Part 61 (2/2)

”I was positive he was in bed,” says Cecil, ”or I should never have ventured.”

”He is never where he ought to be,” mutters Potts gloomily.

Here conversation fails them. For once they are honestly dismayed, and keep their eyes fixed in anxious expectation on the bedchamber of their host. Will Marcia _never_ come?

At length the door opens and she appears, looking pale and _distraite_. Her eyes light angrily as they fall on Molly.

”Grandpapa is very much upset. He is ill. It was heartless,--a cruel trick,” she says, rather incoherently. ”He wishes to see you, Eleanor, instantly. You had better go to him.”

”Must I?” asks Molly, who is quite colorless, and much inclined to cry.

”Unless you wish to add disobedience to your other unfeeling conduct,”

replies Marcia, coldly.

”No, no; of course not. I will go,” says Molly, nervously.

With faltering footsteps she approaches the fatal door, whilst the others disperse and return once more to the drawing-room,--all, that is, except Lady Stafford, who seeks her own chamber, and Mr. Potts, who, in an agony of doubt and fear, lingers about the corridor, awaiting Molly's return.

As she enters her grandfather's room she finds him lying on a couch, half upright, an angry, disappointed expression on his face, distrust in his searching eyes.

”Come here,” he says, harshly, motioning her with one finger to his side, ”and tell me why you, of all others, should have chosen to play this trick upon me. Was it revenge?”

”Upon you, grandpapa! Oh, not upon you,” says Molly, shocked. ”It was all a mistake,--a mere foolish piece of fun; but I never thought _you_ would have been the one to see me.”

”Are you lying? Let me look at you. If so, you do it cleverly. Your face is honest. Yet I hear it was for me alone this travesty was enacted.”

”Whoever told you so spoke falsely,” Molly says, pale but firm, a great indignation toward Marcia rising in her breast. She has her hands on the back of a chair, and is gazing anxiously but openly at the old man.

”Why should I seek to offend you, who have been so kind to me,--whose bread I have eaten? You do not understand: you wrong me.”

”I thought it was your mother,” whispers he, with a quick s.h.i.+ver, ”from her grave, returned to reproach me,--to remind me of all the miserable past. It was a senseless thought. But the likeness was awful,--appalling.

She was my favorite daughter, yet she of all creatures was the one to thwart me most; and I did not forgive. I left her to pine for the luxuries to which she was accustomed from her birth, and could not then procure. She was delicate. I let her wear her heart out waiting for a worthless pardon. And what a heart it was! _Then_ I would not forgive; now--_now_ I crave forgiveness. Oh, that the dead could speak!”

He covers his face with his withered hands, that shake and tremble like October leaves, and a troubled sigh escapes him. For the moment the stern old man has disappeared; only the penitent remains.

”Dear grandpapa, be comforted,” says Molly, much affected, sinking on her knees beside him. Never before, by either brother or grandfather, has her dead mother been so openly alluded to. ”She did forgive. So sweet as she was, how could she retain a bitter feeling? Listen to me.

Am I not her only child? Who so meet to offer you her pardon? Let me comfort you.”

Mr. Amherst makes no reply, but he gently presses the fingers that have found their way around his neck.

”I, too, would ask pardon,” Molly goes on, in her sweet, low, _trainante_ voice, that has a sob in it here and there. ”How shall I gain it after all that I have done--to distress you so, although unintentionally?--And you think hardly of me, grandpapa? You think I did it to annoy you?”

”No, no; not now.”

”I have made you ill,” continues Molly, still crying; ”I have caused you pain. Oh, grandpapa! do say you are not angry with me.”

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