Part 35 (1/2)

Opening a small cottage piano at the other end of her pretty sitting-room, she motions Molly to the instrument.

”Play for me,” Molly says, bent on doing her very best. ”I can sing better standing.”

”What, then?”

”This,” taking up a song of Sullivan's, after a rapid survey of the pile of music lying on one side.

She sings, her lovely voice thrilling and sobbing through the room, sings with a pa.s.sionate desire to prove her powers, and well succeeds.

For a minute after she has finished, Cecil does not speak, and then goes into raptures, as ”is her nature to.”

”Oh that I had your voice!” cries she, with genuine tears in her eyes.

”I would have the world at my feet. What a gift! a voice for a G.o.ddess!

Molly--may I call you so?--I absolutely pity Marcia when I think of her consternation.”

”She deserves it,” says Molly, who feels her cousin's conduct deeply.

”I will sing to-night, if you will get Marcia to ask me.”

So the two conspirators arrange their little plan, Cecil Stafford being quite mischievous enough to enjoy the thought of Miss Amherst's approaching discomfiture, while Molly feels all a woman's desire to restore her hurt vanity.

Dinner is half over; and so far it has been highly successful. Mr.

Amherst's temper has taken this satisfactory turn,--he absolutely refuses to speak to any of his guests.

Under these circ.u.mstances every one feels it will be the better part of valor not to address him,--all, that is, except Mrs. Darley, who, believing herself irresistible, goes in for the doubtful task of soothing the bear and coaxing him from his den.

”I am afraid you have a headache, dear Mr. Amherst,” she says, beaming sweetly upon him.

”Are you, madam? Even if I were a victim to that foolish disorder, I hardly see why the fact should arouse a feeling of terror in your breast. Only weak-minded girls have headaches.”

A faint pause. Conversation is languis.h.i.+ng, dying, among the other guests; they smell the fight afar, and pause in hungry expectation of what is surely coming.

”I pity any one so afflicted,” says Mrs. Darley, going valiantly to her death: ”I am a perfect martyr to them myself.” Here she gives way to a little sympathetic sigh, being still evidently bent on believing him weighed down with pain heroically borne.

”Are you?” says Mr. Amherst, with elaborate politeness. ”You astonish me. I should never have thought it. Rheumatism, now, I might. But how old are you, madam?”

”Well, really,” says Mrs. Darley, with a pretty childish laugh which she rather cultivates, being under the impression that it is fascinating to the last degree, ”asking me so suddenly puts the precise day I was born out of my head. I hardly remember--exactly--when----”

Conversation has died. Every one's attention is fixed; by experience they know the end is nigh.

”Just so; I don't suppose you could, it happened such a long time ago!”

says this terrible old man, with an audible chuckle, that falls upon a silent and (must it be said?) appreciative audience.

Mrs. Darley says no more; what is there left to say? and conversation is once more taken up, and flows on as smoothly as it can, when everybody else is talking for a purpose.

”_Is_ she old?” Molly asks Philip, presently, in a low tone, when the buzz is at its highest; ”very old, I mean? She looks so babyish.”

”How old would you say?” speaking in the same guarded tone as her own, which has the effect of making Luttrell and Marcia believe them deep in a growing flirtation.