Part 21 (1/2)

”This 'ere is for you, sir,” she says, delivering the packet to Luttrell, who consigns it hastily to his coat-pocket; ”and this for you, Miss Molly,” giving the letter. ”The postman says, sir, as 'ow they only come by the afternoon, but I am of the rooted opinion that he forgot 'm this morning.”

Thus Sarah, who is loquacious though trustworthy, and bears an undying grudge to the postman, in that he has expressed himself less enamored of her waning charms than of those of the more buxom Jane, who queens it over the stewpans and the cold joints.

”Most improper of the postman,” replies Mr. Ma.s.sereene, soothingly.

Meantime, Molly is standing staring curiously at her missive.

”I don't know the writing,” she says in a vague tone. ”I do hope it isn't a bill.”

”A bill, with that monogram!” exclaims Luttrell. ”Not likely. I would swear to a dunning epistle at twenty yards' distance.”

”Who can it be from?” wonders Molly, still dallying with one finger inserted beneath the flap of the envelope.

”Perhaps, if you look within you may find out,” suggests John, meekly; and thus encouraged she opens the letter and reads.

At first her face betrays mere indifference, then surprise, then a sudden awakening to intense interest, and lastly unmitigated astonishment.

”It is the most extraordinary thing,” she says, at last, looking up, and addressing them in an awestruck whisper, ”the most unexpected.

After all these years,--I can scarcely believe it to be true.”

”But what is it, darling?” asks Letty, actually tingling with excitement.

”An invitation to Herst Royal!”

”I don't believe you,” cries Luttrell, who means no rudeness at all, but is merely declaring in a modern fas.h.i.+on how delighted beyond measure he is.

”Look: is not that Marcia's writing? I suppose she wrote it, though it is dictated by grandpapa.”

All four heads were instantly bent over the clear, bold calligraphy to read the cold but courteous invitation it contains.

”Dear Eleanor” is given to understand that her grandfather will be pleased to make her acquaintance, if she will be pleased to transfer herself and her maid to Herst Royal on the twenty-seventh of the present month. There are a few hints about suitable trains, a request that a speedy reply in the affirmative will be sent, and then ”dear Eleanor” is desired to look upon Mr. Amherst as her ”affectionate grandfather.” Not one word about all the neglect that has been showered upon her for nineteen years.

”Well?” says Luttrell, who is naturally the first to recover himself.

”Had you anything to do with this?” asks John, turning almost fiercely to him.

”Nothing, on my honor.”

”He must be near death,” says Let.i.tia. Molly is silent, her eyes still fixed upon the letter. ”I think, John--she ought to go.”

”Of course she shall go,” returns John, a kind of savage jealousy p.r.i.c.king him. ”I can't provide for her after my death. That old man may be softened by her face or terrified by the near approach of dissolution into doing her justice. He has neither watched her, nor tended her, nor loved her; but now that she has come to perfection he claims her.”

”John,” cries Molly, with sudden pa.s.sion, flinging herself into his arms, ”I will not go. No, not one step. What is he to me, that stern old tyrant, who has refused for nineteen years to acknowledge me? While you, my dear, my darling, you are my all.”

”Nonsense, child!” speaking roughly, although consoled and strengthened by her caress and loving words. ”It is what I have been wis.h.i.+ng for all these years. Of course you must go. It is only right you should be recognized by your relations, even though it is so late in the day.

Perhaps he will leave you a legacy; and”--smiling--”I think I may console myself with the reflection that old Amherst will scarcely be able to cut me out.”

”You may, without flattering yourself,” says Luttrell.