—Edgar A. Poe.
—German Song.
At breakfast Molly is very pale, and speaks little. She toys with her toast, but cannot eat. Being questioned, she confesses herself fatigued4, not being accustomed to late hours.
She neither looks at Luttrell, nor does he seek to attract her attention in any way.
"A good long walk will refresh you more than anything," says Talbot Lowry, who has been spending the past few days at Herst. He addresses Molly, but his eyes seek Cecil's as he does so, in the fond hope that she will take his hint and come with him for a similar refresher to that he has prescribed for Molly.
Cecil's unfortunate encouragement of the night before—displayed more with a view to chagrining5 Sir Penthony than from a mere6 leaning toward coquetry—has fanned his passion to a very dangerous height. He is consumed with a desire to speak, and madly flatters himself that there is undoubted hope for him.
To throw himself at Lady Stafford's feet, declare his love, and ask her to leave, for him, a husband who has never been more to her than an ordinary acquaintance, and to renounce7 a name that can have no charms for her, being devoid8 of tender recollections or sacred memories, seems to him, in his present over-strained condition, a very light thing indeed. In return, he argues feverishly9, he can give her the entire devotion of a heart, and, what is perhaps a more practical offer, a larger income than she can now command.
Then, in the present day, what so easily, or quietly, or satisfactorily arranged, as a divorce in high life, leaving behind it neither spot nor scar, nor anything unpleasant in the way of social ostracism10? And this might—nay, should—follow.
Like Molly, he has lain awake since early dawn arranging plans and rehearsing speeches; and now, after breakfast, as he walks beside the object of his adoration11 through the shrubberies and outer walks into the gardens beyond, carried away by the innate12 vanity of him, and his foolish self-esteem, and not dreaming of defeat, he decides that the time has come to give voice to his folly13.
They are out of view of the windows, when he stops abruptly14, and says rashly,—with a pale face, it is true, but a certain amount of composure that bespeaks15 confidence,—"Cecil, I can keep silence no longer. Let me speak to you, and tell you all that is in my heart."
"He has fallen in love with Molly," thinks Cecil, wondering vaguely16 at the manner of his address, he having never attempted to call her by her Christian17 name before.
"You are in love?" she says, kindly18, but rather uncertainly, not being able at the moment to call to mind any tender glances of his cast at Molly or any suspicious situations that might confirm her in her fancy.
"Need you ask?" says Lowry, taking her hand, feeling still further emboldened19 by the gentleness with which she has received his first advance. "Have not all these months—nay, this year past—taught you so much?"
"'This year past?'" Cecil repeats, honestly at sea, and too much surprised by the heat of his manner to grasp at once the real meaning of his words. Though I think a second later a faint inkling of it comes to her, because she releases her hand quickly from his clasp, and her voice takes a sharper tone. "I do not understand you," she says, "Take care you understand—yourself."
"I do—too well. Have I not had time to learn it?" he says, passionately23. "Have I not spent every day, every hour, in thoughts of you? Have I not lived in anticipation25 of our meeting? While you, Cecil, surely you, too, were glad when we were together. The best year I have ever known has been this last, in which I have grown to love you."
"Pray cease," says Cecil, hurriedly, stepping back and raising her hand imperiously. "What can you mean? You must be out of your senses to speak to me like this."
Although angry, she is calm, and, indeed, scarcely cares to give way to indignation before Lowry, whom she has always looked upon with great kindness and rather in the light of a boy. She is a little sorry for him, too, that he should have chosen to make a fool of himself with her, who, she cannot help feeling, is his best friend. For to all the moodiness26 and oddity of his nature she has been singularly lenient27, bearing with him when others would have lost all patience. And this is her reward. For a full minute Lowry seems confounded. Then, "I must indeed be bereft28 of reason," he says, in a low, intense voice, "if I am to believe that you can receive like this the assurance of my love. It cannot be altogether such a matter of wonder—my infatuation for you—as you would have me think, considering how you"—in a rather choked tone—"led me on."
"'Led you on'! My dear Mr. Lowry, how can you talk so foolishly? I certainly thought I knew you very well, and"—docketing off each item on her fingers—"I let you run my messages now and then; and I danced with you; and you sent me the loveliest flowers in London or out of it; and you were extremely kind to me on all occasions; but then so many other men were kind also, that really beyond the flowers,"—going back to her second finger,—"(which were incomparably finer than those I ever received from any one else), I don't see that you were more to me than the others."
"Will you not listen to me? Will you not even let me plead my cause?"
"Certainly not, considering what a cause it is. You must be mad."
"You are cold as ice," says he, losing his head. "No other woman but yourself would consent to live as you do. A wife, and yet no wife!"
"Mr. Lowry," says Lady Stafford, with much dignity but perfect temper, "you forget yourself. I must really beg you not to discuss my private affairs. The life I lead might not suit you or any single one of your acquaintance, but it suits me, and that is everything. You say I am 'cold,' and you are right: I am. I fancied (wrongly) my acknowledged coldness would have prevented such a scene as I have been forced to listen to, by you, to-day. You are the first who has ever dared to insult me. You are, indeed, the first man who has ever been at my feet, metaphorically29 speaking or otherwise; and I sincerely trust," says Lady Stafford, with profound earnestness, "you may be the last, for anything more unpleasant I never experienced."
"Have you no pity for me?" cries he, passionately. "Why need you scorn my love? Every word you utter tears my heart, and you,—you care no more than if I were a dog! Have you no feeling? Do you never wish to be as other women are, beloved and loving, instead of being as now——"
"Again, sir, I must ask you to allow my private life to be private," says Cecil, still with admirable temper, although her color has faded a good deal, and the fingers of one hand have closed convulsively upon a fold of her dress. "I may, perhaps, pity you, but I can feel nothing but contempt for the love you offer, that would lower the thing it loves!"
"Not lower it," says he, quickly, grasping eagerly at what he vainly hopes is a last chance. "Under the circumstances a divorce could be easily obtained. If you would trust yourself to me there should be no delay. You might easily break this marriage-tie that can scarcely be considered binding31."
