Part 14 (1/2)
Molly, in a huge hat that only partially conceals her face and throws a shadow over her glorious eyes, is intent upon her task, while Luttrell, sitting opposite to her, holds over her head the very largest family umbrella ever built. It is evidently an old and esteemed friend, that has worn itself out in the Ma.s.sereenes' service, and now shows daylight here and there through its covering where it should not. A troublesome scorching ray comes through one of these impromptu air-holes and alights persistently on his face; at present it is on his nose, and makes that feature appear a good degree larger than Nature, who has been very generous to it, ever intended.
It might strike a keen observer that Mr. Luttrell doesn't like the umbrella; either it or the wicked sunbeams, or the heat generally, is telling on him, slowly but surely; he has a depressed and melancholy air.
”Is it good?” asks Molly, _a propos_ of the strawberry. ”There, you need not bite my finger. Will you have another? You really do look very badly. You don't think you are going to faint, do you?”
”Molly,” taking no notice of her graceful _badinage_, ”why don't you get your grandfather to invite you to Herst Royal for the autumn?
Could you not manage it in some way? I wish it could be done.”
”So do I,” returns she, frankly, ”but there is not the remotest chance of it. It would be quite as likely that the skies should fall. Why, he does not even acknowledge me as a member of the family.”
”Old brute!” says Luttrell from his heart.
”Well, it has always been rather a regret to me, his neglect, I mean,”
says Molly, thoughtfully, ”and besides, though I know it is poor-spirited of me, I confess I have the greatest longing to see my grandfather.”
”To '_see_' your grandfather?”
”Exactly.”
”Do you mean to tell me,” growing absolutely animated through his surprise, ”that you have never been face to face with him?”
”Never. I thought you knew that. Why, how amazed you look! Is there anything the matter with him? is he without arms, or legs? or has he had his nose shot off in any campaign? If so, break it to me gently, and spare me the shock I might experience, if ever I make my curtsey to him.”
”It isn't that,” says Tedcastle: ”there's nothing wrong with him beyond old age, and a beastly temper; but it seems so odd that, living all your life in the very next county to his, you should never have met.”
”It is not so odd, after all, when you come to think of it,” says Molly, ”considering he never goes anywhere, as I have heard, and that I lead quite as lively an existence. But is he not a stern old thing, to keep up a quarrel for so many years, especially as it wasn't my fault, you know? I didn't insist on being born. Poor mother! I think she was quite right to run away with papa, when she loved him.”
”Quite right,” enthusiastically.
”What made her crime so unpardonable was the fact that she was engaged to another man at the time, some rich _parti_ chosen by her father, whom she thought she liked well enough until she saw papa, and then she knew, and threw away everything for her love; and she did well,” says Molly, with more excitement than would be expected from her on a sentimental subject.
”Still, it was rather hard on the first man, don't you think?” says Luttrell. There is rather less enthusiasm in his tone this time.
”One should go to the wall, you know,” argues Molly, calmly, ”and I for my part would not hesitate about it. Now, let us suppose I am engaged to you without caring very much about you, you know, and all that, and supposing then I saw another I liked better,--why, then, I honestly confess I would not hold to my engagement with you for an hour!”
Here that wicked sunbeam, with a depravity unlooked for, falling straight through the c.h.i.n.k of the umbrella into Mr. Luttrell's eye, maddens him to such a degree that he rises precipitately, shuts the cause of his misfortunes with a bang, and turns on Molly.
”I won't hold it up another instant,” he says; ”you needn't think it. I wonder Ma.s.sereene wouldn't keep a decent umbrella in his hall.”
”What's the matter with it? I see nothing indecent about it: I think it a very charming umbrella,” says Molly, examining the article in question with a critical eye.
”Well, at all events, this orchard is oppressive. If you don't want to kill me, you will leave it, and come to the wood, where we may know what shade means!”
”Nonsense!” returns Molly, unmoved. ”It is delicious here, and I won't stir. How can you talk in that wild way about no shade, when you have this beautiful apple-tree right over your head? Come and sit at this side; perhaps,” with a smile, ”you will feel more comfortable--next to me?”
Thus beguiled, he yields, and seats himself beside her--very much beside her--and reconciles himself to his fate.
”I wish you would remember,” she says, presently, ”that you have nothing on your head. I would not be rash if I were you. Take my advice and open the umbrella again, or you will a.s.suredly be having a sun-stroke.”