Molly Bawn Part 24

Whereupon Let.i.tia chuckles with ill-suppressed amus.e.m.e.nt and gives it as her opinion that "dear Molly isn't as bad as she thinks herself."

John has done his duty, has driven the melancholy young man to the station, and very nearly out of his wits--by insisting on carrying on a long and tedious argument that lasts the entire way, waiting pertinaciously for a reply to every one of his questions.

This has taken some time, more especially as the train was late and the back drive hilly; yet when at length he reaches his home he finds his wife and Molly still deep in the mysteries of the toilet.

"Well?" says his sister, as he stands in the doorway regarding them silently. As she speaks she allows the dejected expression of two hours ago to return to her features, her lids droop a little over her eyes, her forehead goes up, the corners of her mouth go down. She is in one instant a very afflicted Molly. "Well?" she says.

"He isn't well at all," replies John, with a dismal shake of the head and as near an imitation of Molly's rueful countenance as he can manage at so short a notice; "he is very bad. I never saw a worse case in my life. I doubt if he will last out the day. I don't know how you regard it, but I call it cruelty to animals."

"You need not be unfeeling," says Molly, reproachfully, "and I won't listen to you making fun of him behind his back. You wouldn't before his face."

"How do you know?" As though weighing the point. "I never saw him funny until to-day. He was on the verge of tears the entire way. It was lucky I was beside him, or he would have drenched the new cus.h.i.+ons. For shame's sake he refrained before me, but I know he is in floods by this."

"He is not," says Molly, indignantly. "Crying, indeed! What an idea! He is far too much of a man for that."

"I am a man too," says John, who seems to find a rich harvest of delight in the contemplation of Luttrell's misery. "And once, before we were married, when Let.i.tia treated me with disdain, I gave way to my feelings to such an extent that----"

"Really, John," interposes his wife, "I wish you would keep your stupid stories to yourself, or else go away. We are very busy settling about Molly's things."

"What things? Her tea-things,--her playthings? Ah! poor little Molly!

her last nice new one is gone."

"Letty, I hope you don't mind, dear," says Molly, lifting a dainty china bowl from the table near her. "Let us trust it won't break; but, whether it does or not, I must and will throw it at John."

"She should at all events have one pretty new silk dress," murmurs Let.i.tia, vaguely, whose thoughts "are with her heart, and that is far away," literally buried, so to speak, in the depths of her wardrobe.

"She could not well do without it. Molly,"--with sudden inspiration,--"you shall have mine. That dove-color always looks pretty on a girl, and I have only worn it once. It can easily be made to fit you."

"I wish, Let.i.tia, you would not speak to me like that," says Molly, almost angrily, though there are tears in her eyes. "Do you suppose I want to rob you? I have no doubt you would give me every gown you possess, if I so willed it, and leave yourself nothing. Do remember I am going to Herst more out of spite and curiosity than anything else, and don't care in the least how I look. It is very unkind of you to say such things."

"You are the kindest soul in the world, Letty," says John from the doorway; "but keep your silk. Molly shall have one too." After which he decamps.

"That is very good of John," says Molly. "The fact is, I haven't a penny of my own,--I never have a week after I receive my allowance,--so I must only do the best I can. If I don't like it, you know, I can come home. It is a great thing to know, Letty, that _you_ will be glad to have me, whether I am well dressed or very much the reverse."

"Exactly. And there is this one comfort also, that you look well in anything. By the bye, you must have a maid. You shall take Sarah, and we can get some one in until you come back to us. That"--with a smile--"will prevent your leaving us too long to our own devices. You will understand without telling what a loss the fair Sarah will be."

"You are determined I shall make my absence felt," says Molly, with a half-smile. "Really, Letty, I don't like----"

"But I do," says Letty. "I don't choose you to be one whit behind any one else at Herst. Without doubt they will beat you in the matter of clothes; but what of that? I have known many t.i.tled people have a fine disregard of apparel."

"So have I," returns Molly, gayly. "Indeed, were I a man, possessed with a desire to be mistaken for a lord, I would go to the meanest 'old clo' shop and purchase there the seediest garments and the most dilapidated hat (with a tendency toward greenness), and a pair of boots with a patch on the left side, and, having equipped myself in them, saunter down the 'shady side of Pall Mall' with a sure and certain conviction that I was 'quite the thing.' Should my ambitious longings soar as high as a dukedom, I would add to the above costume a patch on the right boot as well, and--questionable linen."

