Molly Bawn Part 77

"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. Ma.s.sereene, "say you are pleased with my plan, and all will be well."

"What would become of me without you?" says Let.i.tia, irrelevantly, kissing her; and Molly, taking this for consent, enters into a long and animated discussion of the subject of her intended _debut_ as a public singer.

CHAPTER x.x.x.

"Who ne'er have loved, and loved in vain, Can neither feel nor pity pain."

--Byron.

True to her promise, the next day Molly wraps herself up warmly and takes her way toward the wood that adjoins but does not belong to Brooklyn.

At first, from overmuch inactivity and spiritless brooding, a sort of languor--a trembling of the limbs--oppresses her; but presently, as the cold, crisp air creeps into her young blood, she quickens her steps, and is soon walking with a brisk and healthy motion toward the desired spot.

Often her eyes fill with unbidden tears, as many a well-remembered place is pa.s.sed, and she thinks of a kindly word or a gay jest uttered here by lips now cold and mute.

There is a sadness in the wood itself that harmonizes with her thoughts. The bare trees, the fast-decaying leaves beneath her feet, all speak of death and change. Swinburne's exquisite lines rise involuntarily to her mind:

"Lo, the summer is dead, the sun is faded, Even like as a leaf the year is withered.

All the fruit of the day from all her branches Gathered, neither is any left to gather.

All the flowers are dead, the tender blossoms, All are taken away; the season wasted Like an ember among the fallen ashes."

Seating herself upon a little gra.s.sy mound, with her head thrown back against the trunk of a gnarled but kindly beech, she waits her lover's coming. She is very early, almost by her own calculation half an hour must elapse before he can join her. Satisfied that she cannot see him until then, she is rapidly falling into a gentle doze, when footsteps behind her cause her to start into a sitting posture.

"So soon," she says, and, rising, finds herself face to face with--Philip Shadwell.

"You see, I have followed you," he says, slowly.

He does not offer to shake hands with her; he gives her no greeting; he only stands before her, suffering his eyes to drink in hungrily her saddened but always perfect beauty.

"So I see," she answers, quite slowly.

"You have been in trouble. You have grown thin," he says, presently, in the same tone.

"Yes."

She is puzzled, dismayed, at his presence here, feeling an unaccountable repugnance to his society, and a longing for his departure, as she notes his unwonted agitation,--the unknown but evident purpose in his eyes.

"When last we met," says Philip, with a visible effort at calmness, and with his great dark, moody eyes bent upon the ground, "you told me you--hated me."

"Did I? The last time? How long ago it seems!--years--centuries.

Ah!"--clasping her hands in a very ecstasy of regret--"how happy I was then! and yet--I thought myself miserable! That day I spoke to you"

(gazing at him as one gazes at something outside and beyond the question altogether), "I absolutely believed I knew what unhappiness meant; and now----"

"Yes. You said you hated me," says the young man, still bent upon his own wrongs to the exclusion of all others. He is sorry for her, very sorry; but what is her honest grief for her beloved dead compared with the desperate craving for the unattainable that is consuming him daily,--hourly?

"I hardly remember," Molly says, running her slender fingers across her brow. "Well,"--with a sigh,--"I have fallen into such low estate since then that I think I have no power within me now to hate any one."

"You did not mean it, perhaps?" still painfully calm, although he knows the moments of grace are slipping surely, swiftly, trying vainly to encourage hope. "You said it, perhaps, in an instant of pa.s.sion? One often does. One exaggerates a small offense. Is it not so?"

"Yes,"--with her thoughts as far from him as the earth is from the heavens,--"it may be so."

"You think so? You did _not_ mean it?" with a sudden gleam of misplaced confidence. "Oh! if you only knew how I have suffered since that fatal word pa.s.sed your lips!--but you did not mean it. In time--who knows?--you may even bring yourself to care for me a little.

Molly,"--seizing her hand,--"speak--speak, and say it will be so."

"No, no," exclaims she, at last, coming back to the present, and understanding him. "Never. Why do you so deceive yourself? Do not think it; do not try to believe it. And"--with a quick shudder--"to speak to me so now,--at this time----"

"Perhaps, had I known you first, you might have loved me," persists he.

