she has scribbled a tiny note and given it to her friend.
"Yes; I hear he either is in London or was yesterday, or will be to-morrow,—I am not clear which." With affected indifference. "I told you he was sure to turn up again all right, like a bad halfpenny; so I was not uneasy about him. I only hope he will reappear in better temper than when he left."
"Now, confess you are delighted at the idea of so soon seeing him again," 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 a bad Catholic. I should be in perpetual hot water with my spiritual adviser. But if he comes back penitent, and shows himself less exigeant, I shan't refuse his overtures of peace. Now, don't make me keep your Teddy waiting any longer. He is shut up in my boudoir enduring grinding torments all this time, and without a companion or the chance of one, as I left word that I should be at home to no one but him this morning. Good-bye, darling. Give my love to Letitia and the wee scraps. And—these bonbons—I had almost forgotten them."
"Oh, by the bye, did you hear what Daisy said the other dayaproposof your china?"
"No."
"When we had left your house and walked for some time in a silence most unusual wheresheis, 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 severe on the times."
"It was cruel. I shall instantly send my plates and jugs, and that delicious old Worcester tureen down-stairs to their proper place," says Cecil, 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."
"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."
"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 is standing on her steps, holding sweet converse with her footman at her own hall-door.
"Lady Stafford at home?" asks he of the brilliant but supercilious personage who condescends to answer to his knock.
"No, sir." Being a new acquisition of Cecil's, he is blissfully ignorant of Sir Penthony's name and status. "My lady is hout."
"When will she be home?" Feeling a good deal of surprise at her early wanderings, 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, faintly amused, although exasperated at what he has decided is a heinous lie.
"Lady Stafford gave strict horders that no one was to be admitted before two," says flunkey, indignant at the stranger's persistence, who has come into the hall and calmly divested himself of his overcoat.
"She will admitme, 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 this time, with Chawles, much exercised in his mind, at his heels—(for Cecil's commands are not to be disputed, and the situation is a good one, and she has distinctly declared no one is to be received)—Sir Penthony pauses on the landing and lays his hand on the boudoir door.
"Not there, Sir Penthony," says the man, interposing hurriedly, and throwing open the drawing-room door, which is next to it. "If you will wait 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. A well-bred footman never gets beyond 'Yes' or 'No' unless required, and even 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 dressmaker theory, 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 watching through the window the people passing to and fro, all intent upon the great business of life,—the making and spending of money.
After a little while a carriage stops beneath him, and he sees Cecil alight from it and go with eager haste up the steps. He hears her enter, run up the stairs, pause upon the landing, and then, going into the boudoir, close the door carefully behind her.
He stifles an angry exclamation, and resolves, with all the airs of a Spartan, to be calm. Nevertheless, he isnotcalm, and quite doubles the amount of minutes that really elapse before the drawing-room door is thrown open and Cecil, followed by Luttrell, comes in.
"Luttrell, of all men!" thinks Sir Penthony, as though he would have said, "Et tu, Brute?" forgetting to come forward,—forgetting everything,—so entirely has a wild, unreasoning jealousy mastered him. The curtains effectually conceal him, so his close proximity remains a secret.
Luttrell is evidently in high spirits. His blue eyes are bright, his whole air triumphant. Altogether, he is as unlike the moony young man who left the Victoria Station last evening as one can well imagine.
"Oh, Cecil! what should I do without you?" he says, in a most heartfelt manner, gazing at her as though (thinks Sir Penthony) he would much like to embrace her there and then. "How happy you have made me! And just as I was on the point of despairing! I owe you all,—everything,—the best 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 forgiven me my stony refusal of last night? I would have spoken willingly, but you know I was forbidden."
"What is it I wouldnotforgive you?" exclaims Luttrell, gratefully.
("Last night; and again this morning: probably he will dine this evening," thinks Sir Penthony, who by this time is black with rage and cold with an unnamed fear.)
