Part 74 (2/2)
After two nights' wakeful hesitation, shrinking, doubt, and fear, she forms a resolution, from which she never afterward turns aside until compelled to do so by unrestrainable circ.u.mstances.
”It is a very distressing case,” says Mr. Buscarlet, blowing his nose oppressively,--the more so that he feels for her very sincerely; ”distressing, indeed. I don't know one half so afflicting. I really do--not--see what is to be done.”
”Do not think me presumptuous if I say I do,” says Molly. ”I have a plan already formed, and, if it succeeds, I shall at least be able to earn bread for us all.”
”My dear young lady, how? You with--ahem!--you must excuse me if I say--your youth and beauty, how do you propose to earn your bread?”
”It is my secret as yet,”--with a faint wan smile. ”Let me keep it a little longer. Not even Mrs. Ma.s.sereene knows of it. Indeed, it is too soon to proclaim my design. People might scoff it; though for all that I shall work it out. And something tells me I shall succeed.”
”Yes, yes, we all think we shall succeed when young,” says the old lawyer, sadly, moved to keenest compa.s.sion at sight of the beautiful, earnest face before him. ”It is later on, when we are faint and weary with the buffetings of fortune, the sad awakening comes.”
”I shall not be disheartened by rebuffs; I shall not fail,” says Molly, intently. ”However cold and ungenerous the world may prove, I shall conquer it at last. Victory shall stay with me.”
”Well, well, I would not discourage any one. There are none so worthy of praise as those who seek to work out their own independence, whether they live or die in the struggle. But work--of the sort you mean--is hard for one so young. You have a plan. Well, so have I. But have you never thought of your grandfather? He is very kindly disposed toward you; and if he----”
”I have no time for 'buts' and 'ifs,'” she interrupts him, gently. ”My grandfather may be kindly disposed toward _me_, but not toward _mine_,--and that counts for much more. No, I must fall back upon myself alone. I have quite made up my mind,” says Molly, throwing up her small proud head, with a brave smile, ”and the knowledge makes me more courageous. I feel so strong to do, so determined to vanquish all obstacles, that I know I shall neither break down nor fail.”
”I trust not, my dear; I trust not. You have my best wishes, at least.”
”Thank you,” says Molly, pressing his kind old hand.
CHAPTER XXIX.
”I fain would follow love, if that could be.”
--Tennyson.
Let.i.tia in her widowed garments looks particularly handsome. All the ”trappings and the signs” of woe suit well her tall, full figure, her fair and placid face.
Molly looks taller, slenderer than usual in her mourning robes. She is one of those who grow slight quickly under affliction. Her rounded cheeks have fallen in and show sad hollows; her eyes are larger, darker, and show beneath them great purple lines born of many tears.
She has not seen Luttrell since her return home,--although Let.i.tia has,--and rarely asks for him. Her absorbing grief appears to have swallowed up all other emotions. She has not once left the house. She works little, she does not read at all; she is fast falling into a settled melancholy.
”Molly,” says Let.i.tia, ”Tedcastle is in the drawing-room. He particularly asks to see you. Do not refuse him again. Even though your engagement, as you say, is at an end, still remember, dearest, how kind, how more than thoughtful, he has been in many ways since--of late----”
Her voice breaks.
”Yes, yes, I will see him,” Molly says, wearily, and, rising, wends her way slowly, reluctantly, to the room which contains her lover.
At sight of him some chords that have lain hushed and forgotten in her heart for many days come to life again. Her pulses throb, albeit languidly, her color deepens; a something that is almost gladness awakes within her. Alas! how human are we all, how short-lived our keenest regrets! With the living love so near her she for the first time (though only for a moment) forgets the dead one.
In her trailing, sombre dress, with her sorrowful white cheeks, and quivering lips, she goes up to him and places her hand in his; while he, touched with a mighty compa.s.sion, stares at her, marking with a lover's careful eye all the many alterations in her face. So much havoc in so short a time!
”How changed you are! How you must have suffered!” he says, tenderly.
”I have,” she answers; and then, grown nervous, because of her trouble and the fluttering of her heart, and that tears of late are so ready to her, she covers her face with her hands, and, with the action of a tired and saddened child, turning, hides it still more effectually upon his breast.
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