"And supposing—I do not wish to break it? How then? But enough of this. I cannot listen any longer. I have heard too much already. I must really ask you to leave me. Go."
"Is this how your friendships end?" asks he, bitterly. "Will you deny I was even so much to you?"
"Certainly not. Though I must add that had I known my friendship with you would have put me in the way of receiving so much insult as I have received to-day, you should never have been placed upon my list. Let me pray you to go away now, to leave Herst entirely32 for the present, because it would be out of the question my seeing you again,—at least until time has convinced you of your folly. You are an old friend, Talbot, and I would willingly try and forget all that has happened to-day, or at all events to remember it only as a passing madness."
"Am I a boy, a fool, that you speak to me like this?" cries he, catching33 her hand to detain her as she moves away. "And why do you talk of 'insult'? I only urge you to exchange indifference34 for love,—the indifference of a husband who cares no more for you than for the gravel35 at your feet."
"And pray, sir, by what rule do you measure the amount of my regard for Lady Stafford?" exclaims Sir Penthony, walking through an open space in the privet hedge that skirts this corner of the garden, where he has been spell-bound for the last two minutes. A short time, no doubt, though a great deal can be said in it.
Lowry changes color, but gives way not an inch; he also tightens38 his grasp on Cecil's unwilling39 hand, and throws up his head defiantly40.
"Let my wife's hand go directly," says Stafford, in a low but furious tone, advancing.
By a quick movement Cecil wrenches41 herself free and gets between the two men. She does not fling herself, she simply gets there, almost—as it seems—without moving.
"Not another word, Sir Penthony," she says, quietly. "I forbid it. I will have no scene. Mr. Lowry has behaved foolishly, but I desire that nothing more be said about it. Go,"—turning to Lowry, who is frowning ominously42, and pointing imperiously to a distant gate,—"and do as I asked you a few moments since,—leave Herst without delay."
So strong is her determination to avoid an esclandre, and so masterly is her manner of carrying out her will, that both men instinctively43 obey her. Sir Penthony lowers his eyes and shifts his aggressive position; Lowry, with bent head, and without another word, walks away from her down the garden-path out of the gate, and disappears—for years.
When he has quite gone, Sir Penthony turns to her.
"Is this the way you amuse yourself?" he asks, in a compressed voice.
"Do not reproach me," murmurs44 she, hurriedly; "I could not bear it now." She speaks clearly, but her tone has lost its firmness, because of the little tremor45 that runs through it, while her face is white as one of the pale blossoms she holds within her hand. "Besides, it is not deserved. Were you long here before you spoke46?"
"Long enough." With a world of meaning in his tone.
"Then you heard my exculpation47. 'Cold as ice,' he called me. And he was right. As I am to you, Sir Penthony, so am I to all men. No one yet has touched my heart."
"For myself I can answer," replies he, bitterly; "but for the others——"
"Not another word," she breaks in, vehemently. "Do not say—do not even hint at—what I might find it impossible to forgive. Not even to you will I seek to justify48 myself on such a point. And you," she says, tears of agitation49 arising from all she has undergone, mingled50 with much pent-up wounded feeling, coming thickly into her eyes, "you should be the last to blame me for what has happened, when you remember who it was placed me in such a false position as makes men think they may say to me what they choose."
"You are unjust," he answers, nearly as white as herself. "I only followed out your wishes. It was your own arrangement; I but acceded51 to it."
"You should not have done so," cries she, with subdued52 excitement. "You were a man of the world, capable of judging; I was a foolish girl, ignorant of the consequences that must follow on such an act. Our marriage was a wretched mistake."
"Cecil, you know you can escape from your false position as soon as you choose. No one loves you as I do."
"Impossible." Coldly. "In this world a thing once done can never be undone53. Have you lived so long without learning that lesson?"
As she speaks she turns from him, and, walking quickly away, leaves him alone in the garden. Much as he has grown to love her, never until now has the very tenderness of affection touched him,—now, when the laughter-loving Cecil has changed for him into the feeling, accusing woman; although a woman dead to him, with a heart locked carefully, lest he should enter it.
How can he tell, as she goes so proudly along the garden-path, that her bosom54 is heaving with shame and unconfessed longing55, and that down her cheeks—so prone56 to dimple with joyous57 laughter—the bitter tears are falling?
Almost as she reaches the house she encounters Tedcastle, and turns hastily aside, lest he should mark the traces of her recent weeping. But so bent is he on his own dismal58 thoughts that he heeds59 her not, but follows aimlessly the path before him that leads to the balcony from, which the smaller drawing-room may be reached.
He is depressed60 and anxious, the night's vigil having induced him to believe himself somewhat hasty in his condemnation61 of Molly. As he gains the boudoir he starts, for there in the room, with the light flashing warmly upon her, stands Molly Bawn alone.
She is dressed in a long trailing gown of black velveteen,—an inexpensive dress, but one that suits her admirably, with its slight adornment63 of little soft lace frillings at the throat and wrists. Pausing irresolutely64, Luttrell makes as though he would retrace65 his steps.
"Do not go," says Molly's voice, clear and firm. "As you are here, I wish to speak to you."
She beckons66 him to come a little nearer to her, and silently he obeys the gesture. There is a small round table between them, upon which Molly is leaning rather heavily. As he approaches, however, and waits, gazing curiously67 at her for her next word, she straightens herself and compels her eyes to meet his.
"Here is your ring," she says, drawing the glittering treasure from her finger and placing it before him.
There is not the extremest trace of excitement or feeling of any kind in her tone. Luttrell, on the contrary, shrinks as though touched by fire.
"Keep it," he says, involuntarily, coloring darkly.
"No—no."
"Why?" he urges. "It will not hurt you, and"—with a quickly-suppressed sigh—"it may perhaps compel you to think of me now and then."
"I have neither wish nor desire ever to think of you again," returns she, still in the same cold, even tone, pushing the ring still closer to him with her first finger. There is something of contempt in the action. A ray from the dancing sun outside falls through the glass on to the diamonds, making them flash and sparkle in their gold setting.