Cecil is evidently as interested in her topic as her companion. Their heads are very near together,—as near as they can well be without kissing. She has placed her hand upon his arm, and is speaking in a low, earnest tone,—so low that Stafford cannot hear distinctly, the room being lengthy and the noise from the street confusing. How handsome Luttrell is looking! With what undisguised eagerness he is drinking in her every word!
Suddenly, with a little movement as though of sudden remembrance, Cecil puts her hand in her pocket and draws from it a tiny note, which she squeezes with muchempressementinto Tedcastle's hand. Then follow a few more words, and then she pushes him gently in the direction of the door.
"Now go," she says, "and remember all I have said to you. Are the conditions so hard?" With her old charming, bewitching smile.
"How shall I thank you?" says the young man, fervently, his whole face transformed. He seizes her hands and presses his lips to them in what seems to the looker-on at the other end of the room an impassioned manner. "You have managed that we shall meet,—and alone?"
"Yes, alone. I have made sure of that. I really think, considering all I 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 or other. But you must not speak to me in that strain, or I shall mention some one who would perhaps be angry." ("That's me, I presume," thinks Sir Penthony, grimly.) "I suppose"—archly—"I need not tell you to be in time? To be late under such circumstances, withme, would mean dismissal. Good-bye, dear boy: go, and my good wishes will follow you."
As the door closes upon Luttrell, Sir Penthony, cold, and with an alarming amount of dignity about him, comes slowly forward.
"Sir Penthony! you!" cries Cecil, coloring certainly, but whether from guilt, or pleasure, or surprise, he finds it hard to say. He inclines, however, toward the guilt. "Why, I thought you safe in Algiers." (This is not strictly true.)
"No doubt. I thoughtyousafe in London—or anywhere else. I find myself mistaken!"
"I am, dear, perfectly safe." Sweetly. "Don't alarm yourself unnecessarily. But may I ask what all this means, and why you were hiding behind my curtains as though you were a burglar or a Bashi-Bazouk? But that the pantomime season is over, I should say you were practicing for the Harlequin's window trick."
"You can be as frivolous as you please." Sternly. "Frivolity suits you best, no doubt. I came in here a half an hour ago, having first almost come to blows with your servant before being admitted,—showing me plainly the man had received orders to allow no one in but the one expected."
"That is an invaluable man, that Charles," murmurs her ladyship,sotto voce. "I shall raise his wages. There is nothing like obedience in a servant."
"I was standing there at that window, awaiting your arrival, when you came, hurried to your boudoir, spent an intolerable time there with Luttrell, and finally wound up your interview here by giving him a billet, and permitting him to kiss your hands until you ought to have been ashamed of yourself and him."
"You ought to be ashamed of yourself, lyingperduin the curtains and listening to what wasn't meant for you." Maliciously. "You ought also to have been a detective. You have wasted your talents frightfully.DidTeddy kiss my hands?" Examining the little white members with careful admiration. "Poor Ted! he might be tired of doing so by this. Well,—yes; and—you were saying——"
"I insist," says Sir Penthony, wrathfully, "on knowing what Luttrell was 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 if he likes?"
"Cousins be hanged!" says Sir Penthony, with considerable more force than elegance.
"No, no," says Cecil, smoothing a little wrinkle off the front of her gown, "not always; and I'm sure I hope Tedcastle won't be. To my way of thinking, he is quite the nicest young man I know. It would make me positively wretched if I thought Marwood would ever have him in his clutches. You,"—reflectively—"are my cousin too."
"I am,—and something more. You seem to forget that. Do you mean to answer my question?"
"Certainly,—if I can. But do sit down, Sir Penthony. I am sure you must be tired, you are so dreadfully out of breath. Have you come just now, this moment, straight from Algiers? See, that little chair over there is so comfortable. All my gentlemen visitors adore that little chair. 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 of martyrdom, and making a very melancholy gesture with one hand, "I hardly know the hour I don't receive them. I am absolutely persecuted by my friends. Theywillcome. No matter how disagreeable it may be to me, they arrive just at any hour that best suits them. And I am so 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 particular business."
