"Mute and amazed was Alden; and listen'd and look'd at Priscilla,
Thinking he never had seen her more fair, more divine in her beauty."
—Longfellow.
It is the 2d of March—four months later (barely four months, for some days must still elapse before that time is fully1 up)—and a raw evening,—very raw, and cold even for the time of year,—when the train, stopping at the Victoria Station, suffers a young man to alight from it.
He is a tall young man, slight and upright, clad in one of the comfortable long coats of the period, with an aristocratic face and sweet, keen blue eyes. His moustache, fair and lengthy2, is drooping3 sadly through dampness and the general inclemency4 of the weather.
Pushing his way through the other passengers, with a discontented expression upon his genial5 face that rather misbecomes it, he emerges into the open air, to find that a smart drizzle6, unworthy the name of rain, is falling inhospitably upon him.
There is a fog,—not as thick as it might be, but a decided7 fog,—and everything is gloomy to the last degree.
Stumbling up against another tall young man, dressed almost to a tie the same as himself, he smothers8 the uncivil ejaculation that rises so naturally to his lips, and after a second glance changes it to one of greeting.
"Ah, Fenning, is it you?" he says. "This beastly fog prevented my recognizing you at first. How are you? It is ages since last we met."
"Is it indeed you, Luttrell?" says the new-comer, stopping short and altering his sour look to one of pleased astonishment9. "You in the flesh? Let us look at you?" Drawing Luttrell into the neighborhood of an unhappy lamp that tries against its conscience to think it is showing light and grows every minute fainter and more depressed10 in its struggle against truth. "All the way from Paddyland, where he has spent four long months," says Mr. Fenning, "and he is still alive! It is inconceivable. Let me examine you. Sound, I protest,—sound in wind and limb; not a defacing mark! I wouldn't have believed it if I hadn't seen it. I am awful glad to see you, old boy. What are you going to do with yourself this evening?"
"I wish I knew. I am absolutely thrown upon the world. You will take me somewhere with you, if you have any charity about you."
"I'm engaged for this evening." With a groan11. "Ain't I unlucky? Hang it all, something told me to refuse old Wiggins's emblazoned card, but I wouldn't be warned. Now, what can I do for you?"
"You can at least advise me how best to kill time to-night."
"The Alhambra has a good thing on," says young Fenning, brightening; "and the Argyll——"
"I'm used up, morally and physically," interrupts Luttrell, rather impatiently. "Suggest something calmer—musical, or that."
"Oh, musical! That is mild. I have been educated in the belief that a sojourn12 in Ireland renders one savage13 for the remainder of his days. I blush for my ignorance. If it is first-class music you want, go to hear Wynter sing. She does sing this evening, happily for you, and anything more delicious, both in face and voice, has not aroused London to madness for a considerable time. Go, hear her, but leave your heart at your hotel before going. The Grosvenor, is it, or the Langham? The Langham. Ah, I shall call to-morrow. By-bye, old man. Go and see Wynter, and you will be richly rewarded. She is tremendously lovely."
"I will," says Luttrell; and having dined and dressed himself, he goes and does it.
Feeling listless, and not in the slightest degree interested in the coming performance, he enters the concert room, to find himself decidedly late. Some one has evidently just finished singing, and the applause that followed the effort has not yet quite died away.
With all the air of a man who wonders vaguely14 within himself what in the world has brought him here, Luttrell makes his way to a vacant chair and seats himself beside an elderly, pleasant-faced man, too darkly-skinned and too bright-eyed to belong to this country.
"You are late,—late," says this stranger, in perfect English, and, with all the geniality15 of most foreigners, making room for him. "She has just sung."
"Has she?" Faintly amused. "Who?"
"Miss—Wynter. Ah! you have sustained a loss."
"I am unlucky," says Luttrell, feeling some slight disappointment,—very slight. Good singers can be heard again. "I came expressly to hear her. I have been told she sings well."
"Well—well!" Disdainfully. "Your informant was careful not to overstep the truth. It is marvelous—exquisite16—her voice," says the Italian, with such unrepressed enthusiasm as makes Luttrell smile. "These antediluvian17 attachments," thinks he, "are always severe."
"You make me more regretful every minute," he says, politely. "I feel as though I had lost something."
"So you have. But be consoled. She will sing again later on."
