Part 80 (1/2)

”I don't know. Yes,”--doubtfully,--”it is too long a time. In four months, then, I shall write,--yes, in four months. Now I do not feel quite so bad. Sixteen weeks will not be so long going by.”

”One would be shorter still.”

”No, no.” Smiling. ”Would you have me break through all my resolution?

Be faithful to me, Teddy, and I will be faithful to you.

Here,”--lifting her hands to her neck,--”I am not half satisfied with that stupid lock of hair: it may fall out, or you may lose it some way.

Take this little chain”--loosening it from round her throat and giving it to him--”and wear it next your heart until we meet again,--if indeed”--sighing--”we ever do meet again. Does not all this sound like the sentiment of a hundred years ago? But do not laugh at me: I mean it.”

”I will do as you bid me,” replies he, kissing the slender chain as though it were some sacred relic,--and as such, indeed, he regards it,--while ready tears spring to his eyes. ”It and I shall never part.”

”Well, good-bye really now,” she says, with quivering lips. ”I feel more cheerful, more hopeful. I don't feel as if--I were going to cry--another tear.” With this she breaks into a perfect storm of tears, and tearing herself from his embrace, runs away from him down the avenue out of sight of his longing eyes.

CHAPTER x.x.xII.

”Why, look you, how you storm!

I would be friends with you, and have your love.”

--_Merchant of Venice._

”She is indeed perfection.”

--_Oth.e.l.lo._

The fourth day before that fixed upon for leaving Brooklyn, Molly, coming down to breakfast, finds upon her plate a large envelope directed in her grandfather's own writing,--a rather shaky writing now, it is true, but with all the remains of what must once have been bold and determined calligraphy.

”Who can it be from?” says Molly, regarding the elaborate seal and crest with amazement,--both so scarlet, both so huge.

”Open it, dear, and you will see,” replies Let.i.tia, who is merely curious, and would not be accused of triteness for the world.

Breaking the alarming seal, Molly reads in silence; while Let.i.tia, unable to bear suspense, rises and reads it also over her sister's shoulder.

It consists of a very few lines, and merely expresses a desire--that is plainly a command--that Molly will come the following day to Herst, as her grandfather has something of importance to say to her.

”What can it be?” says Molly, glancing over her shoulder at Mrs.

Ma.s.sereene, who has taken the letter to re-read it.

”Something good, perhaps.” Wistfully. ”There may be some luck in store for you.”

”Hardly. I have ceased to believe in my own good luck,” says Molly, bitterly. ”At all events, I suppose I had better go. Afterward I might reproach myself for having been inattentive to his wishes.”

”Go, by all means,” says Let.i.tia; and so it is arranged.

Feeling tired and nervous, she arrives the next day at Herst, and is met in the hall by her friend the housekeeper in subdued spirits and the unfailing silk gown, who receives her in a good old motherly fas.h.i.+on and bestows upon her a warm though deferential kiss.

”You have come, my dear, and I am glad of it,” she says in a mysterious tone. ”He has been asking for you incessant. Miss Amherst, she is away from home.” This in a pleased, confidential tone, Miss Amherst being distinctly unpopular among the domestics, small and great. ”Mr. Amherst he sent her to the Latouches' for a week,--against her will, I must say. And the captain, he has gone abroad.”

”Has he?” Surprised.