"What business?"
"I am sorry I cannot tell you."
"You shall, Cecil. I will not leave this house until I get an answer. I am your husband. I have the right to demand it."
"You forget our little arrangement. I acknowledge no husband," says Cecil, 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 class of men would have been a bang, in the largest arm-chair the room contains.
With an unmoved countenance Lady Stafford rises and rings the bell.
Dead silence.
Then the door opens, and a rather elderly servant appears upon the threshold.
"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 etiquette will 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 a moment, 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 with laughter.
"That will do, Martin," says her ladyship, with the utmostbonhommie. And Martin retires.
As the door closes, the combatants regard each other steadily for a full minute, and then they both roar.
"You are the greatest little wretch," says Sir Penthony, going over to her and taking both her hands, "it has ever been my misfortune to meet with. I am laughing now against my will,—remember that. I am in a frantic rage. Will you tell me what all that scene between you and Luttrell 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. I thought you were going to mount guard here all day. Think on all the sins I shall be committing in your absence."
She has left her hands in his all this time, and is regarding him with a gay smile, under which she hardly hides a good deal of offended pride.
"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," says Sir Penthony, standing over her, tall, and young, and very nearly handsome. "You know I am in misery all this time, and that a word from you would relieve me,—yet you will not speak it."
"Would you"—very gravely—"credit the word of such a sinner as you would 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 horrid passions. Come, are you sorry?"
"I am more than sorry. I confess myself a brute if I ever even hinted at 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 a woman."
"Well,Idon't mean it as the same. And, to prove my words, if you will only grant me forgiveness, I will not even mention Tedcastle's name again."
"But I insist on telling you every word he said to me, and all about it."
"If you had insisted on that half an hour ago you would have saved thirty minutes," says Stafford, laughing.
"ThenI would not gratify you;now—Tedcastle came here, poor fellow, in a wretched state about Molly Massereene, whose secret he has at length discovered. About eleven o'clock last night he rushed in here almost distracted to get her address; so I went to Molly early this morning, obtained leave to give it,—and a love-letter as well, which you saw me deliver,—and all his raptures and tender epithets were meant for her, and not for me. Is it not a humiliating confession? Even when he kissed my hands it was only in gratitude, and his heart was full of Molly 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 causes me such intolerable jealousy, and, knowing, you should pardon. My love for 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 smallest degree glad to see me again?"
"In a degree,—yes." Raising to his, two eyes, full of something more than common gladness.
"Really?"
"Really."
He looks at her, but she refuses to understand his appealing expression, and regards him calmly in return.
"Cecil, how cold you are!" he says, reproachfully. "Think how long I have 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 weary months, that to me, at least, were twelve—you might——"
"You want me to—kiss you?" says Cecil, promptly, but with a rising blush. "Well, I will, then."
Lifting her head, she presses her lips to his with a fervor that takes him 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: if we don't go down-stairs soon luncheon will be cold. And, remember, I hold 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 up traveling aimlessly all over the unknown world at stated intervals. I hope for the future you mean staying at home like a respectable Christian."
"If I had a home. You can't call one's club a home, can you? I would stay anywhere,—with you."
"I could not possibly undertake such a responsibility. Still, I should like you to remain in London, where I could look after you a little bit now and then, and keep you in order. I adore keeping people in order. I am thrown away," says Cecil, shaking her flaxen head sadly. "I know I was 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 individual who is completely under your control."
"No. I am dreadfully cramped. But come; in spite of all the joy I naturally 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 cutletstête-à-tête, and with evident appreciation of their merits; the servants regarding the performance with intense though silent admiration. In their opinion (and who shall dispute the accuracy of a servant's opinion?), this is the beginning of the end.
When luncheon is over, Lady Stafford rises.
"I am going for my drive," she says. "But what is to become of you until dinner-hour?"
"I shall accompany you." Audaciously.
"You! What! To have all London laughing at me?"
"Let them. A laugh will dothemgood, andyouno harm. How can it matter to you?"