"That admits of no answer," says Luttrell, with low but passionate24 bitterness; and, taking up the ring, he flings it lightly into the very heart of the glowing fire.
With a sudden loss of self-restraint Molly makes a movement forward as though to prevent him; but too late,—already the greedy flames have closed upon it.
Not all the agitation, not all his angry words of the night before, have affected68 her so keenly as this last act. She bursts into a very storm of tears.
"Oh! what have you done?" cries she. "You have destroyed it; you have burned it,—my pretty ring!"
She clasps her hands together, and gazes with straining eyes into the cruel fire. Something within her heart feels broken. Surely some string has snapped. The ring, in spite of all, was a last link between them; and now, too, it has gone.
"Molly!" says he, taking a step toward her, and holding out his hands, softened69, vanquished70 by her tears, ready to throw himself once more an abject71 slave at her feet.
"Do not speak to me," returns she, still sobbing73 bitterly. "Have you not done enough? I wish you would leave me to myself. Go away. There is nothing more that you can do."
Then down upon her knees before the fire falls Molly, and with the poker75 strives with all her might to discover some traces of her lost treasure. So diligent76 is her search that after a little while the ring, blackened, disfigured, altered almost beyond recognition, lies within her hand. Still it is her ring, however changed, and some small ray of comfort gladdens her heart.
She is still, however, weeping bitterly, and examining sadly the precious relic77 she has rescued from utter oblivion, and from which the diamond, soiled, but still brilliant, has fallen into her palm, when Philip enters.
"Molly, what has happened?" he asks, advancing toward her, shocked at her appearance, which evinces all the deepest signs of woe78. "What has distressed79 you?"
"You have," cries she, with sudden vehement22 passion, all her sorrow and anger growing into quick life as she sees him. "You are the cause of all my misery81. Why do you come near me? You might, at least, have grace enough to spare me the pain of seeing you."
"I do not understand," he says, his face very pale. "In how have I offended,—I, who would rather be dead than cause you any unhappiness? Tell me how I have been so unfortunate."
"I hate you," she says, with almost childish cruelty, sobbing afresh. "I wish you had died before I came to this place. You have come between me and the only man I love. Yes,"—smiting her hands together in a very agony of sorrow,—"he may doubt it if he will, but I do love him; and now we are separated forever. Even my ring"—with a sad glance at it—"is broken, and so is—my heart."
"You are alluding82 to—Luttrell?" asks he,—his earliest suspicions at last confirmed,—speaking with difficulty, so dry his lips have grown.
"I am."
"And how have I interfered83 between you and—him?"
"Why did you speak to me of love again last night," retorts she, "when you must know how detestable a subject it is to me? He saw you put your arm around me; he saw—ah! why did I not tell you then the truth (from which through a mistaken feeling of pity I refrained), that your mere touch sickened me? Then you stooped, and he thought—you know what he thought—and yet," cries Molly, with a gesture of aversion, "how could he have thought it possible that I should allow you of all men to—kiss me?"
"Why speak of what I so well know?" interrupts he hoarsely84, with bent head and averted85 eyes. "You seldom spare me. You are angered, and for what? Because you still hanker after a man who flung you away,—you, for whose slightest wish I would risk my all. For a mere chimera86, a fancy, a fear only half developed, he renounced87 you."
"Say nothing more," says Molly, with pale lips and eyes large and dark through regretful sorrow; "not another word. I think he acted rightly. He thought I was false, and so thinking he was right to renounce. I do not say this in his defense88 or because—or for any reason only——" She pauses.
"Why not continue? Because you—love him still."
"Well, and why not?" says Molly. "Why should I deny my love for him? Can any shame be connected with it? Yes," murmurs she, her sweet eyes filling with tears, her small clasped hands trembling, "though he and I can never be more to each other than we now are, I tell you I love him as I never have and never shall love again."
"It is a pity that such love as yours should have no better return," says he, with an unlovely laugh. "Luttrell appears to bear his fate with admirable equanimity89."
"You are incapable90 of judging such a nature as his," returns she, disdainfully. "He is all that is gentle, and true, and noble: while you——" She stops abruptly, causing a pause that is more eloquent91 than words, and, with a distant bow, hurries from the room.
Philip's star to-day is not in the ascendant. Even as he stands crushed by Molly's bitter reproaches, Marcia, with her heart full of a settled revenge toward him, is waiting outside her grandfather's door for permission to enter.
That unlucky shadow of a kiss last night has done as much mischief92 as half a dozen real kisses. It has convinced Marcia of the truth of that which for weeks she has been vainly struggling to disbelieve, namely, Philip's mad infatuation for Molly.
Now all doubt is at an end, and in its place has fallen a despair more terrible than any uncertainty93.
All the anguish94 of a heart rejected, that is still compelled to live on loving its rejector, has been hers for the past two months, and it has told upon her slowly but surely. She is strangely altered. Dark hollows lay beneath her eyes, that have grown almost unearthly in expression, so large are they, and so sombre is the fire that burns within them. There is a compression about the lips that has grown habitual95; small lines mar30 the whiteness of her forehead, while among her raven96 tresses, did any one mark them closely enough, fine threads of silver may be traced.
Pacing up and down her room the night before, with widely-opened eyes, gazing upon the solemn blackness that surrounds her, all the wrongs and slights she has endured come to her with startling distinctness. No sense of weariness, no thought of a necessity for sleep, disturbs her reverie or breaks in upon the monotonous97 misery of her musings. She is past all that. Already her death has come to her,—a death to her hope, and joy, and peace,—even to that poor calm that goes so far to deceive the outer world.
Oh, the cold, quiet night, when speech is not and sleep has forgotten us! when all the doubts and fears and jealousies98 that in the blessed daylight slumber99, rise up to torture us when even the half-suspected sneer100, the covert101 neglect, that some hours ago were but as faintest pin-pricks, now gall102 and madden as a poisoned thrust!