Leaning back, Luttrell takes a survey of the room. It is crowded to excess, and brilliant as lights and gay apparel can make it. Fans are flashing, so are jewels, so are gems18 of greater value still,—black eyes, blue and gray. Pretty dresses are melting into other pretty dresses, and there is a great deal of beauty everywhere for those who choose to look for it.
After a while his gaze, slowly traveling, falls on Cecil Stafford. She is showing even more than usually bonny and winsome19 in some chef-d'œuvre of Worth's, and is making herself very agreeable to a tall, lanky20, eighteenth century sort of man who sits beside her, and is kindly21 allowing himself to be amused.
An intense desire to go to her and put the fifty questions that in an instant rise to his lips seizes Luttrell; but she is unhappily so situated22 that he cannot get at her. Unless he were to summon up fortitude23 to crush past three grim dowagers, two elaborately-attired girls, and one sour old spinster, it cannot be done; and Tedcastle, at least, has not the sort of pluck necessary to carry him through with it.
Cecil, seeing him, starts and colors, and then nods and smiles gayly at him in pleased surprise. A moment afterward24 her expression changes, and something so like dismay as to cause Luttrell astonishment covers her face.
Then the business of the evening proceeds, and she turns her attention to the singers, and he has no more time to wonder at her sudden change of countenance25.
A very small young lady, hidden away in countless26 yards of pink silk, delights them with one of the ballads27 of the day. Her voice is far the biggest part of her, and awakens28 in one's mind a curious craving29 to know where it comes from.
Then a wonderfully ugly man, with a delightful30 face, plays on the violin something that reminds one of all the sweetest birds that sing, and is sufficiently31 ravishing to call forth32 at intervals33 the exclamation34, "Good, good!" from Luttrell's neighbor.
Then a very large woman warbles a French chansonnette in the tiniest, most flute-like of voices; and then——
Who is it that comes with such grave and simple dignity across the boards, with her small head proudly but gracefully35 upheld, her large eyes calm and sweet and steady?
For a moment Luttrell disbelieves his senses. Then a mist rises before him, a choking sensation comes into his throat. Laying his hand upon the back of the chair nearest him, he fortunately manages to retain his composure, while heart, and mind, and eyes, are centred on Molly Bawn.
An instantaneous hush36 falls upon the assembly; the very fans drop silently into their owners' laps; not a whisper can be heard. The opening chords are played by some one, and then Molly begins to sing.
"Oh, that we two were maying!—"
She has no thought for all the gay crowd that stays entranced upon her tones. She looks far above them, her serene39 face—pale, but full of gentle self-possession—more sweet than any poem. She is singing with all her heart for her beloved,—for Letitia, and Lovat, and the children, and John in heaven.
A passionate40 longing41 to be near her—to touch her—to speak—to be answered back again—seizes Luttrell. He takes in hungrily all the minutiæ of her clothing, her manner, her expression. He sees the soft, gleaming bunches of snow-drops at her bosom42 and in her hair. Her hands, lightly crossed before her, are innocent of rings. Her simple black gown of some clinging, transparent43 material—barely opened at the neck—makes even more fair the milk-white of her throat (that is scarcely less white than the snowy flowers).
Her hair is drawn44 back into its old loose knot behind, in the simple style that suits her. She has a tiny band of black velvet45 round her neck. How fair she is,—how sweet, yet full of a tender melancholy46! He is glad in his heart for that little pensive47 shade, and thinks, though more fragile, she never looked so lovely in her life.
She has commenced the last verse:
"Oh, that we two lay sleeping
In our nest in the church-yard sod,
With our limbs at rest
On the quiet earth's breast,
And our souls at home with God!"
She is almost safely through it. There is such a deadly silence as ever presages48 a storm, when by some luckless chance her eyes, that seldom wander, fall full on Luttrell's upturned, agitated49 face.
His fascinated, burning gaze compels her to return it. Oh, that he should see her here, singing before all these people! For the first time a terrible sense of shame overpowers her; a longing to escape the eyes that from all parts of the hall appear to stare at her and criticise50 her voice—herself!
She turns a little faint, wavers slightly, and then breaks down.
Covering her face with her hands, and with a gesture of passion and regret, she falls hurriedly into the background and is gone.
Immediately kindly applause bursts forth. What has happened to the favorite? Is she ill, or faint, or has some lost dead chord of her life suddenly sounded again? Every one is at a loss, and every one is curious. It is interesting,—perhaps the most interesting part of the whole performance,—and to-morrow will tell them all about it.
