Part 51 (1/2)
”By whom?”
”My slaves,” returns this coquette of all coquettes, with a last lingering glance and smile. After which she finally disappears.
”There is no use disguising the fact any longer,--I _have_ lost my heart,” groans Sir Penthony, in despair, as he straightway carries off both himself and his cherished flowers to the shelter of his own room.
CHAPTER XIX.
”I'll tell thee a part, Of the thoughts that start To being when thou art nigh.”
--Sh.e.l.ley.
The next day is Sunday, and a very muggy, disagreeable one it proves.
There is an indecision about it truly irritating. A few drops of rain here and there, a threatening of storm, but nothing positive. Finally, at eleven o'clock, just as they have given up all hope of seeing any improvement, it clears up in a degree,--against its will,--and allows two or three depressed and tearful sunbeams to struggle forth, rather with a view to dishearten the world than to brighten it.
Sunday at Herst is much the same as any other day. There are no rules, no restrictions. In the library may be found volumes of sermons waiting for those who may wish for them. The covers of those sermons are as clean and fresh to-day as when they were placed on their shelves, now many years ago, showing how amiably they _have_ waited. You may play billiards if you like; you need not go to church if you don't like. Yet, somehow, when at Herst, people always do go,--perhaps because they needn't, or perhaps because there is such a dearth of amus.e.m.e.nts.
Molly, who as yet has escaped all explanation with Tedcastle, coming down-stairs, dressed for church, and looking unusually lovely, finds almost all the others a.s.sembled before her in the hall, ready to start.
Laying her prayer-books upon a table, while with one hand she gathers up the tail of her long gown, she turns to say a word or two to Lady Stafford.
At this moment both Luttrell and Shadwell move toward the books.
Shadwell, reaching them first, lays his hand upon them.
”You will carry them for me?” says Molly, with a bright smile to him; and Luttrell, with a slight contraction of the brow, falls back again, and takes his place beside Lady Stafford.
As the church lies at the end of a pleasant pathway through the woods, they elect to walk it; and so in twos and threes they make their way under the still beautiful trees.
”It is cold, is it not?” Molly says to Mrs. Darley once, when they come to an open part of the wood, where they can travel in a body; ”wonderfully so for September.”
”Is it? I never mind the cold, or--or anything,” rejoins Mrs. Darley, affectedly, talking for the benefit of the devoted Mottie, who walks beside her, ”laden with golden grain,” in the shape of prayer-books and hymnals of all sorts and sizes, ”if I have any one with me that suits me; that is, a sympathetic person.”
”A lover you mean?” asks uncompromising Molly. ”Well, I don't know; I think that is about the time, of all others, when I should object to feeling cold. One's nose has such an unpleasant habit of getting beyond one's control in the way of redness; and to feel that one's cheeks are pinched and one's lips blue is maddening. At such times I like my own society best.”
”And at other times, too,” said Philip, disagreeably; ”this morning, for instance.” He and Molly have been having a pa.s.sage of arms, and he has come off second best.
”I won't contradict you,” says Molly, calmly; ”it would be rude, and, considering how near we are to church, unchristian.”
”A pity you cannot recollect your Christianity on other occasions,”
says he, sneeringly.
”You speak with feeling. How have I failed toward _you_ in Christian charity?”
”Is it charitable, is it kind to scorn a fellow-creature as you do, only because he loves you?” Philip says, in a low tone.
Miss Ma.s.sereene is first honestly surprised, then angry. That Philip has made love to her now and again when opportunity occurred is a fact she does not seek to deny, but it has been hitherto in the careless, half-earnest manner young men of the present day affect when in the society of a pretty woman, and has caused her no annoyance.
That he should now, without a word of warning (beyond the slight sparring-match during their walk, and which is one of a series), break forth with so much vehemence and apparent sense of injury, not only alarms but displeases her; whilst some faint idea of treachery on her own part toward her betrothed, in listening to such words, fills her with distress.