Molly Bawn Part 83

"Well, and I love her too,--as a pupil,--a beloved pupil," says the elder man, with a smile, removing his spectacles. "My name is Marigny."

Tedcastle bows involuntarily to the great teacher and master of music.

"How often she has spoken of you!" he says warmly, feeling already a friendship for this gentle preceptor.

"Yes, yes; mine was the happiness to give to the world this glorious voice," he says, enthusiastically. "And what a gift it is!

Rare,--wonderful. But you, sir,--you are engaged to her?"

"We were--we are engaged," says Luttrell, his eyes dark with emotion.

"But it is months since we have met. I came to London to seek her; but did not dream that here--here---- Misfortune has separated us; but if I lived for a hundred years I should never cease--to----"

He stops, and, getting up abruptly, paces the room in silent impatience.

"You have spoiled her song," says the Italian, regretfully. "And she was in such voice to-night! Hark!" Raising his hand as the clapping and applause still reach him through the door. "Hark! how they appreciate even her failures!"

"Can I see her?"

"I doubt it. She is so prudent. She will speak to no one. And then madame her sister is always with her. I trust you, sir,--your face is not to be disbelieved; but I cannot give you her address. I have sworn to her not to reveal it to any one, and I must not release myself from my word without her consent."

"The fates are against me," says Luttrell, drearily.

Then he bids good-night to the Signor, and, going out into the night, paces up and down in a fever of longing and disappointment.

At length the concert is over, and every one is departing. Tedcastle, making his way to the private entrance, watches anxiously, though with little hope for what may come.

But others are watching also to catch a glimpse of the admired singer, and the crowd round the door is immense.

Insensibly, in spite of his efforts, he finds himself less near the entrance than when first he took up his stand there; and just as he is trying, with small regard to courtesy, to retrieve his position, there is a slight murmur among those a.s.sembled, and a second later some one, slender, black-robed, emerges, heavily cloaked, and with some light, fleecy thing thrown over her head, so as even to conceal her face, and quickly enters the cab that awaits her.

As she places her foot upon the step of the vehicle a portion of the white woolen shawl that hides her features falls back, and for one instant Luttrell catches sight of the pale, beautiful face that, waking and sleeping, has haunted him all these past months, and will haunt him till he dies.

She is followed by a tall woman, with a full _posee_ figure also draped in black, whom even at that distance he recognizes as Mrs.

Ma.s.sereene.

He makes one more vigorous effort to reach them, but too late. Almost as his hand touches the cab the driver receives his orders, whips up his emaciated charger, and disappears down the street.

They are gone. With a muttered exclamation, that savors not of thanksgiving, Luttrell turns aside, and, calling a hansom, drives straight to Cecil Stafford's.

Whether Molly slept or did not sleep that night remains a mystery. The following morning tells no tales. There are fresh, faint roses in her cheeks, a brightness in her eyes that for months has been absent from them. If a little quiet and preoccupied in manner, she is gayer and happier in voice and speech once her attention is gained.

Sitting in her small drawing-room, with her whole being in a very tumult of expectation, she listens feverishly to every knock.

It is not yet quite four months since she and Luttrell parted. The prescribed period has not altogether expired; and during their separation she has indeed verified her own predictions,--she has proved an undeniable success. Under the a.s.sumed name of Wynter she has sought and obtained the universal applause of the London world.

She has also kept her word. Not once during all these trying months has she written to her lover; only once has she received a line from him.

Last Valentine's morning Cecil Stafford, dropping in, brought her a small packet closely sealed and directed simply to "Molly Bawn." The mere writing made poor Molly's heart beat and her pulses throb to pain, as in one second it recalled to mind all her past joys, all the good days she had dreamed through, unknowing of the bitter wakening.

Opening the little packet, she found inside it a gold bracelet, embracing a tiny bunch of dead forget-me-nots, with this inscription folded round them:

"There shall not be one minute in an hour Wherein I will not kiss my sweet love's flower."

Except this one token of remembrance, she has had nothing to make her know whether indeed she still lives in his memory or has been forgotten,--perhaps superseded, until last night. Then, as she met his eyes, that told a story more convincing than any words, and marking the pa.s.sionate delight and longing on his face, she dared to a.s.sure herself of his constancy.