A wild thirst for revenge grows within her breast as one by one she calls to mind all the many injuries she has received. Strangely enough,—and unlike a woman,—her anger is concentrated on Philip, rather than on the one he loves, instinct telling her he is not beloved in return.
She broods upon her wrongs until, as the first bright streak103 of yellow day illumes the room, flinging its glories profusely104 upon the wall and ceiling, pretty knickknacks that return its greeting, and angry, unthankful creature alike, a thought comes to her that promises to amply satisfy her vengeful craving105. As she ponders on it a curious light breaks upon her face, a smile half triumph, half despair.
Now, standing106 before her grandfather's room, with a folded letter crushed within her palm, and a heart that beats almost to suffocation107, she hears him bid her enter.
Fatigued by the unusual exertions108 of a ball, Mr. Amherst is seated at his table in a lounging-chair, clad in his dressing-gown, and looking older, feebler, than is his wont109.
He merely glances at his visitor as she approaches, without comment of any description.
"I have had something on my mind for some time, grandpapa," begins Marcia, who is pale and worn, through agitation and the effects of a long and hopeless vigil. "I think it only right to let you know. I have suppressed it all this time, because I feared distressing110 you; but now—now—will you read this?"
She hands him, as she speaks, the letter received by Philip two months before relative to his unlucky dealings with some London Jews.
In silence Mr. Amherst reads it, in silence re-reads it, and finally, folding it up again, places it within his desk.
"You and Philip have quarreled?" he says, presently, in a quiet tone.
"No, there has been no quarrel."
"Your engagement is at an end?"
"Yes."
"And is this the result of last night's vaunted pleasures?" asks he, keenly. "Have you snatched only pain and a sense of failure from its fleeting111 hours? And Eleanor, too,—she was pale at luncheon112, and for once silent,—has she too found her coveted113 fruit rotten at its core? It is the universal law," says the old man, grimly, consoling himself with a pinch of snuff, taken with much deliberation from an exquisite114 Louis Quinze box that rests at his elbow, and leaning back languidly in his chair. "Life is made up of hopes false as the ignis-fatuus. When with the greatest sense of security and promise of enjoyment115 we raise and seek to drain the cup of pleasure, while yet we gaze with longing eyes upon its sparkling bubbles, and, stooping thirstily, suffer our expectant lips at length to touch it, lo! it is then, just as we have attained116 to the summit of our bliss117, we find our sweetest draught118 has turned to ashes in our mouth."
He stops and drums softly on the table for a moment or two, while Marcia stands before him silently pondering.
"So Philip is already counting on my death," he goes on, meditatively119, still softly tapping the table. "How securely he rests in the belief of his succession! His father's son could scarcely fail to be a spendthrift, and I will have—no—prodigal at Herst—to hew—and cut—and scatter120. A goodly heritage, truly, as Buscarlet called it. Be satisfied, Marcia: your revenge is complete. Philip shall not inherit Herst."
"I do not seek revenge," says Marcia, unsteadily, now her wish is fulfilled and Philip hopelessly crushed, a cold, troubled faintness creeping round her heart. An awful sense of despair, a fruitless longing to recall her action, makes her tremble. "Only I could not bear to see you longer deceived,—you, after all the care—the trouble—you bestowed121 upon him. My conscience compelled me to tell you all."
"And you, Marcia,"—with an odd smile she is puzzled to explain,—"you have never deceived me, have you? All your pretty speeches and tender cares have been quite sincere?"
"Dear grandpapa, yes."
"You have not wished me dead, or spoken or thought evilly of the old tyrant122 at Herst, who has so often crossed and thwarted123 you?"
"Never, dear: how could I—when I remember——"
"Ay, quite so. When one remembers! And gratitude124 is so common a thing. Will you oblige me by sending a line to Mr. Buscarlet, asking him to come to me without delay?"
"You are going to alter your will?" she asks, faintly, shocked at the speedy success of her scheme.
"Yes," coolly. "I am going to cut Philip out of it."
"Grandpapa, do not be too hard on him," she says, putting her hand across her throat, and almost gasping125. "He is young. Young men sometimes——"
"I was once a young man myself, you seem to forget, and I know all about it. Why did you give me that letter?" he asks, grimly. "Are you chicken-hearted, now you have done the deed, like all women? It is too late for remorse126 to be of use: you have done it. Let it be your portion to remember how you have willfully ruined his prospects127."
A choking sigh escapes her as she quits the room. Truly she has bought her revenge dearly. Not the poorest trace of sweetness lingers in it.
By this time it will be perceived that the house is in a secret turmoil128. Every one is at daggers129 drawn130 with every one else. Molly and Lady Stafford have as yet exchanged no confidences, though keenly desirous of doing so, each having noticed with the liveliest surmisings the depression of the other.
Mr. Potts alone, who is above suspicion (being one of those cheerful people who never see anything—no matter how closely under their noses—until it is brought before them in the broadest language), continues blissfully unconscious of the confusion that reigns131 around, and savors132 his conversation throughout the evening with as many embarrassing remarks as he can conveniently put in.
"Eaten bread is soon forgotten," says he, sententiously, during a pause. "You all seem strangely oblivious133 of the fact that last night there was a ball in this house. Why shirk the subject? I like talking," says Mr. Potts, superfluously134, "and surely you must all have something to communicate concerning it. Thanks to our own exertions, I think it was as good a one as ever I was at; and the old boy"—(I need scarcely say Mr. Amherst has retired135 to rest)—was uncommon136 decent about giving us the best champagne137."
"You took very good care to show him how you appreciated his hospitality," says Sir Penthony, mildly.
"Well, why shouldn't I do honor to the occasion? A ball at Herst don't come every day. As a rule, an affair of the kind at a country house is a failure, as the guests quarrel dreadfully among themselves next day; but ours has been a brilliant exception."
"But what became of Lowry?" demands this wretched young man, who has never yet learned that silence is golden. "He told me this morning he intended staying on until the end of the week, and off he goes to London by the midday train without a word of warning. Must have heard some unpleasant news, I shouldn't wonder, he looked so awfully139 cut up. Did he tell you anything about it?" To Lady Stafford.