Tedcastle starts to his feet, half mad with agitation51, his face ashen52 white. There is no knowing what he might not have done in this moment of excitement had not his foreign neighbor, laying hands upon him, gently forced him back again into his seat.
"My friend, consider her," he whispers, in a firm but soft voice. Then, after a moment's pause, "Come with me," he says, and, leading the way, beckons53 to Luttrell, who rises mechanically and follows him.
Into a small private apartment that opens off the hall the Italian takes him, and, pushing toward him a chair, sinks into another himself.
"She is the woman you love?" he asks, presently, in such a kindly tone as carries away all suspicion of impertinence.
"Yes," answers Luttrell, simply.
"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——"
"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 prudent56. 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."
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 retrieve58 his position, there is a slight murmur59 among those assembled, 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 conceal60 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 woolen61 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 posée figure also draped in black, whom even at that distance he recognizes as Mrs. Massereene.
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 emaciated62 charger, and disappears down the street.
They are gone. With a muttered exclamation, that savors63 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 remains64 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 preoccupied65 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 tumult66 of expectation, she listens feverishly67 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 assumed 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 mere68 writing made poor Molly's heart beat and her pulses throb69 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 bracelet70, embracing a tiny bunch of dead forget-me-nots, with this inscription71 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 superseded72, until last night. Then, as she met his eyes, that told a story more convincing than any words, and marking the passionate delight and longing on his face, she dared to assure 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 shores three months ago in a fit of pique73, brought on by Cecil's perversity74.
Some small dissension, some trivial disagreement, anger on his part, seeming indifference75 on hers, and the deed was done. He left her indignant, enraged76, but probably more in love with her than ever; while she—— But who shall fathom77 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; "positively78 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 irreverence79 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 motive80 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 precisely81; 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 scribbled82 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 affected83 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." Mischievously84. "And as to confessing, I never do that. I should make a bad Catholic. I should be in perpetual hot water with my spiritual adviser85. But if he comes back penitent86, and shows himself less exigeant, I shan't refuse his overtures87 of peace. Now, don't make me keep your Teddy waiting any longer. He is shut up in my boudoir enduring grinding torments88 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 Letitia and the wee scraps89. And—these bonbons—I had almost forgotten them."
"No."
"When we had left your house and walked for some time in a silence most unusual where she is, she said, in her small, solemn way, 'Molly, why does Lady Stafford have her kitchen in her drawing-room?' Now, was it not a capital bit of china-mania? I thought it very severe on the times."
"It was cruel. I shall instantly send my plates and jugs91, and that delicious old Worcester tureen down-stairs to their proper place," says Cecil, laughing. "There is no criticism so cutting as a child's."
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fully
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| adv.完全地，全部地，彻底地；充分地 | |
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lengthy
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| adj.漫长的，冗长的 | |
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drooping
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| adj. 下垂的，无力的 动词droop的现在分词 | |
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inclemency
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| n.险恶，严酷 | |
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genial
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| adj.亲切的，和蔼的，愉快的，脾气好的 | |
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drizzle
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| v.下毛毛雨；n.毛毛雨，蒙蒙细雨 | |
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decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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smothers
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| （使）窒息， （使）透不过气( smother的第三人称单数 )； 覆盖； 忍住； 抑制 | |
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astonishment
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| n.惊奇，惊异 | |
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depressed
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| adj.沮丧的，抑郁的，不景气的，萧条的 | |
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groan
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| vi./n.呻吟，抱怨；(发出)呻吟般的声音 | |
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sojourn
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| v./n.旅居，寄居；逗留 | |
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savage
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| adj.野蛮的；凶恶的，残暴的；n.未开化的人 | |
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vaguely
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| adv.含糊地，暖昧地 | |
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geniality
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| n.和蔼，诚恳；愉快 | |
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exquisite
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| adj.精美的；敏锐的；剧烈的，感觉强烈的 | |
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antediluvian
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| adj.史前的，陈旧的 | |
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gems
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| growth； economy； management； and customer satisfaction 增长 | |
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winsome
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| n.迷人的，漂亮的 | |
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lanky
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| adj.瘦长的 | |
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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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situated
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| adj.坐落在...的，处于某种境地的 | |
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fortitude
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| n.坚忍不拔；刚毅 | |
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afterward
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countenance
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| n.脸色，面容；面部表情；vt.支持，赞同 | |
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countless
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| adj.无数的，多得不计其数的 | |
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ballads
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| 民歌，民谣，特别指叙述故事的歌( ballad的名词复数 )； 讴 | |
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awakens
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| v.（使）醒( awaken的第三人称单数 )；（使）觉醒；弄醒；（使）意识到 | |
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craving
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| n.渴望,热望 | |
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delightful
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| adj.令人高兴的，使人快乐的 | |
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sufficiently
