Part 44 (1/2)
”I did not know you were coming here. Had I known it----”
A pause.
”Well,”--imperiously,--”why do you hesitate? Say the unkind thing. I hate innuendoes. Had you known it----”
”I should certainly have gone the other way.” Coldly: ”Meanly as you may think of me, I have not fallen so low that I should seek to annoy you by my presence.”
”Then without doubt you have come to this quiet place searching for solitude, in which to think out all your hard thoughts of me.”
”I never think hardly of you, Molly.”
”You certainly were not thinking kindly.”
Now, he might easily have abashed her at this point by asking ”where was the necessity to think of her at all?” but there is an innate courtesy, a natural gentleness about Luttrell that utterly forbids him.
”And,” goes on his tormentor, the more angry that she cannot induce him to revile her, ”I do not wish you to call me 'Molly' any more. Only those who--who love me call me by that name. Marcia and my grandfather (two people I detest) call me Eleanor. You can follow their example for the future.”
”There will not be any future. I have been making up my mind, and--I shall sell out and go abroad immediately.”
”Indeed!” There was a slight, a very slight, tremble in her saucy tones. ”What a sudden determination! Well, I hope you will enjoy yourself. It is charming weather for a pleasure-trip.”
”It is.”
”You shouldn't lose much more time, however. Winter will soon be here; and it must be dismal in the extreme traveling in frost and snow.”
”I a.s.sure you”--bitterly--”there is no occasion to hurry me. I am as anxious to go as ever you could desire.”
”May I ask when you are going, and where?”
”No, you may not,” cries he, at length fiercely goaded past endurance; ”only, be a.s.sured of this: I am going as far from you as steam can take me; I am going where your fatal beauty and heartlessness cannot touch me; where I shall not be maddened day by day by your coquetry, and where perhaps--in time--I may learn to forget you.”
His indignation has made him appear at least two inches taller than his ordinary six feet. His face is white as death, his lips are compressed beneath his blonde moustache, his dark blue eyes--not unlike Molly's own--are flas.h.i.+ng fire.
”Thank you,” says his companion, with exaggerated emphasis and a graceful curtsey; ”thank you very much, Mr. Luttrell. I had no idea, when I lingered here for one little moment, I was going to hear so many home truths. I certainly do not want to hear any more.”
”Then why don't you go?” puts in Luttrell, savagely.
”I would--only--perhaps you may not be aware of it, but you have your foot exactly on the very end of my gown.”
Luttrell raises his foot and replaces it upon the shaking planks with something that strongly resembles a stamp,--so strongly as to make the treacherous bridge quake and tremble; while Molly moves slowly away from him until she reaches the very edge of their uncertain resting-place.
Here she pauses, glances backward, and takes another step, only to pause again,--this time with decision.
”Teddy,” she says, softly.
No answer.
”Dear Teddy,” more softly still.
No answer.