"No." In a freezing tone. "I see no reason why I, in particular, should be bored by Mr. Lowry's private woes140."
"Well, you were such a friend, you know, for one thing," says Potts, surprised, but obtuse141 as ever.
"So I am of yours; but I sincerely trust the fact of my being so will not induce you to come weeping to me whenever you chance to lose your heart or place all your money on the wrong horse."
"Did he lose his money, then?"
"Plantagenet, dancing has muddled142 your brain. How should I know whether he lost his money or not? I am merely supposing. You are dull to-night. Come and play a game at écarté with me, to see if it may rouse you."
They part for the night rather earlier than usual, pleading fatigue,—all except Mr. Potts, who declares himself fresh as a daisy, and proposes an impromptu143 dance in the ball-room. He is instantly snubbed, and retires gracefully144, consoling himself with the reflection that he has evidently more "go" in his little finger than they can boast in their entire bodies.
Sir Penthony having refused to acknowledge his wife's parting salutation,—meant to conciliate,—Cecil retires to her room in a state of indignation and sorrow that reduces her presently to tears.
Her maid, entering just as she has reached the very highest pinnacle145 of her wrongs, meets with anything but a warm reception.
"How now, Trimmins? Did I ring?" asks she, with unwonted sharpness, being unpleasantly mindful of the redness of her eyes.
"No, my lady; but I thought——"
"Never think," says Cecil, interrupting her with unreasoning irritation146.
"No, my lady. I only thought perhaps you would see Miss Massereene," persists Trimmins, meekly147. "She wishes to know, with her love, if you can receive her now."
"Miss Massereene? Of course I can. Why did you not say so before?"
"Your ladyship scarcely gave me time," says Trimmins, demurely, taking an exhaustive survey of her cambric apron148.
"True; I was hasty," Cecil acknowledges, in her impulsive149, honest, haughty150 way. "Tell Miss Massereene I shall be delighted to see her at once."
Presently Molly enters, her eyelids151 pink, the corners of her mouth forlornly curved, a general despondency in her whole demeanor152.
Cecil, scarcely more composed, advances to meet her.
"Why, Molly!" she says, pathetically.
"You have been crying," says Molly, in the same breath, throwing herself into her arms.
"I have indeed, my dear," confesses Cecil, in a lachrymose153 tone, and then she begins to cry again, and Molly follows suit, and for the next five minutes they have a very comfortable time of it together.
Then they open their hearts to each other and relate fluently, as only a woman can, all the intolerable wrongs and misjudgment they have undergone at the hands of their lovers.
"To accuse me of anything so horrible!" says Molly, indignantly. "Oh, Cecil! I don't believe he could care for me one bit and suspect me of it."
"'Care for you!' Nonsense, my dear! he adores you. That is precisely154 why he has made such a fool of himself. You know—
Trifles light as air,
Are to the jealous confirmations155 strong
"I like a man to be jealous,—in reason. Though when Sir Penthony walked out from behind that hedge, looking as if he could, with pleasure, devour157 me and Talbot at a bite, I confess I could gladly have dispensed158 with the quality in him. You should have seen his face: for once I was honestly frightened."
"Poor Cecil! it must have been a shock. And all because that tiresome159 young man wouldn't go away."
"Just so. All might have been well had he only seen things in a reasonable light. Oh, I was so angry! The most charming of your charms, Molly," says Cecil, warmly, "is your ability to sympathize with one. You can feel so thoroughly160 with and for me; and you never season your remarks with unpalatable truths. You never say, 'I told you so,' or 'I knew how it would be,' or 'didn't I warn you?' or anything else equally objectionable. I really would rather a person boxed my ears outright161 than give way to such phrases as those, pretending they know all about a catastrophe162, after it has happened. And," says her ladyship, with a pensive62 sigh, "you might perhaps (had you so chosen) have accused me of flirting163 a leetle bit with that stupid Talbot."
"Well, indeed, perhaps I might, dear," says Molly, innocently.
"What, are you going to play the traitor164 after all that flattery? and if so, what am I to say to you about your disgraceful encouragement of Captain Shadwell?"
"I wonder if I did encourage him?" says Molly, contritely165. "At first, perhaps unconsciously, but lately I am sure I didn't. Do you know, Cecil, I positively dislike him? he is so dark and silent, and still persistent166. But when a man keeps on saying he is miserable167 for love of you, and that you are the cause of all his distress80, and that he would as soon be dead as alive, because you cannot return his affection, how can one help feeling a little sorry for him?"
"I don't feel in the least sorry for Talbot. I thought him extremely unpleasant and impertinent, and I hope with all my heart he is very unhappy to-night, because it will do him good."
"Cecil, how cruel you are!"
"Well, by what right does he go about making fierce love to married women, compelling them to listen to his nonsense whether they like it or not, and getting them into scrapes? I don't break my heart over Sir Penthony, but I certainly do not wish him to think badly of me."
"At least," says Molly, relapsing again into the blues168, "you have this consolation169: you cannot lose Sir Penthony."
"That might also be looked on as a disadvantage. Still, I suppose there is some benefit to be gained from my position," says Cecil, meditatively. "My lover (if indeed he is my lover) cannot play the false knight170 with me; I defy him to love—and to ride away. There are no breakers ahead for me. He is mine irrevocably, no matter how horribly he may desire to escape. But you need not envy me; it is sweeter to be as you are,—to know him yours without the shadow of a tie. He is not lost to you."
"Effectually. What! do you think I would submit to be again engaged to a man who could fling me off for a chimera, a mere trick of the imagination? If he were to beg my pardon on his knees,—if he were to acknowledge every word he said to me a lie,—I would not look at him again."
"I always said your pride would be your bane," says Cecil, reprovingly. "Now, just think how far happier you would be if you were friends with him again, and think of nothing else. What is pride in comparison with comfort?"
"Have you forgiven Sir Penthony?"
"Freely. But he won't forgive me."
"Have you forgiven him the first great crime of all,—his indifference toward his bride?"
