Part 20 (1/2)

Round and round goes Molly, round and round follows her pursuer; until Luttrell, finding his prey to be quite as fleet if not fleeter than himself, resorts to a mean expedient, and, catching hold of one side of the table, pushes it, and Molly behind it, slowly but surely into the opposite corner.

There is no hope. Steadily, certainly, she approaches her doom, and with flushed cheeks and eyes gleaming with laughter, makes a vain protest.

”Now I have you,” says Luttrell, drawing an elaborate penknife from his pocket, in which all the tools that usually go to adorn a carpenter's shop fight for room. ”Prepare for death, or--I give you your choice: I shall either cut your jugular vein or kiss you. Don't hurry. Say which you prefer. It is a matter of indifference to me.”

”Cut every vein in my body first,” cries Molly, breathless but defiant.

[”Let.i.tia,” whispers John, ”I feel I am going to laugh. What shall I do?”

”Don't,” says Let.i.tia, with stern prompt.i.tude. ”That is what you will do. It is no laughing matter. I hope you are not going to make a jest of it, John.”

”But, my dear, supposing I can't help it?” suggests he, mildly. ”Our risible faculties are not always under our control.”

”On an occasion such as this they should be.”

”Let.i.tia,” says Mr. Ma.s.sereene, regarding her with severity, ”you are going to laugh yourself; don't deny it.”

”No,--no, indeed,” protests Let.i.tia, foolishly, considering her handsome face is one broad smile, and that her plump shoulders are visibly shaking.]

”It is mean! it is shameful!” says Molly, from within, seeing no chance of escape. Whichever way she rushes can be only into his arms.

”All that you can say shan't prevent me,” decides Luttrell, moving toward her with fell determination in his eye.

”Perhaps a little that I can say may have the desired effect,” breaks in Mr. Ma.s.sereene, advancing into the middle of the room, with Let.i.tia, looking rather nervous, behind him.

Tableau.

There is a sudden, rather undignified, cessation of hostilities on the part of Mr. Luttrell, who beats a hasty retreat to the wall, where he stands as though glad of the support. He bears a sneaky rather than a distinguished appearance, and altogether has the grace to betray a considerable amount of shame.

Molly, dropping her gown, turns a rich crimson, but is, I need hardly say, by far the least upset of the two delinquents. She remains where she is, hedged in by the table, and is conscious of feeling a wild desire to laugh.

Determined to break the silence, which is proving oppressive, she says, demurely:

”How fortunate, John, that you happened to be on the spot! Mr. Luttrell was behaving _so_ badly!”

”I don't need to be told that.”

”But how did you come here?” asks Molly, making a brave but unsuccessful effort to turn the tables upon the enemy. ”And Let.i.tia, too! I do hate people who turn up when they are least expected. What were you doing on the balcony?”

”Watching you--and--your friend,” says John, very gravely for him. He addresses himself entirely to Molly, her ”friend” being in the last stage of confusion and utterly incapable of speech. At this, however, he can support the situation no longer, and, coming forward, says eagerly:

”John, let me explain. The fact is, I asked Miss Ma.s.sereene to marry me, a little time ago, and she has promised to do so--if you--don't object.” After this bit of eloquence he draws himself up, with a little shake, as though he had rid himself of something disagreeable, and becomes once more his usual self.

Let.i.tia puts on a ”didn't I tell you?” sort of air, and John says:

”Is that so?” looking at Molly for confirmation.

”Yes, if it is your wish,” cries she, forsaking her retreat, and coming forward to lay her hand upon her brother's arm entreatingly, and with a gesture full of tenderness. ”But if you do object, if it vexes you in the very slightest degree, John, I----”

”But you will give your consent, Ma.s.sereene,” interrupts her lover, hastily, as though dreading the remainder of the sentence, ”won't you?”