Molly Bawn Part 50

"At all events you are my wife,"--rather angrily; "I must beg you to remember that. And for the future I shall ask you to refrain from such amus.e.m.e.nts as call for concealment and necessitate the support of a young man's arm."

"I really do not see by what right you interfere with either me or my amus.e.m.e.nts," says Cecil, hotly, after a decided pause. Never has he addressed her with so much sternness. She raises her eyes to his and colors richly all through her creamy skin. "Recollect our bargain."

"I do. I recollect also that you have my name."

"And you have my money. That makes us quits."

"I do not see how you intend carrying out that argument. The money was quite as much mine as yours."

"But you could not have had it without me."

"Nor you without me."

"Which is to be regretted. At least I should have had a clear half, which I haven't; so you have the best of it. And--I will not be followed about, and pried after, and made generally uncomfortable by any one."

"Who is prying after you?"

"You are."

"What do you mean, Cecil?" Haughtily.

"Just what I say. And, as I never so far forget myself as to call _you_ by your Christian name without its prefix, I think you might have the courtesy to address _me_ as Lady Stafford."

"Certainly, if you wish it."

"I do. Have you anything more to say?"

"Yes, more than----"

"Then pray defer it until to-morrow, as"--with a bare-faced attempt at a yawn--"I really cannot sit up any longer. Good-night, Sir Penthony."

Sir Penthony puts the end of his long moustache into his mouth,--a sure sign of irritation,--and declines to answer.

"Good-night," repeats her ladys.h.i.+p, blandly, going up the staircase, with a suspicion of a smile at the corners of her lips, and feeling no surprise that her polite little adieu receives no reply.

When she has reached the centre of the broad staircase she pauses, and, leaning her white arms upon the banisters, looks down upon her husband, standing irresolute and angry in the hall beneath.

"Sir Penthony," murmurs she; "Sir----" Here she hesitates for so long a time that when at last the "Penthony" does come it sounds more familiar and almost unconnected with the preceding word.

Stafford turns, and glances quickly up at her. She is dressed in some soft-flowing gown of black, caught here and there with heavy bows and bands of cream-color, that contrast admirably with her hair, soft skin, her laughing eyes, and her pouting, rosy lips. In her hair, which she wears low on her neck, is a black comb studded with pearls; there are a few pearls round her neck, a few more in her small ears; she wears no bracelets, only two narrow bands of black velvet caught with pearls, that make her arms seem even rounder and whiter than they are.

"Good-night," she says, for the third time, nodding at him in a slow, sweet fas.h.i.+on that has some grace or charm about it all its own, and makes her at the instant ten times lovelier than she was before.

Stafford, coming forward until he stands right under her, gazes up at her entranced like some modern Romeo. Indeed, there is something almost theatrical about them as they linger, each waiting for the other to speak,--he fond and impa.s.sioned, yet half angry too, she calm and smiling, yet mutinous.

For a full minute they thus hesitate, looking into each other's eyes; then the anger fades from Stafford's face, and he whispers, eagerly, tenderly:

"Good-night, my----"

"Friend," murmurs back her ladys.h.i.+p, decisively, leaning yet a little farther over the banisters.

Then she kisses her hand to him and drops at his feet the rose that has lain on her bosom all the evening, and, with a last backward glance and smile, flits away from him up the darkened staircase and vanishes.

"I shall positively lose my heart to her if I don't take care," thinks the young man, ruefully, and very foolishly, considering how long ago it is since that misfortune has befallen him. But we are ever slow to acknowledge our own defeats. His eyes are fixed upon the flower at his feet.

"No, I do not want her flowers," he says, with a slight frown, pus.h.i.+ng it away from him disdainfully. "It was a mere chance my getting it. Any other fellow in my place at the moment would have been quite as favored,--nay, beyond doubt more so. I will not stoop for it."

With his dignity thus forced to the front, he walks the entire length of the hall, his arms folded determinedly behind him, until he reaches a door at the upper end.

Here he pauses and glances back almost guiltily. Yes, it is still there, the poor, pretty yellow blossom that has been so close to her, now sending forth its neglected perfume to an ungrateful world.

It is cruel to leave it there alone all night, to be trodden on, perhaps, in the morning by an unappreciative John or Thomas, or, worse still, to be worn by an appreciative James. Desecration!

"'Who hesitates is lost,'" quotes Stafford, aloud, with an angry laugh at his own folly, and, walking deliberately back again, picks up the flower and presses it to his lips.

"I thought that little speech applied only to us poor women," says a soft voice above him, as, to his everlasting chagrin, Cecil's mischievous, lovable face peers down at him from the gallery overhead.

"Have another flower, Sir Penthony? You seem fond of them."

She throws a twin-blossom to the one he holds on to his shoulder as she speaks with very accurate aim.

"It was yours," stammers Sir Penthony, utterly taken aback.

"_So_ it was,"--with an accent of affected surprise,--"which makes your behavior all the more astonis.h.i.+ng. Well, do not stand there kissing it all night, or you will catch cold, and then--what _should_ I do?"

"What?"

"Die of grief, most probably." With a little mocking laugh.

"Very probably. Yet you should pity me too, in that I have fallen so low as to have nothing better given me to kiss. I am wasting my sweetness on----"

"Is it sweetness?" asks she, wickedly.

At this they both laugh,--a low, a soft laugh, born of the hour and a fear of interruption, and perhaps a dread of being so discovered, that adds a certain zest to their meeting. Then he says, still laughing, in answer to her words, "Try."

"No, thank you." With a little _moue_. "Curiosity is not my besetting sin, although I could not resist seeing how you would treat my parting gift a moment ago. Ah!"--with a little suppressed laugh of the very fullest enjoyment,--"you cannot think what an interesting picture you made,--almost tragic. First you stalked away from my unoffending rose with all the dignity of a thousand Spaniards; and then, when you had gone sufficiently far to make your return effective, you relented, and, seizing upon the flower as though it were--let us say, for convenience sake--_myself_, devoured it with kisses. I a.s.sure you it was better than a play. Well,"--with a sigh,--"I won't detain you any longer. I'm off to my slumbers."

"Don't go yet, Cecil. Wait one moment. I--have something to say to you."

"No doubt. A short time since you said the same thing. Were I to stay now you might, perhaps, finish that scolding; instinct told me it was hanging over me; and--I hate being taken to task."

"I will not, I swear I will never again attempt to scold you about anything, experience having taught me the futility of such a course.

Cecil, stay."

"Lady Stafford, if you please, Sir Penthony." With a tormenting smile.

"Lady Stafford then,--anything, if you will only stay."

"I can't, then. Where should I be without my beauty sleep? The bare idea fills me with horror. Why, I should lose my empire. Sweet as parting is, I protest I, for one, would not lengthen it until to-morrow. Till then--farewell. And--Sir Penthony--be sure you dream of me. I like being dreamed of by my----"