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| adv.足够地，充分地 | |
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forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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intervals
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| n.[军事]间隔( interval的名词复数 )；间隔时间；[数学]区间；（戏剧、电影或音乐会的）幕间休息 | |
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exclamation
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| n.感叹号，惊呼，惊叹词 | |
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gracefully
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| ad.大大方方地；优美地 | |
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hush
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| int.嘘，别出声；n.沉默，静寂；v.使安静 | |
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rendering
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| n.表现，描写 | |
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pathos
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| n.哀婉，悲怆 | |
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serene
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| adj. 安详的，宁静的，平静的 | |
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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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longing
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| n.（for）渴望 | |
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bosom
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| n.胸，胸部；胸怀；内心；adj.亲密的 | |
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transparent
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| adj.明显的，无疑的；透明的 | |
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drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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velvet
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| n.丝绒，天鹅绒；adj.丝绒制的，柔软的 | |
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melancholy
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| n.忧郁，愁思；adj.令人感伤（沮丧）的，忧郁的 | |
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pensive
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| a.沉思的,哀思的,忧沉的 | |
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presages
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| v.预示，预兆( presage的第三人称单数 ) | |
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agitated
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| adj.被鼓动的，不安的 | |
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criticise
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| v.批评，评论；非难 | |
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agitation
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| n.搅动；搅拌；鼓动，煽动 | |
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ashen
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| adj.灰的 | |
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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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abruptly
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| adv.突然地，出其不意地 | |
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impatience
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| n.不耐烦，急躁 | |
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prudent
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| adj.谨慎的，有远见的，精打细算的 | |
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drearily
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| 沉寂地，厌倦地，可怕地 | |
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retrieve
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| vt.重新得到，收回；挽回，补救；检索 | |
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murmur
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| n.低语，低声的怨言；v.低语，低声而言 | |
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conceal
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| v.隐藏，隐瞒，隐蔽 | |
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woolen
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| adj.羊毛(制)的；毛纺的 | |
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emaciated
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| adj.衰弱的，消瘦的 | |
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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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remains
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| n.剩余物，残留物；遗体，遗迹 | |
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preoccupied
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| adj.全神贯注的，入神的；被抢先占有的；心事重重的v.占据（某人）思想，使对…全神贯注，使专心于( preoccupy的过去式) | |
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tumult
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| n.喧哗；激动，混乱；吵闹 | |
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feverishly
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| adv. 兴奋地 | |
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mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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throb
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| v.震颤，颤动；(急速强烈地)跳动，搏动 | |
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bracelet
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| n.手镯，臂镯 | |
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inscription
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| n.（尤指石块上的）刻印文字，铭文，碑文 | |
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superseded
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| [医]被代替的，废弃的 | |
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pique
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| v.伤害…的自尊心，使生气 n.不满，生气 | |
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perversity
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| n.任性；刚愎自用 | |
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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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enraged
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| 使暴怒( enrage的过去式和过去分词 )； 歜； 激愤 | |
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fathom
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| v.领悟，彻底了解 | |
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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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irreverence
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| n.不尊敬 | |
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motive
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| n.动机，目的；adv.发动的，运动的 | |
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precisely
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| adv.恰好，正好，精确地，细致地 | |
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scribbled
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| v.潦草的书写( scribble的过去式和过去分词 )；乱画；草草地写；匆匆记下 | |
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affected
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| adj.不自然的，假装的 | |
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mischievously
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| adv.有害地；淘气地 | |
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adviser
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| n.劝告者，顾问 | |
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penitent
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| adj.后悔的；n.后悔者；忏悔者 | |
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overtures
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| n.主动的表示，提议；（向某人做出的）友好表示、姿态或提议( overture的名词复数 )；（歌剧、芭蕾舞、音乐剧等的）序曲，前奏曲 | |
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torments
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| （肉体或精神上的）折磨，痛苦( torment的名词复数 )； 造成痛苦的事物[人] | |
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scraps
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| 油渣 | |
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apropos
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| adv.恰好地；adj.恰当的；关于 | |
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jugs
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| （有柄及小口的）水壶( jug的名词复数 ) | |
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