"N—o," confesses her ladyship, smiling; "not yet."
"Ah! then don't blame me. I could have killed myself when I cried," says Molly, referring again to the past, with a little angry shiver; "but I felt so sorry for my poor, pretty, innocent ring. And he looked so handsome, so determined171, when he flung it in the fire, with his eyes quite dark and his figure drawn up; and—and—I could not help wondering," says Molly, with a little tremble in her tone, "who next would love him—and who—he—would love."
"I never thought you were so fond of him, dearest," says Cecil, laying her hand softly on her friend's.
"Nor I,—until I lost him," murmurs poor Molly, with a vain attempt at composure. Two tears fall heavily into her lap; a sob72 escapes her.
"Now you are going to cry again," interposes Cecil, with hasty but kindly warning. "Don't. He is not going to fall in love with any one so long as you are single, take my word for it. Nonsense, my dear! cheer yourself with the certainty that he is at this very moment eating his heart out, because he knows better than I do that, though there may be many women, there is only one Molly Bawn in the world."
This reflection, although consolatory172, has not the desired effect. Instead of drying her eyes and declaring herself glad that Luttrell is unhappy, Molly grows more and more afflicted173 every moment.
"My dear girl," exclaims Lady Stafford, as a last resource, "do pray think of your complexion174. I have finished crying; I shall give way to crying no more, because I wish to look my best to-morrow, to let him see what a charming person he has chosen to quarrel with. And my tears are not so destructive as yours, because mine arise from vexation, yours from feeling."
"I hardly know," says Molly, with an attempt at nonchalance175 she is far from feeling, "I really think I cried more for my diamond than for—my lover. However, I shall take your advice; I shall think no more about it. To-morrow"—rising and running to the glass, and pushing back her disordered hair from her face, that is lovely in spite of marring tears—"to-morrow I shall be gayer, brighter than he has ever yet seen me. What! shall I let him think I fret176 because of him! He saw me once in tears; he shall not see me so again."
"What a pity it is that grief should be so unbecoming!" says Cecil, laughing. "I always think what a guy Niobe must have been if she was indeed all tears."
"The worst thing about crying, I think," says Molly, "is the fatal desire one feels to blow one's nose: that is the horrid177 part of it. I knew I was looking odious178 all the time I was weeping over my ring, and that added to my discomfort179. By the bye, Cecil, what were you doing at the table with a pencil just before we broke up to-night? Sir Penthony was staring at you fixedly180 all through,—wondering, I am sure, at your occupation, as, to tell the truth, was I."
"Nothing very remarkable181. I was inditing182 a 'sonnet183 to your eyebrow,' or rather to your lids, they were so delicately tinted184, and so much in unison185 with the extreme dejection of your entire bearing. I confess, unkind as it may sound, they moved me to laughter. Ah! that reminds me," says Cecil, her expression changing to one of comical terror, as she starts to her feet, "Plantagenet came up at the moment, and lest he should see my composition I hid it within the leaves of the blotting-book. There it is still, no doubt. What shall I do if any one finds it in the morning? I shall be read out of meeting, as I have an indistinct idea that, with a view to making you laugh, I rather caricatured every one in the room, more or less."
"Shall I run down for it?" says Molly. "I won't be a moment, and you are quite undressed. In the blotting-book, you said? I shan't be any time."
"Unless the ghosts detain you."
"Or, what would be much worse, any of our friends."
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1
starry
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| adj.星光照耀的, 闪亮的 | |
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overcast
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| adj.阴天的，阴暗的，愁闷的；v.遮盖，（使）变暗，包边缝；n.覆盖，阴天 | |
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asunder
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| adj.分离的，化为碎片 | |
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fatigued
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| adj. 疲乏的 | |
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chagrining
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| v.使懊恼，使懊丧，使悔恨( chagrin的现在分词 ) | |
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mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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renounce
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| v.放弃；拒绝承认，宣布与…断绝关系 | |
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devoid
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| adj.全无的，缺乏的 | |
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feverishly
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| adv. 兴奋地 | |
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ostracism
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| n.放逐；排斥 | |
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adoration
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| n.爱慕，崇拜 | |
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innate
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| adj.天生的，固有的，天赋的 | |
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folly
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| n.愚笨，愚蠢，蠢事，蠢行，傻话 | |
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abruptly
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| adv.突然地，出其不意地 | |
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bespeaks
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| v.预定( bespeak的第三人称单数 )；订（货）；证明；预先请求 | |
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vaguely
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| adv.含糊地，暖昧地 | |
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Christian
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| adj.基督教徒的；n.基督教徒 | |
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18
kindly
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| adj.和蔼的，温和的，爽快的；adv.温和地，亲切地 | |
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emboldened
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| v.鼓励，使有胆量( embolden的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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vehemently
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| adv. 热烈地 | |
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vehement
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| adj.感情强烈的；热烈的；(人)有强烈感情的 | |
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passionately
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| ad.热烈地，激烈地 | |
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passionate
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| adj.热情的，热烈的，激昂的，易动情的，易怒的，性情暴躁的 | |
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anticipation
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| n.预期，预料，期望 | |
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moodiness
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| n.喜怒无常；喜怒无常，闷闷不乐；情绪 | |
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lenient
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| adj.宽大的，仁慈的 | |
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bereft
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| adj.被剥夺的 | |
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metaphorically
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| adv. 用比喻地 | |
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mar
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| vt.破坏，毁坏，弄糟 | |
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binding
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| 有约束力的，有效的，应遵守的 | |
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entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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catching
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| adj.易传染的，有魅力的，迷人的，接住 | |
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indifference
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| n.不感兴趣，不关心，冷淡，不在乎 | |
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gravel
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| n.砂跞；砂砾层；结石 | |
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positively
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| adv.明确地，断然，坚决地；实在，确实 | |
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fixed
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| adj.固定的，不变的，准备好的；(计算机)固定的 | |
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tightens
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| 收紧( tighten的第三人称单数 )； （使）变紧； （使）绷紧； 加紧 | |
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unwilling
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| adj.不情愿的 | |
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defiantly
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| adv.挑战地，大胆对抗地 | |
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41
wrenches
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| n.一拧( wrench的名词复数 )；（身体关节的）扭伤；扳手；（尤指离别的）悲痛v.（猛力地）扭( wrench的第三人称单数 )；扭伤；使感到痛苦；使悲痛 | |
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42
ominously
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| adv.恶兆地，不吉利地；预示地 | |
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instinctively
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| adv.本能地 | |
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murmurs
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| n.低沉、连续而不清的声音( murmur的名词复数 )；低语声；怨言；嘀咕 | |
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45
tremor
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| n.震动，颤动，战栗，兴奋，地震 | |
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46
spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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exculpation
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| n.使无罪，辩解 | |
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48
justify
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| vt.证明…正当(或有理)，为…辩护 | |
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49
agitation
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| n.搅动；搅拌；鼓动，煽动 | |
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50
mingled
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| 混合，混入( mingle的过去式和过去分词 )； 混进，与…交往[联系] | |
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51
acceded
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| v.（正式）加入( accede的过去式和过去分词 )；答应；（通过财产的添附而）增加；开始任职 | |
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52
subdued
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| adj. 屈服的，柔和的，减弱的 动词subdue的过去式和过去分词 | |
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53
undone
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| a.未做完的，未完成的 | |
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54
bosom
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| n.胸，胸部；胸怀；内心；adj.亲密的 | |
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55
longing
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| n.（for）渴望 | |
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56
prone
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| adj.(to)易于…的，很可能…的；俯卧的 | |
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57
joyous
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| adj.充满快乐的；令人高兴的 | |
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58
dismal
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| adj.阴沉的，凄凉的，令人忧郁的，差劲的 | |
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59
heeds
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| n.留心，注意，听从( heed的名词复数 )v.听某人的劝告，听从( heed的第三人称单数 ) | |
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60
depressed
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| adj.沮丧的，抑郁的，不景气的，萧条的 | |
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condemnation
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| n.谴责; 定罪 | |
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62
pensive
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| a.沉思的,哀思的,忧沉的 | |
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adornment
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| n.装饰；装饰品 | |
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irresolutely
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| adv.优柔寡断地 | |
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65
retrace
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| v.折回；追溯，探源 | |
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66
beckons
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| v.（用头或手的动作）示意，召唤( beckon的第三人称单数 ) | |
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curiously
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| adv.有求知欲地；好问地；奇特地 | |
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affected
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| adj.不自然的，假装的 | |
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69
softened
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| （使）变软( soften的过去式和过去分词 )； 缓解打击； 缓和； 安慰 | |
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vanquished
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| v.征服( vanquish的过去式和过去分词 )；战胜；克服；抑制 | |
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71
abject
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| adj.极可怜的，卑屈的 | |
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72
sob
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| n.空间轨道的轰炸机；呜咽，哭泣 | |
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sobbing
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| <主方>Ⅰ adj.湿透的 | |
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74
abashed
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| adj.窘迫的，尴尬的v.使羞愧，使局促，使窘迫( abash的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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75
poker
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| n.扑克；vt.烙制 | |
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diligent
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| adj.勤勉的，勤奋的 | |
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77
relic
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| n.神圣的遗物，遗迹，纪念物 | |
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woe
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| n.悲哀，苦痛，不幸，困难；int.用来表达悲伤或惊慌 | |
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distressed
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| 痛苦的 | |
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distress
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| n.苦恼，痛苦，不舒适；不幸；vt.使悲痛 | |
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misery
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| n.痛苦，苦恼，苦难；悲惨的境遇，贫苦 | |
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82
alluding
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| 提及，暗指( allude的现在分词 ) | |
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interfered
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| v.干预( interfere的过去式和过去分词 )；调停；妨碍；干涉 | |
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84
hoarsely
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| adv.嘶哑地 | |
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averted
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| 防止，避免( avert的过去式和过去分词 )； 转移 | |
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chimera
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| n.神话怪物；梦幻 | |
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87
renounced
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| v.声明放弃( renounce的过去式和过去分词 )；宣布放弃；宣布与…决裂；宣布摒弃 | |
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88
defense
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| n.防御，保卫；[pl.]防务工事；辩护，答辩 | |
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equanimity
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| n.沉着，镇定 | |
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incapable
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| adj.无能力的，不能做某事的 | |
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91
eloquent
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| adj.雄辩的，口才流利的；明白显示出的 | |
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92
mischief
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| n.损害，伤害，危害；恶作剧，捣蛋，胡闹 | |
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93
uncertainty
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| n.易变，靠不住，不确知，不确定的事物 | |
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94
anguish
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| n.(尤指心灵上的)极度痛苦，烦恼 | |
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habitual
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| adj.习惯性的；通常的，惯常的 | |
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raven
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| n.渡鸟，乌鸦；adj.乌亮的 | |
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monotonous
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| adj.单调的，一成不变的，使人厌倦的 | |
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jealousies
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| n.妒忌( jealousy的名词复数 )；妒羡 | |
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slumber
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| n.睡眠，沉睡状态 | |
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sneer
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| v.轻蔑；嘲笑；n.嘲笑，讥讽的言语 | |
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101
covert
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| adj.隐藏的；暗地里的 | |
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102
gall
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| v.使烦恼，使焦躁，难堪；n.磨难 | |
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103
streak
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| n.条理，斑纹，倾向，少许，痕迹；v.加条纹，变成条纹，奔驰，快速移动 | |
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104
profusely
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| ad.abundantly | |
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105
craving
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| n.渴望,热望 | |
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106
standing
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| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
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107
suffocation
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| n.窒息 | |
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108
exertions
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| n.努力( exertion的名词复数 )；费力；（能力、权力等的）运用；行使 | |
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109
wont
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| adj.习惯于；v.习惯；n.习惯 | |
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110
distressing
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| a.使人痛苦的 | |
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111
fleeting
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| adj.短暂的，飞逝的 | |
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112
luncheon
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| n.午宴，午餐，便宴 | |
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113
coveted
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| adj.令人垂涎的；垂涎的，梦寐以求的v.贪求，觊觎(covet的过去分词)；垂涎；贪图 | |
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114
exquisite
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| adj.精美的；敏锐的；剧烈的，感觉强烈的 | |
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115
enjoyment
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| n.乐趣；享有；享用 | |
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116
attained
