Molly Bawn Part 75

"It is all very miserable," he says, after a pause, occupied in trying to soothe.

"Ah! is it not? What trouble can be compared with it? To find him dead, without a word, a parting sign!" She sighs heavily. "The bitterest sting of all lies in the fact that but for my own selfishness I might have seen him again. Had I returned home as I promised at the end of the month I should have met my brother living; but instead I lingered on, enjoying myself,"--with a shudder,--"while he was slowly breaking his heart over his growing difficulties. It must all have happened during this last month. He had no care on his mind when I left him; you know that. You remember how light-hearted he was, how kindly, how good to all."

"He was indeed, poor--poor fellow!"

"And some have dared to blame him," she says, in a pained whisper. "You do not?"

"No--_no_."

"I have been calculating," she goes on, in a distressed tone, "and the very night I was dancing so frivolously at that horrible ball he must have been lying awake here waiting with a sick heart for the news that was to--kill him. I shall never go to a ball again; I shall never dance again," says Molly, with a pa.s.sionate sob, scorning, as youth will, the power of time to cure.

"Darling, why should you blame yourself? Such thoughts are morbid,"

says Luttrell, fondly caressing the bright hair that still lies loosely against his arm. "Which of us can see into the future? And, if we could, do you think it would add to our happiness? Shake off such depressing ideas. They will injure not only your mind, but your body."

"I do not think I should feel it all quite so much," says Molly, in a low, miserable, expressionless voice, "if I could only see him now and then. No, not in the flesh--I do not mean that,--but if I could only bring his face before my mind I might be content. For hours together I sit, with my hands clasped before my eyes, trying to conjure him up, and I cannot. Almost every casual acquaintance I possess, all the people whose living or dying matters to me not at all, rise at my command; but he never. Is it not curious?"

"Perhaps it is because your mind dwells too much upon him. But tell me of your affairs," says Luttrell, abruptly but kindly, leading her to a sofa and seating himself beside her, with a view of drawing her from her unhappy thoughts. "Are they as bad as Mrs. Ma.s.sereene says?"

"Quite as bad."

"Then what do they mean to do?" In a tone of the deepest commiseration.

"'They'? We, you mean. What others, I suppose, have learned to do before us--work for our daily bread."

An incredulous look comes into his eyes, but he wisely subdues it.

"And what do you propose doing?" he asks, calmly, meaning in his own mind to humor her.

"You are like Mr. Buscarlet,--he would know everything," says Molly, with a smile; "but this is a question you must not ask me,--just yet. I have a hope,--perhaps I had better say an idea; and until it is confirmed or rejected I shall tell no one of it. No, not even you."

"Well, never mind. Tell me instead when you intend leaving Brooklyn."

"In a fortnight we must leave it. Is it not a little while?--only two short weeks in which to say good-bye forever to my home,--(how much that word comprises!)--to the place where all my life has been spent,--where every stone, and tree, and path is endeared to me by a thousand memories."

"And after?"

"We go to London. There I hope to work out my idea."

"You have forgotten to tell me," says Luttrell, slowly, "my part in all these arrangements."

"Yours? Ah, Teddy, you put an end to our engagement in good time. Now it must have been broken, whether we liked it or not."

"Meaning that I must not throw in my lot with yours? Do you know what folly you are talking?" says Luttrell, almost roughly. "Ours, I am a.s.sured, is an engagement that _cannot_ be broken. Not all the cruel words that could be spoken--that have been spoken"--in a low tone of reproach--"have power to separate us. You are mine, Molly, as I am yours, forever. I will never give you up. And now--now--in the hour of your trouble----" Breaking off, he gets up from his seat and commences to pace the room excitedly.

She has risen too, and is standing with her eyes fixed anxiously upon him. At length, "Let us put an end now to all misconceptions and doubts," he says, stopping before her. "Your manner that last evening at Herst, your greeting of to-day, have led me to hope again. I would know without further delay whether I am wrong in thinking you care more for me than for any other man. Am I? Speak, Molly, tell me now--here--if you love me."

"I do--I do!" cries she, bursting into tears again, and flinging herself in an abandonment of grief into his longing arms. "And that is what makes my task so hard. That is why I have not allowed myself to see you all these past days. It was not coldness, Teddy, it was love. I dared not see you, because all must be at an end between us."

"Do you think, with you in my arms like this, with the a.s.surance of your love fresh upon your lips, and now"--stooping--"upon mine, I can do anything but laugh at such treason as that?"

"Nay, but you must listen, Teddy, and believe that I am earnest in all that I say. For the future I shall neither see you nor hear from you: I must even try to forget you, if I would succeed in what lies before me.

From henceforth I shall do my best to regard you as a stranger, to keep you at arm's length."

"Never," says Luttrell, emphatically, tightening his arms around her, as though to enforce the meaning of the word and show the absurdity of her last remark. "You talk as though you meant to convince me, but unhappily you don't. The more you say the more determined I am to marry you at once, and put a stop to all such nonsense as your trying to work."

"And are you going to marry Let.i.tia also, and Lovat, and the two little girls, and the baby?" asks she, quietly. "Who is talking nonsense now?

You seem to forget that they and I are one."

"Something must be done," says Luttrell, wretchedly.

"I quite agree with you; but who is going to do it?"

"I will"--decidedly; "I shall cut the army. My father has been a member and a staunch Conservative for years, and surely he must have some interest. I have heard of posts under government where one has little or nothing to do, and gets a capital salary for doing it; why should not I drop into one of them? Then we might all live together, and perhaps you might be happy."

"But in the meantime"--sadly--"we poor folks must live."

"That is the worst of it," says Luttrell, with questionable taste, biting his moustache. "Well"--angrily--"I see you are as bent on having your own way as ever. Tell me about this mighty plan of yours."

"I cannot, indeed, and you must not ask me. If I did tell you, probably you would scoff at it, or perhaps be angry, and I will not let myself be discouraged. It is quite useless your pressing me about this matter.

I will not tell."

"And do you mean to tell me you purpose going alone into the great London world to seek your fortune, without a protector? You must be mad."

"I have Let.i.tia."

"Let.i.tia"--indignantly--"is a very handsome woman, not more than ten years older than yourself. _She_ a protector!"

"I can't help that."

"Yes, you can; but your--obstinacy--won't allow you. Do you, then, intend to let no one know of your affairs?"

"I shall confide in Cecil Stafford, because I can't avoid it. But I know she will keep my secret until I give her leave to speak."

"It comes to this, then, that you consider every one before me. It is nothing to you whether I eat my heart out in ignorance of whether you are alive or dead."

"Cecil"--hastily--"may tell you so much."

"Thank you; this is a wonderful concession."

"Why should I concede at all, when, as I have said, you are no longer bound to me?"

"But I am,--more strongly so than ever; and I insist, I desire you, Molly, to let me know what it is you intend doing."

He looks sterner than one would have conceived possible for him; Miss Ma.s.sereene evidently thinks him inhumanly so.

"Don't speak to me like that," she says, with quivering lips. "You should not. I have made a vow not to disclose my secret to you of all people, and would you have me break it?"

"But why?" impatiently.