"I am sure not," replies she, gently but decidedly. "Your dark looks, your vehemence,--all--frighten me."

"Once a.s.sured of your love, I could change all that," he perseveres, unwisely, in a low tone, his pa.s.sionate, gloomy eyes still fixed upon the ground, his foot uneasily stirring the chilled blades of gra.s.s beneath him. "In such a case, what is it I could not do? Molly, will you not take pity on me? Will you not give me a chance?"

"I cannot. Why will you persist? I tell you, if we two were to live forever, you are the very last man I should ever love. It is the kindest thing I can do for you to speak thus plainly."

"Kind!"--bitterly; "_can_ you be kind? With your fair, soft face, and your angel eyes, you are the most bitterly cruel woman I ever met in my life. I curse the day I first saw you! You have ruined my happiness."

"Philip, do not speak like that. You cannot mean it. In a few short months you will forget you have ever uttered such words,--or felt them.

See, now,"--laying the tips of her fingers kindly upon his arm,--"put away from you this miserable fancy, and I will be your friend--if you will."

"Friend!" retorts he, roughly. "Who that had seen and loved you could coldly look upon you as a friend? Every thought of my heart, every action of my life, has you mixed up in it. Your face is burned into my brain. I live but in recollection of you, and you speak to me of friends.h.i.+p! I tell you," says Philip, almost reducing himself again to calmness through intensity of emotion, "I am fighting for my very existence. I must and will have you."

"Why will you talk so wildly?"--turning a little pale, and retreating a step: "you know what you propose, to be impossible."

"There is nothing impossible, if you will only try to look upon me more kindly."

"Am I to tell you again," she says, still gently, but with some natural indignation, "that if I knew you for ever and ever, I could not feel for you even the faintest spark of affection of the kind you mean! I would not marry you for all the bribes you could offer. It is not your fault that it is so, nor is it mine. You say 'try' to love you. Can love be forced? Did ever any one grow to love another through trying?

You know better. The more one would have to try, the less likely would one be to succeed. Love is free, and yet a very tyrant. Oh, Philip, forget such vain thoughts. Do not waste your life hoping for what can never be."

"It shall be," cries he, vehemently, suddenly, with an unexpected movement catching her in his arms. "Molly, if I cannot buy your love, let me at least buy yourself. Remember how you are now situated. You do not yet know the horrors of poverty--real poverty; and I--at least I have prospects. Herst will be mine beyond all doubt (who can be preferred before me?), and that old man cannot live forever. Think of your sister and all her children; I swear I will provide for all; not one but shall be to me as my own, for your sake. You shall do what you like with me. Body and soul I am yours for good or evil. Let it be for good."

"How dare you speak to me like this?" says Molly, who has tried vainly to escape from his detested embrace during the short time it has taken him to pour forth his last words. "Let me go instantly. Do you hear me, Philip?--release me."

Her blue eyes have turned almost black with a little fear and unlimited anger, her lips are white but firm, her very indignation only making her more fair.

"I will, when you have given me some ground for hope. Promise you will consider my words."

"Not for a single instant. When a few moments ago I hinted how abhorrent you are to me, I spoke truly; I only lied when I tried to soften my words. I would rather ten thousand times be _dead_ than your wife. Now I hope you understand. Your very touch makes me shudder."

She ceases, more from want of breath than words, and a deep silence falls between them. Even through the bare and melancholy trees the wind has forgotten to s.h.i.+ver. Above, the clouds, rain-filled, scud hurriedly. A storm is in the air. Upon Philip's face a deadlier storm is gathering.

"Have you anything more to say?" he asks, an evil look coming into his eyes. Not for a second has he relaxed his hold.

Molly's heart sinks a little lower. Oh! if Tedcastle would only come!

yet with a certain bravery she compels herself to return without flinching the gaze of the dark pa.s.sionate face bent above hers. She knows every limb in her body is trembling, that a deadly sickness is creeping over her, yet by a supreme effort she maintains her calmness.