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| （通常经过努力）实现( attain的过去式和过去分词 )； 达到； 获得； 达到（某年龄、水平、状况） | |
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117
bliss
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| n.狂喜，福佑，天赐的福 | |
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118
draught
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| n.拉，牵引，拖；一网（饮，吸，阵)；顿服药量，通风；v.起草，设计 | |
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119
meditatively
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| adv.冥想地 | |
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120
scatter
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| vt.撒，驱散，散开；散布/播；vi.分散，消散 | |
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121
bestowed
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| 赠给，授予( bestow的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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122
tyrant
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| n.暴君，专制的君主，残暴的人 | |
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123
thwarted
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| 阻挠( thwart的过去式和过去分词 )； 使受挫折； 挫败； 横过 | |
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124
gratitude
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| adj.感激，感谢 | |
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125
gasping
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| adj. 气喘的, 痉挛的 动词gasp的现在分词 | |
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126
remorse
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| n.痛恨，悔恨，自责 | |
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127
prospects
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| n.希望，前途(恒为复数) | |
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128
turmoil
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| n.骚乱，混乱，动乱 | |
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129
daggers
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| 匕首，短剑( dagger的名词复数 ) | |
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130
drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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131
reigns
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| n.君主的统治( reign的名词复数 )；君主统治时期；任期；当政期 | |
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132
savors
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| v.意味，带有…的性质( savor的第三人称单数 )；给…加调味品；使有风味；品尝 | |
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133
oblivious
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| adj.易忘的，遗忘的，忘却的，健忘的 | |
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134
superfluously
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| 过分地； 过剩地 | |
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135
retired
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| adj.隐退的，退休的，退役的 | |
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136
uncommon
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| adj.罕见的，非凡的，不平常的 | |
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137
champagne
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| n.香槟酒；微黄色 | |
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138
demurely
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| adv.装成端庄地，认真地 | |
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139
awfully
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| adv.可怕地，非常地，极端地 | |
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140
woes
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| 困境( woe的名词复数 )； 悲伤； 我好苦哇； 某人就要倒霉 | |
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141
obtuse
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| adj.钝的；愚钝的 | |
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142
muddled
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| adj.混乱的；糊涂的；头脑昏昏然的v.弄乱，弄糟( muddle的过去式)；使糊涂；对付，混日子 | |
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143
impromptu
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| adj.即席的，即兴的；adv.即兴的(地)，无准备的(地) | |
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144
gracefully
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| ad.大大方方地；优美地 | |
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145
pinnacle
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| n.尖塔，尖顶，山峰；(喻)顶峰 | |
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146
irritation
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| n.激怒，恼怒，生气 | |
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147
meekly
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| adv.温顺地，逆来顺受地 | |
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148
apron
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| n.围裙；工作裙 | |
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149
impulsive
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| adj.冲动的，刺激的；有推动力的 | |
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150
haughty
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| adj.傲慢的，高傲的 | |
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151
eyelids
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| n.眼睑( eyelid的名词复数 )；眼睛也不眨一下；不露声色；面不改色 | |
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152
demeanor
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| n.行为；风度 | |
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153
lachrymose
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| adj.好流泪的，引人落泪的；adv.眼泪地，哭泣地 | |
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154
precisely
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| adv.恰好，正好，精确地，细致地 | |
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155
confirmations
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| 证实( confirmation的名词复数 )； 证据； 确认； （基督教中的）坚信礼 | |
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156
writ
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| n.命令状，书面命令 | |
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157
devour
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| v.吞没；贪婪地注视或谛听，贪读；使着迷 | |
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158
dispensed
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| v.分配( dispense的过去式和过去分词 )；施与；配（药） | |
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159
tiresome
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| adj.令人疲劳的，令人厌倦的 | |
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160
thoroughly
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| adv.完全地，彻底地，十足地 | |
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161
outright
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| adv.坦率地；彻底地；立即；adj.无疑的；彻底的 | |
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162
catastrophe
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| n.大灾难，大祸 | |
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163
flirting
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| v.调情，打情骂俏( flirt的现在分词 ) | |
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164
traitor
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| n.叛徒，卖国贼 | |
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165
contritely
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166
persistent
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| adj.坚持不懈的，执意的；持续的 | |
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167
miserable
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| adj.悲惨的，痛苦的；可怜的，糟糕的 | |
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168
blues
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| n.抑郁，沮丧；布鲁斯音乐 | |
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169
consolation
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| n.安慰，慰问 | |
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170
knight
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| n.骑士，武士；爵士 | |
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171
determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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172
consolatory
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| adj.慰问的，可藉慰的 | |
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173
afflicted
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| 使受痛苦，折磨( afflict的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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174
complexion
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| n.肤色；情况，局面；气质，性格 | |
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175
nonchalance
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| n.冷淡，漠不关心 | |
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176
fret
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| v.(使)烦恼；(使)焦急；(使)腐蚀，(使)磨损 | |
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177
horrid
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| adj.可怕的；令人惊恐的；恐怖的；极讨厌的 | |
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178
odious
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| adj.可憎的，讨厌的 | |
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179
discomfort
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| n.不舒服，不安，难过，困难，不方便 | |
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180
fixedly
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| adv.固定地；不屈地，坚定不移地 | |
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181
remarkable
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| adj.显著的，异常的，非凡的，值得注意的 | |
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182
inditing
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| v.写（文章，信等）创作，赋诗，创作( indite的现在分词 ) | |
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183
sonnet
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| n.十四行诗 | |
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184
tinted
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| adj. 带色彩的 动词tint的过去式和过去分词 | |
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185
unison
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| n.步调一致，行动一致 | |
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