Now, as she sits restlessly awaiting what time may bring her, she thinks, with a smile, that, sad as her life may be and is, she is surely blessed as few are in a possession of which none can rob her, the tender, faithful affection of one heart.

She is still smiling, and breathing a little glad sigh over this thought, when the door opens and Lady Stafford comes in. She is radiant, a very sunbeam, in spite of the fact that Sir Penthony is again an absentee from his native land, having bidden adieu to English sh.o.r.es three months ago in a fit of pique, brought on by Cecil's perversity.

Some small dissension, some trivial disagreement, anger on his part, seeming indifference on hers, and the deed was done. He left her indignant, enraged, but probably more in love with her than ever; while she---- But who shall fathom a woman's heart?

"You saw him last night?" asks Molly, rising, with a brilliant blush, to receive her visitor. "Cecil, did you know he was coming? You might have told me." For her there is but one "he."

"So I should, my dear, directly; but the fact is, I _didn't_ know.

The stupid boy never wrote me a line on the subject. It appears he got a fortnight's leave, and came posthaste to London to find you. Such a lover as he makes. And where should he go by the merest chance, the very first evening, but into your actual presence? It is a romance,"

says her ladyship, much delighted; "positively it is a shame to let it sink into oblivion. Some one should recommend it to the Laureate as a theme for his next production."

"Well?" says Molly, who at this moment is guilty of irreverence in her thoughts toward the great poet.

"Well, now, of course he wants to know when he may see you."

"You didn't give him my address?" With an amount of disappointment in her tone impossible to suppress.

"I always notice," says Cecil, in despair, "that whenever (which is seldom) I do the right thing it turns out afterward to be the wrong thing. You swore me in to keep your secret four months ago, and I have done so religiously. To-day, sorely against my will, I honestly confess, I still remained faithful to my promise, and see the result.

You could almost beat me,--don't deny it, Molly; I see it in your eyes.

If we were both South Sea Islanders I should be black and blue this instant. It is the fear of scandal alone restrains you."

"You were quite right." Warmly. "I admire you for it; only----"

"Yes, just so. It was all I could do to refuse the poor dear fellow, he pressed me so hard; but for the first (and now I shall make it the last) time in my life, I was firm. I'm sure I wish I hadn't been. I earned both your displeasure and his."

"Not mine, dearest."

"Besides, another motive for my determination was this: both he and I doubted if you would receive him until the four months were verily up,--you are such a Roman matron in the way of sternness."

"My sternness, as you call it, is a thing of the past. Yes, I will see him whenever he may choose to come."

"Which will be in about two hours precisely; that is, the moment he sees me and learns his fate. I told him to call again about one o'clock, when I supposed I should have news for him. It is almost that now." With a hasty glance at her watch. "I must fly. But first, give me a line for him, Molly, to convince him of your fallibility."

"Have you heard anything of Sir Penthony?" asks Molly, when she has scribbled a tiny note and given it to her friend.

"Yes; I hear he either is in London or was yesterday, or will be to-morrow,--I am not clear which." With affected indifference. "I told you he was sure to turn up again all right, like a bad halfpenny; so I was not uneasy about him. I only hope he will reappear in better temper than when he left."

"Now, confess you are delighted at the idea of so soon seeing him again," says Molly, laughing.

"Well, I'm not in such radiant spirits as somebody I could mention."

Mischievously. "And as to confessing, I never do that. I should make a bad Catholic. I should be in perpetual hot water with my spiritual adviser. But if he comes back penitent, and shows himself less exigeant, I shan't refuse his overtures of peace. Now, don't make me keep your Teddy waiting any longer. He is shut up in my boudoir enduring grinding torments all this time, and without a companion or the chance of one, as I left word that I should be at home to no one but him this morning. Good-bye, darling. Give my love to Let.i.tia and the wee sc.r.a.ps. And--these bonbons--I had almost forgotten them."

"Oh, by the bye, did you hear what Daisy said the other day _apropos_ of your china?"