"True. It cannot. And after all to be laughed at one must be talked about. And to be talked about means to create a sensation. And I should like to create a sensation before I die. Yes, Sir Penthony,"—with a determined 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. It would be much too slow,"—mischievously—"to expect you to go driving with 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 his arms,—"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 miserable attempt at a frown.
"Your love," replies he, kissing the weak-minded little pucker off her forehead and the pretended pout from her lips, without this time saying, "by your leave," or "with your leave."
"And when you have it, what then?"
"I shall be the happiest man alive."
"Thenbethe happiest man alive," murmurs she, with tears in her eyes, although the smile still lingers round her lips.
It is thus she gives in.
"And when," asks Stafford, half an hour later, all the retrospective confessions and disclosures having taken some time to get through,—"when shall I install a mistress in the capacious but exceedingly gloomy abode my ancestors so unkindly left to me?"
"Do not even think of such a thing for ever so long. Perhaps next summer 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 I see her as happy as—as—I am?"
Here Sir Penthony, moved by a sense of duty and a knowledge of the fitness of things, instantly kisses her again.
He has barely performed this necessary act when the redoubtable Charles puts his head in at the door and says:
"The carriage is waiting, my lady."
"Very good," returns Lady Stafford, who, according to Charles's version of the affair, a few hours later, is as "red as a peony." "You will stay here, Penthony,"—murmuring his name with a grace and a sweet hesitation quite irresistible,—"while I go and make ready for our drive."
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."
"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."
"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 loosely round her, stands Molly before her glass, a smile upon her lips. For is not her lover to be with her in two short hours? Already, perhaps, he is on his way to her, as anxious, as eager to fold her in his arms as she 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 not her 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 this one day's happiness.
She brushes out her long hair, rolling it into its usual soft knot behind, and weaves a kiss or two and a few tender words into each rich coil. She dons her prettiest gown, and puts on all the bravery she possesses, to make herself more fair in the eyes of her beloved, lest by any means he should think her less worthy of regard than when last he saw her.
With a final, almost dissatisfied, glance at the mirror she goes down-stairs to await his coming, all her heart one glad song.
She tries to work to while away the time, but her usually clever fingers refuse their task, and the canvas falls unheeded to the floor.
She tries to read; but, alas! all the words grow together and form themselves into one short sentence: "He is coming—coming—coming."
Insensibly Tennyson's words come to her, and, closing her eyes, she repeats them softly to herself:
"O days and hours, your work is this,To hold me from my proper placeA little while from his embrace,For fuller gain of after-bliss.* * * *"That out of distance might ensueDesire of nearness doubly sweet,And unto meeting, when we meet,Delight a hundredfold accrue!"
"O days and hours, your work is this,To hold me from my proper placeA little while from his embrace,For fuller gain of after-bliss.
"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 ensueDesire of nearness doubly sweet,And unto meeting, when we meet,Delight a hundredfold accrue!"
"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-known voice, 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 her determination 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 longing and despair of it, she runs forward and throws herself, with a sob, into his expectant arms.
At first they do not speak. He does not even kiss her, only holds her closely in his embrace, as one holds some precious thing, some priceless possession 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 a certain pride of possession, he looks so tall, and strong, and handsome in her eyes. She examines him critically, and yet finds nothing wanting. He is to her perfection, as, indeed (unhappily), a man always is to the woman who loves him. Could she at this moment concentrate her thoughts, I think she would apply to him all the charms contained in the following lines:
"A mouth for mastery and manful work;A certain brooding sweetness in the eyes;A brow the harbor of fair thought, and hairSaxon in hue."
"A mouth for mastery and manful work;A certain brooding sweetness in the eyes;A brow the harbor of fair thought, and hairSaxon in hue."
"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, I really think, and broader and bigger altogether." Then, in a little soft whisper, "My dear,—my darling."
"And you," he says, taking the sweet face he has so hungered for between his hands, the better to mark each change time may have wrought, "you have grown thinner. You are paler. Darling,"—a heavy shadow falling across his face,—"you are well,—quite well?"
