Part 58 (1/2)

”I have been rude, grandpapa,--I beg your pardon,--and I am very much obliged to you for this money.”

So saying, she bends and presses her soft sweet lips to his cheek. He makes no effort to return the caress, but long after she leaves the room sits staring vaguely before him out of the dreary window on to the still more dreary landscape outside, thinking of vanished days and haunting actions that will not be laid, but carry with them their sure and keen revenge, in the knowledge that to the dead no ill can be undone.

Molly, going back to the drawing-room, finds Cecil there, serene as usual.

”Well, and where is my book?” asks that innocent. ”I thought you were never coming.”

”Cecil, why did you tell grandpapa to offer me a dress?” demands Molly, abruptly.

”My dearest girl!----” exclaims Cecil, and then has the grace to stop and blush, a little.

”You did. There is no use your denying it.”

”You didn't refuse it? Oh, Molly, after all my trouble!”

”No,”--laughing, and unfolding her palm, where the paper lies crushed,--”but I was very near it. But that his manner was so kind, so marvelously gentle, for him, I should have done so. Cecil, I couldn't help thinking that perhaps long ago, before the world hardened him, grandpapa was a nice young man.”

”Perhaps he was, my dear,--there is no knowing what any of us may come to,--though you must excuse me if I say I rather doubt it. Well, and what did he say?”

”Very little, indeed; and that little a failure. When going about it you might have given him a few lessons in his _role_. So bungling a performance as the leading up to it I never witnessed; and when he wound up by handing me a check ready prepared beside him on the desk I very nearly laughed.”

”Old goose! Never mind; 'they laugh who win.' I have won.”

”So you have.”

”Well, but look, Molly, look. I want to see how far his unwonted 'gentleness' has carried him. I am dying of curiosity. I do hope he has not been shabby.”

Unfolding the paper, they find the check has been drawn for a hundred pounds.

”Very good,” says Cecil, with a relieved sigh. ”He is not such a bad old thing, when all is told.”

”It is too much,” says Molly, aghast. ”I can't take it, indeed. I would have thought twenty pounds a great deal, but a _hundred_ pounds! I must take it back to him.”

”Are you mad,” exclaims Cecil, ”to insult him? He thinks _nothing_ of a hundred pounds. And to give back money,--that scarce commodity,--how could you bring yourself to do it?” In tones of the liveliest reproach. ”Be reasonable, dear, and let us see how we can spend it fast enough.”

Thus adjured, Molly succ.u.mbs, and, sinking into a chair, is soon deep in the unfathomable mysteries of silks and satins, tulle and flowers.

”And, Cecil, I should like to buy Let.i.tia a silk dress like that one of yours up-stairs I admire so much.”

”The navy blue?”

”No, the olive-green; it would just suit her. She has a lovely complexion, clear and tinted, like your own.”

”Thank you, dear. It is to be regretted you are of the weaker s.e.x. So delicately veiled a compliment would not have disgraced a Chesterfield.”

”Was it too glaring? Well, I will do away with it. I was thinking entirely of Letty. I was comparing her skin very favorably with yours.

That reminds me I must write home to-day. I hope John won't be offended with me about this money. Though, after all, there can't be much harm in accepting a present from one's grandfather.”

”I should think not, indeed. I only wish I had a grandfather, and wouldn't I utilize him! But I am an unfortunate,--alone in the world.”