Molly Bawn Part 58

"I have been rude, grandpapa,--I beg your pardon,--and I am very much obliged to you for this money."

So saying, she bends and presses her soft sweet lips to his cheek. He makes no effort to return the caress, but long after she leaves the room sits staring vaguely before him out of the dreary window on to the still more dreary landscape outside, thinking of vanished days and haunting actions that will not be laid, but carry with them their sure and keen revenge, in the knowledge that to the dead no ill can be undone.

Molly, going back to the drawing-room, finds Cecil there, serene as usual.

"Well, and where is my book?" asks that innocent. "I thought you were never coming."

"Cecil, why did you tell grandpapa to offer me a dress?" demands Molly, abruptly.

"My dearest girl!----" exclaims Cecil, and then has the grace to stop and blush, a little.

"You did. There is no use your denying it."

"You didn't refuse it? Oh, Molly, after all my trouble!"

"No,"--laughing, and unfolding her palm, where the paper lies crushed,--"but I was very near it. But that his manner was so kind, so marvelously gentle, for him, I should have done so. Cecil, I couldn't help thinking that perhaps long ago, before the world hardened him, grandpapa was a nice young man."

"Perhaps he was, my dear,--there is no knowing what any of us may come to,--though you must excuse me if I say I rather doubt it. Well, and what did he say?"

"Very little, indeed; and that little a failure. When going about it you might have given him a few lessons in his _role_. So bungling a performance as the leading up to it I never witnessed; and when he wound up by handing me a check ready prepared beside him on the desk I very nearly laughed."

"Old goose! Never mind; 'they laugh who win.' I have won."

"So you have."

"Well, but look, Molly, look. I want to see how far his unwonted 'gentleness' has carried him. I am dying of curiosity. I do hope he has not been shabby."

Unfolding the paper, they find the check has been drawn for a hundred pounds.

"Very good," says Cecil, with a relieved sigh. "He is not such a bad old thing, when all is told."

"It is too much," says Molly, aghast. "I can't take it, indeed. I would have thought twenty pounds a great deal, but a _hundred_ pounds! I must take it back to him."

"Are you mad," exclaims Cecil, "to insult him? He thinks _nothing_ of a hundred pounds. And to give back money,--that scarce commodity,--how could you bring yourself to do it?" In tones of the liveliest reproach. "Be reasonable, dear, and let us see how we can spend it fast enough."

Thus adjured, Molly succ.u.mbs, and, sinking into a chair, is soon deep in the unfathomable mysteries of silks and satins, tulle and flowers.

"And, Cecil, I should like to buy Let.i.tia a silk dress like that one of yours up-stairs I admire so much."

"The navy blue?"

"No, the olive-green; it would just suit her. She has a lovely complexion, clear and tinted, like your own."

"Thank you, dear. It is to be regretted you are of the weaker s.e.x. So delicately veiled a compliment would not have disgraced a Chesterfield."

"Was it too glaring? Well, I will do away with it. I was thinking entirely of Letty. I was comparing her skin very favorably with yours.

That reminds me I must write home to-day. I hope John won't be offended with me about this money. Though, after all, there can't be much harm in accepting a present from one's grandfather."

"I should think not, indeed. I only wish I had a grandfather, and wouldn't I utilize him! But I am an unfortunate,--alone in the world."

Even as she speaks, the door in the next drawing-room opens, and through the folding-doors, which stand apart, she sees her husband enter, and make his way to a davenport.

"That destroys your argument," says Molly, with a low laugh, as she runs away to her own room to write her letters.

For a few minutes Cecil sits silently enjoying a distant view of her husband's back. But she is far too much of a coquette to let him long remain in ignorance of her near proximity. Going softly up to him, and leaning lightly over his shoulder, she says, in a half-whisper, "What are you doing?"

He starts a little, not having expected to see so fair an apparition, and lays one of his hands over hers as it rests upon his shoulder.

"Is it you?" he says. "I did not hear you coming."

"No? That was because I was farthest from your thoughts. You are writing? To whom?"

"My tailor, for one. It is a sad but certain fact that, sooner or later, one's tailor must be paid."

"So must one's _modiste_." With a sigh. "It is that sort of person who spoils one's life."

"Is your life spoiled?"

"Oh, yes, in many ways."

"Poor little soul!" says he, with a half laugh, tightening his fingers over hers. "Is your dressmaker hardhearted?"

"Don't get me to begin on that subject, or I shall never leave off. The wrongs I have suffered at that woman's hands! But then why talk of what cannot be helped?"

"Perhaps it may. Can I do nothing for you?"

"I am afraid not." Moving a little away from him. "And yet, perhaps, if you choose, you might. You are writing; I wish"--throwing down her eyes, as though confused (which she isn't), and a.s.suming her most guileless air--"you would write something for _me_."

"What a simple request! Of course I will--anything."

"Really? You promise?"

"Faithfully."

"It is not, perhaps, quite so simple a request as it appears. I want you, in fact, to--write me--a check!"

Sir Penthony laughs, and covers the white and heavily-jeweled little hand that glitters before him on the table once more with his own.

"For how much?" he asks.

"Not much,--only fifty pounds. I want to buy something particular for this ball: and"--glancing at him--"being a lone woman, without a protector, I dread going too heavily into debt."

"Good child," says Sir Penthony. "You shall have your check." Drawing the book toward him as it lies before him on the davenport, he fills up a check and hands it to her.

"Now, what will you give me for it?" asks he, holding the edge near him as her fingers close upon the other end.

"What have I to give? Have I not just acknowledged myself insolvent? I am as poor as a church mouse."

"You disparage yourself. I think you as rich as Croesus. Will you--give me a kiss?" whispers her husband, softly.