"Perfectly," she answers, lightly, pleased at his uneasiness. "Town life—the city air—has whitened me; that is all."
"But these hollows?" Touching gently her soft cheeks with a dissatisfied air. They are a little sunk. She is altogether thinner, frailer than of yore. Her very fingers as they lie in his look slenderer, more fragile.
"Perhaps a little fretting has done it," she answers, with a smile and a half-suppressed sigh.
He echoes the sigh; and it may be a few tears for all the long hours spent apart gather in their eyes, "in thinking of the days that are no more."
Presently, when they are calmer, more forgetful of their separation, they seat themselves upon a sofa and fall into a happy silence. His arm is 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 from him, she says, in a low tone, "What did you think when you saw me singing 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 me singing—so?"
"I wished I was a millionaire, that I might on the instant rescue you from such a life," replies he, with much emotion.
"Ah! you felt like that? I, too, was unhappy. For the first time since I began my new life it occurred to me to be ashamed. To know that you saw me reminded me that others saw me too, and the knowledge brought a flush to my cheek. I am singing again on Tuesday; but you must not come to hear me. I could not sing before you again."
"Of course I will not, if it distresses you. May I meet you outside and accompany you home?"
"Better not. People talk so much; and—there is always such a crowd outside that door."
"The nightsyousing. Have you had any lovers, Molly?" asks he, abruptly, with a visible effort.
"Several,"—smiling at his perturbation,—"and twobona fideproposals. I might have been the blushing bride of a baronet now had I so chosen."
"Was he—rich?"
"Fabulously so, I was told. And I am sure he was comfortably provided for, though I never heard the exact amount of his rent-roll."
"Why did you refuse him?" asks Luttrell, moodily, his eyes fixed upon the ground.
"I shall leave you to answer that question," replies she, with all her old archness. "I cannot. Perhaps because I didn't care for him. Not but what he was a nice old gentleman, and wonderfully preserved. I met him at one of Cecil's 'at homes,' and he professed himself deeply enamored of me. I might also have been the wife of a very young gentleman in the Foreign Office, with a most promising moustache; but I thought of you,"—laughing, and giving his hand a little squeeze,—"and I bestowed upon 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 some other 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 should know by this time how it is with me."
"I am a selfish fellow, am I not?" says Luttrell, wistfully. "The very thought that any one wants to take you from me renders me perfectly miserable. And yet I know I ought to give you up,—to—to encourage you to accept an offer that would place you in a position I shall never be able to give you. But I cannot. Molly, I have come all this way to ask you again to marry me, and——"
"Hush, Teddy. You know it is impossible."
"Why is it impossible? Other people have lived and been happy on five hundred pounds a year. And after a while something might turn up to enable us to help Letitia and the children."
"You are a little selfish now," she says, with gentle reproach. "I could not let Letitia be without my help for even a short time. And would you like your wife to sing in public, for money? Look at it in that light, and answer me truly."
"No," without hesitation. "Not that your singing in public lowers you in the faintest degree in any one's estimation; but I would not let my wife support herself. I could not endure the thought. But might not I——"
"You might not,"—raising her eyes,—"nor would I let you. I work for those 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 some little thing for him who did all for me. There is a joy that is almost sacred in the thought. It has taken from me the terrible sting of his death. To know I can still please him, can work for him, brings him back 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 hands and kissing them twice.
"I am not. You must not say so," says Molly, hastily, the touch of his lips 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, "at times, when I see certain flowers or hear some music connected with the olden days, my heart dies within me,—I lose all hope; and then I miss you sorely,—sorely."
Her head is on his breast by this time; his strong young arms are round her, holding her as though they would forever shield her from the pains and griefs of this world.
"I have felt just like you," he says, simply. "But after all, whatever comes, we have each other. There should be comfort in that. Had death robbed us—you of me or me of you—then we might indeed mourn. But as it is there is always hope. Can you not try to find consolation in the thought that, no matter where I may be, however far away, I am your lover forever?"
