Molly Bawn Part 76

"Because--have I not told you already?--because"--with a little dry sob--"I love you so dearly that to encourage thoughts of you would unfit me for my work. And it is partly for your own sake I do it, for something tells me we shall never marry each other; and why should you spend your life dreaming of a shadow?"

"It is the cruelest resolution a woman ever formed," replies he, ignoring as beneath notice the latter part of her speech, and, putting away her hands, takes once more to his irritable promenade up and down the room.

Molly is crying, silently, exhaustedly. "My burden is too heavy for me," she murmurs, faintly.

"Then why not let me help you to bear it?"

"If it will comfort you, Teddy"--brokenly--"I will give in so far as to promise to write to you in six months. I ask you to wait till then. Is it too long? If so, remember you are free--believe me it will be better so--and I perhaps shall be happier in the thought----" And here incontinently she breaks down.

"Don't," says Luttrell, hurriedly, whose heart grows faint within him at the sight of her distress. "Molly, I give in. I am satisfied with your last promise. I shall wait forever, if that will please you. Who am I, that I should add one tear to the many you have already shed?

Forgive me, my own love."

"Yes, but do not say anything more to me to-day; I am tired," says Molly, submitting to his caresses, though still a little sore at heart.

"Only one thing more," says this insatiable young man, who evidently holds in high esteem the maxim to "strike while the iron is hot." "You agree to a renewal of our engagement?"

"I suppose so. Although I know it is an act of selfishness on my part.

Nothing can possibly come of it."

"And if it is selfishness in you, what is it in me?" asks he, humbly.

"You know as well as I do I am no match for you, who, with your face, your voice" (Molly winces perceptibly), "your manner, might marry whom you choose. Yet I do ask you to wait"--eagerly--"until something comes to our aid, to be true to me, no matter what happens, until I can claim you."

"I will wait; I _will_ be true to you," she answers, with dewy eyes uplifted to his, and a serene, earnest face. As she gives her promise a little sigh escapes her, more full of content, I think, than any regret.

After coming to this conclusion they talk more rationally for an hour or so (a lover's hour, dear reader, is not as other hours; it never drags; it is not full of yawns; it does not make us curse the day we were born); and then Luttrell, by some unlucky chance, discovers he must tear himself away.

As Molly rises to bid him good-bye, she catches her breath, and presses her hand to her side.

"I have such a pain here," she says.

"You don't go out," says her lover, severely; "you want air. I shall speak to Let.i.tia if you won't take more care of yourself."

"I have not been out of the house for so long, I quite dread going."

"Then go to-morrow. If you will walk to the wood nearest you,--where you will see no one,--I will meet you there."

"Very well," says Molly, obediently; and when they have said good-bye for the fifth time, he really takes his departure.

How to reveal her weighty secret to Let.i.tia troubles Molly much,--an intimate acquaintance with her sister-in-law's character causing her to know its disclosure will be received not only with discouragement, but with actual disapproval. And yet--disclose it she must.

But how to break it happily. Having thought of many ways and means, and rejected them all, she decides, with a sigh, that plain speaking will be best.

"Let.i.tia," she says, this very evening,--Luttrell having been gone some hours,--"do you know Signor Marigny's address?"

She is leaning her elbows on the writing-table, and has let her rounded chin sink into her palms' embrace; while her eyes fix themselves steadily upon the pen, the paper, anything but Let.i.tia.

"Signor Marigny! Your old singing-master? No. Why do you ask, dear?"

"Because I want to write to him."

"Do you? And what----? No, I have not got his address; I don't believe I ever had it. How shall you manage?"

"I dare say I have it somewhere myself; don't trouble," says Molly, knowing guiltily it lies just beneath her hand within the table-drawer.

She is glad of a respite, Let.i.tia having forborne to press the question.

Not for long, however; human nature can stand a good many things, but curiosity conquers most.

"Why are you writing to Signor Marigny?" Let.i.tia asks, in a gentle tone of indifference, after a full five minutes' pause, during which she has been devoured with a desire to know.

"Because I believe he will help me," says Molly, slowly. "I have been thinking, Letty,--thinking very seriously,--and I have decided upon making my fortune--_our_ fortune--out of my voice."

"Molly!"

"Well, dear, and why not? Do not dishearten me, Letty; you know we must live, and what other plan can you suggest?"

"In London I thought perhaps we might get something to do,"--mournfully,--"and there no one would hear of us. I have rather a fancy for millinery, and one of those large establishments might take me, while you could go as a daily governess," regarding her sister doubtfully.

"Governess! oh, no! The insipidity, the drudgery of it, would kill me.

I should lose sight of the fact that I was my own mistress in such genteel slavery. Besides, as a concert singer (and I _can_ sing), I should earn as much in one night, probably, as I should otherwise in a year."

"Oh, Molly!"--clasping her hands--"I cannot bear to think of it. It is horrible; the publicity,--the dreadful ordeal. And you of all others,--my pretty Molly----"

"It is well I am pretty," says Molly, with a supreme effort at calmness; "they say a pretty woman with a voice takes better."

"Every word you say only convinces me more and more how cruel a task it would be. And Molly, darling, I know he would not wish it."

"I think he would wish me to do my duty," says Molly, gazing with great tearless eyes through the window into s.p.a.ce, while her slender fingers meet and twine together nervously. "Let.i.tia, why cannot you be thankful, as I am, that I have a voice,--a sure and certain provision?--because I know I can sing as very few can. (I say this gratefully, and without any vanity.) Why, without it we might starve."

"And what will Tedcastle say? For, in spite of all your arguments, Molly, I am sure he is devoted to you still."

"That must not matter. Our engagement, to all intents and purposes, is at an end, because"--sighing--"we shall never marry. He is too poor, and I am too poor, and, besides"--telling her lie bravely,--"I do not wish to marry him."

"I find it hard to believe you," says Let.i.tia, examining the girl's face critically. "Do you mean to tell me you have ceased to care for him?"

"How do I know?"--pettishly, her very restlessness betraying the truth.

"At times I am not sure myself. At all events, everything is at an end between us, which is the princ.i.p.al thing, as he cannot now interfere with my decision."

"Do not think you can deceive me," says Let.i.tia, in a trembling tone.

"Ah, how cruel it all is! Death when it visits most homes, leaves at least hope behind, but here there is none. Other women lose fortune, or perhaps position, or it may be love; but I have lost all; while you--with all your young life before you--would sacrifice yourself for us. I am not wholly selfish, Molly; I refuse to accept your offer. I refuse to take your happiness at your hands."

"My happiness is yours," returns Molly, tenderly; "refuse to let me help you, and the little shred of comfort that still remains to me vanishes with the rest. Let.i.tia, you are my home now: do not reject me."

Two sad little tears run down her pale cheeks unchecked. Let.i.tia, unable to bear the sight, turns away; and presently two kindred drops steal down her face, and fall with a faint splashing sound upon her heavy c.r.a.pe.

"It would be such a hateful life for you," she says, with a sigh.

"I don't think so. I like singing; and the knowledge that by it I was actually helping you--who all my life have been my true and loving sister--would make my task sweet. What shall I say to Signor Marigny, Letty?" with a sudden air of business. "He has a great deal to do with concerts and that; and I know he will a.s.sist me in every way."

"Tell him you are about to sacrifice your love, your happiness, everything that makes life good, for your family," says Let.i.tia, who has begun to cry bitterly, "and ask him what will compensate you for it; ask him if gold, or fame, or praise, will fill the void that already you have begun to feel."