"Well," says Let.i.tia, with a sigh, "I hope Marcia is a nice girl, and that she will be kind to you."

"So do I,"--with a shrug,--"but from her writing I am almost sure she isn't."

CHAPTER X.

"What a dream was here!

Methought a serpent ate my heart, And you sat smiling at his cruel prey."

--_Midsummer Night's Dream._

Long, low terraces bathed in suns.h.i.+ne; a dripping, sobbing fountain; great ma.s.ses of glaring flowers that mix their reds and yellows in hideous contrast and sicken the beholder with a desire for change; emerald lawns that grow and widen as the eye endeavors vainly to grasp them, thrown into bold relief by the rich foliage, all brown, and green, and red, and bronze-tinged, that spreads behind them; while beyond all these, as far as sight can reach, great swelling parks show here and there, alive with deer, that toss and fret their antlered heads, throwing yet another charm into the already glorious scene.

Such is Herst Royal, as it stands, a very castle in its pride of birth.

On one side the "new wing" holds prominence, so called, although fully a century has pa.s.sed since mason's hand has touched it; on the other is a suspicion of heavy Gothic art. Behind, the taste of the Elizabethan era holds full sway; in front (forgetful of time) uprears itself the ancient tower that holds the first stones in all its strength and stately dignity; while round it the sympathetic ivy clings, and, pressing it in its long arms, whispers, "Courage."

Upon the balcony the sleepy peac.o.c.ks stand, too indolent to unfurl their gorgeous plumage, looking in their quiet like statues placed at intervals between the stone vases of scarlet geraniums and drooping ferns that go to adorn it.

There is a dead calm over all the house; no sound of life beyond the indistinct hum of irrepressible nature greets the ear; all is profoundly still.

The click of high-heeled shoes, the unmistakable rustle of silk, and the peac.o.c.ks, with a quick flutter, raise their heads, as though to acknowledge the approach of their mistress.

Stepping from one of the windows, thereby displaying to the un.o.bservant air an instep large but exquisitely arched, Marcia Amherst comes slowly up to where the lazy fowl are dreaming. Almost unconsciously (because her face is full of troubled thought), or perhaps a little vengefully, she flicks the one nearest to her with the handkerchief she carries loosely in her hand, until, with a discordant scream, it rouses itself, and, spreading its tail to its fullest, glances round with conscious pride.

"That is all you are good for," says Marcia out loud, contemptuously.

Her voice is singularly clear, but low and _trainante_. She is tall and very dark, with rich wavy black hair and eyes of the same hue, deep and soft as velvet. Her nose is Grecian; her lips a trifle thin.

She is distinctly handsome, but does not so much as border on the beautiful.

As she turns from the showy bird with a little shrug of disdain at its vanity or of disgust at its odious cry, she finds herself face to face with a young man who has followed almost in her footsteps.

He, too, is tall and dark, and not altogether unlike her. But his face shows the pa.s.sion that hers rather conceals than lacks, and, though sufficiently firm, is hardly as determined as hers. There is also a certain discontent about the lower part of the jaw in which she is wanting, and there are two or three wrinkles on his forehead, of which her broad, low brow is innocent.

"Well, Philip?" she says, anxiously, as he reaches her side.

"Oh, it is of no use," he replies, with a quick frown, "I could not get up my courage to the sticking-point, and if I had I firmly believe it would only have smashed my cause the more completely. Debt is his one abhorrence, or rather--he has so many--his deepest. To ask for that two thousand pounds would be my ruin."

"I wish I had it to give you," she says, gently, laying her hand--a very beautiful hand, but not small--upon his arm.

"Thank you, my dear," replies he, lightly, "but your good wishes do not get me out of my hobble. Money I must have within seven days, and money I have not. And if our grandfather discovers my delinquencies it will be all UP with me. By the bye, Marcia, I can hardly expect you to sympathize with me, as that would be so much the better for you, eh?"

"Nothing the better," says Marcia, calmly; "it would be always the same thing. I should share with you."

"What a stake it is to play for!" says the young man, wearily, with a distasteful gesture. "Is even twenty thousand pounds a year worth it?--the perpetual paying court, every day, and all day long? Sometimes I doubt it."

"It is well worth it," says Marcia, firmly. "How can you doubt it? All the good this world contains might be written under the name of 'money.' There is no happiness without it."

"There is love, however, and contentment."

"Don't believe it. Love may be purchased; and as for contentment, there is no such thing. It is a dream, a fable, a pretty story that babes may swallow."

"Yet they tell us money is the root of all evil."