"I know it," says Molly, inexpressibly comforted.
Their trust is of the sweetest and fullest. No cruel coldness has crept in to defile their perfect love. Living as they are on a mere shadow, a faint streak of hope, that may never break into a fuller gleam, they still are almost happy. He loves her. Her heart is all his own. These are their crumbs of comfort,—sweet fragments that never fail them.
Now he leads her away from the luckless subject of their engagement altogether, and presently she is laughing over some nonsensical tale he is telling her connected with the old life. She is asking him questions, 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 at Herst, where the old man is slowly fading. The winter has been a severe one, and they think his days are numbered.
The Darleys have at last come to an open rupture, and a friendly separation 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, and has been all the winter pottering—by the bye, that is an appropriate word, isn't it?—reminds one of one of his own jokes—after a girl who rather fancies him, in spite of his crimson locks, or perhaps because of them. That particular shade is, happily, rare. She has a little money, too,—at least enough to make her an heiress in Ireland."
"Poor Ireland!" says Molly. "Some day perhaps I shall go there, and judge of its eccentricities myself."
"By the bye, Molly," says Luttrell, with an impromptu air, "did you ever see the Tower?"
"Never, I am ashamed to say."
"I share your sentiments. Never have I planted my foot upon so much as the lowest step of its interminable stairs. I feel keenly the disgrace of such an acknowledgment. Shall we let another hour pass without retrieving our false position? A thousand times 'no.' Go and put your bonnet 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 of life's disappointments.
The first flush of her joy on meeting Luttrell being over, Molly grows once 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 the time being forgets, or appears to forget, her troubles; but when away from him she grows moody and unhappy.
Could she see but a chance of ever being able to alter her present mode of life—before youth and hope are over—she would perhaps take her courage by both hands and compel it to remain. But no such chance presents itself.
To forsake Letitia is to leave her and the children to starve. For how could Luttrell support them all on a miserable pittance of five hundred pounds a year? The idea is preposterous. It is the same old story over again; the same now as it was four months ago, without alteration or improvement; and, as she tells herself, will be the same four years hence.
Whatever Luttrell himself may think upon the subject he keeps within his breast, and for the first week of his stay is apparently supremely happy.
Occasionally he speaks as though their marriage is a thing that sooner or later must be consummated, and will not see that when he does so Molly maintains either a dead silence or makes some disheartening remark.
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, she makes up her mind to compel him to accept a release from what must be an interminable waiting.
"How can we go on like this," she says, bursting into tears, "you forever entreating, I forever denying? It breaks my heart, and is unfair 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 own happiness?"
"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 the desired 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 little smile. "Well, if you were rich I would marry you gladly, because I know your 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, rather savagely. "After all, at the best of times your love for me was lukewarm."
"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 with himself in that he has displeased her, "that you should talk of the good to be derived from the sundering of our engagement? I wish to know what it is you mean. Do you want to leave yourself free to marry a richer man?"
"How you misjudge me?" she says, shrinking as if from a blow. "I shall never marry. All I want to do is to leave you free to"—with a sob—"to—choose whom you may."
"Very good. If it pleases you to think I am free, as you call it, be it so. Our engagement is at an end. I may marry my mother's cook to-morrow morning, if it so pleases me, without a dishonorable feeling. Is that what 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 out the 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 an elderly 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 I like her better than you."
"You accept the words, but not the spirit, of my proposition," she says, sadly.
"Because it is a spiritless proposition altogether, without grace or meaning. Come, now, don't martyr yourself any more. I am free, and you are free, and we can go on loving each other all the same. It isn't half a bad arrangement, and so soothing to the conscience! I always had a 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 be allowed 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 would have made the slightest difference, as I should have come whether you liked it or not. And now come out—do; the sun is shining, and will melt away this severe attack of the blues. Let us go into the Park and watch for our future prey,—you for your palsied millionaire, I for my swarthy West Indian."