Part 23 (1/2)
”Are John and Letty every one? At Herst they are still in blissful ignorance. Let them remain so. I insist on our engagement being kept secret.”
”But why?”
”Because if it was known it would spoil all my fun. I have noticed that men avoid a _fiancee_ as they would a--a rattlesnake.”
”I cannot see why being engaged should spoil your fun.”
”But it would for all that. Come now, Ted, be candid: how often were you in love before you met me?”
”Never.” With the vehemence of a thousand oaths.
”Well, then, to put it differently, how many girls did you like?”
”Like?” Reluctantly. ”Oh, as for that, I suppose I did fancy I liked a few girls.”
”Just so; and I should like to like a few men,” says Miss Ma.s.sereene, triumphantly.
”You don't know what you are talking about,” says Tedcastle, hotly.
”Indeed I do. That is just one of the great points which the defenders of women's rights forget to expatiate upon. A man may love as often as he chooses, while a woman must only love once, or he considers himself very badly used. Why not be on an equal footing? Not that I want to love any one,” says Molly; ”only it is the injustice of the thing I abhor.”
”Love any one you choose,” says Tedcastle, pa.s.sionately, springing to his feet, ”Shadwell or any other fellow that comes in your way, I shan't interfere. It is hardly necessary for you to say you don't 'want to love one.' Your heart is as cold as ice. It is high time this engagement--this farce--should come to an end.”
”If you wish it,” says Molly, quietly, in a subdued tone, yet as she says it she moves one step--no more--closer to him.
”But I do not wish it; that is my cruel fate!” cries the young man, taking both her hands and laying them over his heart with a despairing tenderness. ”There are none happy save those incapable of knowing a lasting affection. Oh, Molly!”--remorsefully--”forgive me. I am speaking to you as I ought not. It is all my beastly temper; though I used not to be ill-tempered,” says he, with sad wonder. ”At home and among our fellows I was always considered rather easy-going than otherwise. I think the knowledge that I must part from you on Thursday (though only for a short time) is embittering me.”
”Then you are really sorry to leave me?” questions Molly, peering up at him from under her straw hat.
”You know I am.”
”But very sorry,--desperately so?”
”Yes.” Gravely, and with something that is almost tears in his eyes.
”Why do you ask me, Molly? Is it not palpable enough?”
”It is not. You look just the same as ever,--quite as 'easy-going'”--with a malicious pout--”as either your 'home' or your 'fellows' could desire. I quite buoyed myself up with the hope that I should see you reduced to a skeleton as the last week crept to its close, and here you are robust and well to do as usual. I call it unfeeling,” says Miss Ma.s.sereene, reproachfully, ”and I don't believe you care a pin about me.”
”Would you like to see me 'reduced to a skeleton'?” asks Luttrell, reproachfully. ”You talk as though you had been done out of something; but a man may be horribly cut up about a thing without letting all the world know of it.”
”You conceal it with great skill,” says Molly, placing her hand beneath his chin, under a pretense of studying his features, but in reality to compel him to look at her; and, as it is impossible for any one to gaze into another's eyes for any length of time without showing emotion of some kind, presently he laughs.
”Ah!” cries she, well pleased, ”now I have made you laugh, your little attack of the spleens will possibly take to itself wings and fly away.”
All through the remainder of this day and the whole of the next--which is his last--she is sweetness itself to him. Whatever powers of tormenting she possesses are kept well in the background, while she betrays nothing but a very successful desire to please.
She wanders with him contentedly through garden and lawn; she sits beside him; at dinner she directs swift, surrept.i.tious smiles at him across the flowers; later on she sings to him his favorite songs; and why she scarcely knows. Perhaps through a coquettish desire to make the parting harder; perhaps to make his chains still stronger; perhaps to soothe his evident regret; perhaps (who can say?) because she too feels that same regret.
And surely to-night some new spirit is awake within her. Never has she sung so sweetly. As her glorious voice floats through the dimly-lighted room and out into the more brilliant night beyond, Luttrell, and Let.i.tia, and John sit entranced and wonder secretly at the great gift that has been given her.
”If ever words are sweet, what, what is song When lips we love the melody prolong!”