Molly Bawn Part 80

"I don't know. Yes,"--doubtfully,--"it is too long a time. In four months, then, I shall write,--yes, in four months. Now I do not feel quite so bad. Sixteen weeks will not be so long going by."

"One would be shorter still."

"No, no." Smiling. "Would you have me break through all my resolution?

Be faithful to me, Teddy, and I will be faithful to you.

Here,"--lifting her hands to her neck,--"I am not half satisfied with that stupid lock of hair: it may fall out, or you may lose it some way.

Take this little chain"--loosening it from round her throat and giving it to him--"and wear it next your heart until we meet again,--if indeed"--sighing--"we ever do meet again. Does not all this sound like the sentiment of a hundred years ago? But do not laugh at me: I mean it."

"I will do as you bid me," replies he, kissing the slender chain as though it were some sacred relic,--and as such, indeed, he regards it,--while ready tears spring to his eyes. "It and I shall never part."

"Well, good-bye really now," she says, with quivering lips. "I feel more cheerful, more hopeful. I don't feel as if--I were going to cry--another tear." With this she breaks into a perfect storm of tears, and tearing herself from his embrace, runs away from him down the avenue out of sight of his longing eyes.

CHAPTER x.x.xII.

"Why, look you, how you storm!

I would be friends with you, and have your love."

--_Merchant of Venice._

"She is indeed perfection."

--_Oth.e.l.lo._

The fourth day before that fixed upon for leaving Brooklyn, Molly, coming down to breakfast, finds upon her plate a large envelope directed in her grandfather's own writing,--a rather shaky writing now, it is true, but with all the remains of what must once have been bold and determined calligraphy.

"Who can it be from?" says Molly, regarding the elaborate seal and crest with amazement,--both so scarlet, both so huge.

"Open it, dear, and you will see," replies Let.i.tia, who is merely curious, and would not be accused of triteness for the world.

Breaking the alarming seal, Molly reads in silence; while Let.i.tia, unable to bear suspense, rises and reads it also over her sister's shoulder.

It consists of a very few lines, and merely expresses a desire--that is plainly a command--that Molly will come the following day to Herst, as her grandfather has something of importance to say to her.

"What can it be?" says Molly, glancing over her shoulder at Mrs.

Ma.s.sereene, who has taken the letter to re-read it.

"Something good, perhaps." Wistfully. "There may be some luck in store for you."

"Hardly. I have ceased to believe in my own good luck," says Molly, bitterly. "At all events, I suppose I had better go. Afterward I might reproach myself for having been inattentive to his wishes."

"Go, by all means," says Let.i.tia; and so it is arranged.

Feeling tired and nervous, she arrives the next day at Herst, and is met in the hall by her friend the housekeeper in subdued spirits and the unfailing silk gown, who receives her in a good old motherly fashion and bestows upon her a warm though deferential kiss.

"You have come, my dear, and I am glad of it," she says in a mysterious tone. "He has been asking for you incessant. Miss Amherst, she is away from home." This in a pleased, confidential tone, Miss Amherst being distinctly unpopular among the domestics, small and great. "Mr. Amherst he sent her to the Latouches' for a week,--against her will, I must say. And the captain, he has gone abroad."

"Has he?" Surprised.

"Yes, quite suddent like, and no one the wiser why. When last he come home, after being away a whole day, he seemed to me daft like,--quite,"

says Mrs. Nesbitt, raising her eyes and hands, whose cozy plumpness almost conceals the well-worn ring that for twenty years of widowhood has rested there alone, "quite as though he had took leave of his senses."

"Yes?" says Molly, in a faltering tone, feeling decidedly guilty.

"Ah, indeed, Miss Ma.s.sereene, and so 'twas. But you are tired, my dear, no doubt, and a'most faint for a gla.s.s of wine. Come and take off your things and rest yourself a bit, while I tell Mr. Amherst of your arrival."

In half an hour, refreshed and feeling somewhat bolder, Molly descends, and, gaining the library door, where her grandfather awaits her, she opens it and enters.

As, pale, slender, black-robed, she advances to his side, Mr. Amherst looks up.

"You have come," he says, holding out his hand to her, but not rising.

There is a most unusual nervousness and hesitancy about his manner.

"Yes. You wrote for me, and I came," she answers simply, stooping, as in duty bound, to press her lips to his cheek.

"Are you well?" he asks, scrutinizingly, struck by the difference in her appearance since last he saw her.

"Yes, thank you, quite well."

"I am sorry to see you in such trouble." There is a callousness about the way in which these words are uttered that jars upon Molly. She remembers on the instant all his narrow spleen toward the one now gone.

"I am,--in sore trouble," she answers, coldly.

A pause. Mr. Amherst, although apparently full of purpose, clearly finds some difficulty about proceeding. Molly is waiting in impatient silence.

"You wished to speak to me, grandpapa?" she says, at length.

"Yes,--yes. Only three days ago I heard you had been left--badly provided for. Is this so?"

"It is."

"And that"--speaking slowly--"you had made up your mind to earn your own living. Have I still heard correctly?"

"Quite correctly. Mr. Buscarlet would be sure to give you a true version of the case."

"The news has upset me." For the first time he turns his head and regards her with a steady gaze. "I particularly object to your doing anything of the kind. It would be a disgrace, a blot upon our name forever. None of our family has ever been forced to work for daily bread. And I would have you remember you are an Amherst."

"Pardon me, I am a Ma.s.sereene."

"You are an Amherst." With some excitement and considerable irritation.

"Your mother must count in some way, and you--you bear a strong resemblance to every second portrait of our ancestors in the gallery upstairs. I wrote, therefore, to bring you here that I might personally desire you to give up your scheme of self-support and come to live at Herst as its mistress."

"'Its mistress'!" repeats Molly, in utter amazement. "And how about Marcia?"

"She shall be amply portioned,--if you consent to my proposal."