Part 63 (2/2)

”It may cease to be a lie, once uttered.”

”Well,--just to please you, then, and as an experiment--and---- You are _sure_ you will not despise me for saying it?”

”No.”

”Nor accuse me afterward of deceit?”

”Of course not.”

”Nor think me weak-minded?”

”No, no. How could I?”

”Well, then--Penthony--I--_don't love you the least bit in the world_!” declares Cecil, with a provoking, irresistible laugh, stepping backward out of his reach.

Sir Penthony does not speak for a moment or two; then ”'Sweet is revenge, especially to women,'” he says, quietly, although at heart he is bitterly chagrined. To be unloved is one thing--to be laughed at is another. ”After all, you are right. There is nothing in this world so rare or so admirable as honesty. I am glad you told me no untruth, even in jest.”

Just at this instant the door opens, and Molly enters. She looks surprised at such an unexpected spectacle as Cecil's husband sitting in his wife's boudoir, _tete-a-tete_ with her.

”Don't be shy, dear,” says Cecil, mischievously, with a little wicked laugh; ”you may come in; it is only my husband.”

The easy nonchalance of this speech, the only half-suppressed amus.e.m.e.nt in her tone, angers Sir Penthony more than all that has gone before.

With a hasty word or two to Molly, he suddenly remembers a pressing engagement, and, with a slight bow to his wife, takes his departure.

CHAPTER XXIV.

”Take, oh! take those lips away, That so sweetly were foresworn; And those eyes, the break of day, Lights that do mislead the morn: But my kisses bring again, Seals of love, but seal'd in vain.”

--Shakespeare.

The longed-for night has arrived at last; so has Molly's dress, a very marvel of art, fresh and pure as newly-fallen snow. It is white silk with tulle, on which white water-lilies lie here and there, as though carelessly thrown, all their broad and trailing leaves gleaming from among the s.h.i.+ning folds.

Miss Ma.s.sereene is in her own room, dressing, her faithful Sarah on her knees beside her. She has almost finished her toilet, and is looking more than usually lovely in her London ball-dress.

”Our visit is nearly at an end, Sarah; how have you enjoyed it?” she asks, in an interval, during which Sarah is at her feet, sewing on more securely one of her white lilies.

”Very much, indeed, miss. They've all been excessive polite, though they do ask a lot of questions. Only this evening they wanted to know if we was estated, and I said, 'Yes,' Miss Molly, because after all, you know, miss, it _is_ a property, however small; and I wasn't going to let myself down. And then that young man of Captain Shadwell's ast me if we was 'county people,' which I thought uncommon imperent.

Not but what he's a nice young man, miss, and very affable.”

”Still constant, Sarah?” says Molly, who is deep in the waves of doubt, not being able to decide some important final point about her dress.

”Oh, law! yes, miss, he is indeed. It was last night he was saying as my accent was very sweet. Now there isn't one of them country b.u.mpkins, miss, as would know whether you had an accent or not. It's odd how traveling do improve the mind.”

”Sarah, you should pay no attention to those London young men,--(pin it more to this side),--because they never mean anything.”

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