Part 7 (1/2)
”How do I know, when I don't even understand myself? But when I called out to you 'Look up,' of course I meant 'look down.' Don't you remember the old game with the handkerchief?--when I say 'Let go,' 'hold fast;'
and when I say 'Hold fast,' 'let go?' You must recollect it.”
”I have a dim idea of something idiotic, like what you say.”
”It is not idiotic, but it suits only some people; it suits me. There is a certain perverseness about it, a determination to do just what one is told not to do, that affects me most agreeably. Did I”--glancing at the rosy shower at his feet--”did I hurt you _much_?” With a smile.
There is a little plank projecting from the wood-work of the pillars that supports the balcony: resting his foot on this, and holding on by the railings above, Luttrell draws himself up until his face is almost on a level with hers,--almost, but not quite: she can still overshadow him.
”If that was all the injury I had received at your hands, how easy it would be to forgive!” says he, in a low tone.
”Poor hands,” says Molly, gazing at her shapely fingers, ”how have they sinned? Am I to understand, then, that I am not forgiven?”
”Yes.”
”You are unkind to me.”
”Oh, Molly!”
”_Dreadfully_ unkind to me. Can you deny it? Now, tell me what this crime is that I have committed and you cannot pardon.”
”I will not,” says the young man, turning a little pale, while the smile dies out of his eyes and from round his lips. ”I dread to put my injuries into words. Should they anger you, you might with one look seal my death-warrant.”
”Am I so blood-thirsty? How badly you think of me!”
”Do I?” Reading with the wistful sadness of uncertainty her lovely face. ”You know better than that. You know too--do you not?--what it is I would say,--if I dared. Oh, Molly, what have you done to me, what witchery have you used, that, after escaping for twenty-seven long years, I should now fall so hopelessly in----”
”Hus.h.!.+” says Molly, quickly, and, letting her hand fall lightly on his forehead, brings it slowly, slowly, over his eyes and down his face, until at length it rests upon his lips rebukingly. ”Not another word.
You have known me but a few days,--but a little short three weeks,--and you would----”
”Yes, I would,” eagerly, devouring with fond kisses the snow-flake that would stay his words. ”Three weeks,--a year,--ten years,--what does it matter? I think the very first night I saw you here in this garden the mischief was done. My heart left me. You stole the very best of me; and will you give nothing in exchange?”
”I will not listen,” says Molly, covering her ears with her hands, but not so closely that she must be deaf. ”Do you hear? You are to be silent.”
”Do you forbid me to speak?”
”Yes; I am in a hurry; I cannot listen,--_now_,” says this born coquette, unable to release her slave so soon.
”Some other time,--when you know me better,--you will listen then: is that what you mean?” Still detaining her with pa.s.sionate entreaty both in tone and manner. ”Molly, give me one word of hope.”
”I don't know what I mean,” she says, effecting her escape, and moving back to the security of the drawing-room window, which stands open. ”I never do know. And I have not got the least bit of memory in the world.
Do you know I came out here to tell you tea was to be brought out for us under the trees on the lawn; and when I saw you I forgot everything.
Is that a hopeful sign?” With a playful smile.
”I will try to think so; and--don't go yet, Molly.” Seeing her about to enter the drawing-room. ”Surely, if tea is to be on the lawn, it is there we ought to go.”
”I am half afraid of you. If I consent to bestow upon you a little more of my society, will you promise not to talk in--in--that way again to me?”
”But----”