Part 83 (1/2)
”Well, and I love her too,--as a pupil,--a beloved pupil,” says the elder man, with a smile, removing his spectacles. ”My name is Marigny.”
Tedcastle bows involuntarily to the great teacher and master of music.
”How often she has spoken of you!” he says warmly, feeling already a friends.h.i.+p for this gentle preceptor.
”Yes, yes; mine was the happiness to give to the world this glorious voice,” he says, enthusiastically. ”And what a gift it is!
Rare,--wonderful. But you, sir,--you are engaged to her?”
”We were--we are engaged,” says Luttrell, his eyes dark with emotion.
”But it is months since we have met. I came to London to seek her; but did not dream that here--here---- Misfortune has separated us; but if I lived for a hundred years I should never cease--to----”
He stops, and, getting up abruptly, paces the room in silent impatience.
”You have spoiled her song,” says the Italian, regretfully. ”And she was in such voice to-night! Hark!” Raising his hand as the clapping and applause still reach him through the door. ”Hark! how they appreciate even her failures!”
”Can I see her?”
”I doubt it. She is so prudent. She will speak to no one. And then madame her sister is always with her. I trust you, sir,--your face is not to be disbelieved; but I cannot give you her address. I have sworn to her not to reveal it to any one, and I must not release myself from my word without her consent.”
”The fates are against me,” says Luttrell, drearily.
Then he bids good-night to the Signor, and, going out into the night, paces up and down in a fever of longing and disappointment.
At length the concert is over, and every one is departing. Tedcastle, making his way to the private entrance, watches anxiously, though with little hope for what may come.
But others are watching also to catch a glimpse of the admired singer, and the crowd round the door is immense.
Insensibly, in spite of his efforts, he finds himself less near the entrance than when first he took up his stand there; and just as he is trying, with small regard to courtesy, to retrieve his position, there is a slight murmur among those a.s.sembled, and a second later some one, slender, black-robed, emerges, heavily cloaked, and with some light, fleecy thing thrown over her head, so as even to conceal her face, and quickly enters the cab that awaits her.
As she places her foot upon the step of the vehicle a portion of the white woolen shawl that hides her features falls back, and for one instant Luttrell catches sight of the pale, beautiful face that, waking and sleeping, has haunted him all these past months, and will haunt him till he dies.
She is followed by a tall woman, with a full _posee_ figure also draped in black, whom even at that distance he recognizes as Mrs.
Ma.s.sereene.
He makes one more vigorous effort to reach them, but too late. Almost as his hand touches the cab the driver receives his orders, whips up his emaciated charger, and disappears down the street.
They are gone. With a muttered exclamation, that savors not of thanksgiving, Luttrell turns aside, and, calling a hansom, drives straight to Cecil Stafford's.
Whether Molly slept or did not sleep that night remains a mystery. The following morning tells no tales. There are fresh, faint roses in her cheeks, a brightness in her eyes that for months has been absent from them. If a little quiet and preoccupied in manner, she is gayer and happier in voice and speech once her attention is gained.
Sitting in her small drawing-room, with her whole being in a very tumult of expectation, she listens feverishly to every knock.
It is not yet quite four months since she and Luttrell parted. The prescribed period has not altogether expired; and during their separation she has indeed verified her own predictions,--she has proved an undeniable success. Under the a.s.sumed name of Wynter she has sought and obtained the universal applause of the London world.
She has also kept her word. Not once during all these trying months has she written to her lover; only once has she received a line from him.
Last Valentine's morning Cecil Stafford, dropping in, brought her a small packet closely sealed and directed simply to ”Molly Bawn.” The mere writing made poor Molly's heart beat and her pulses throb to pain, as in one second it recalled to mind all her past joys, all the good days she had dreamed through, unknowing of the bitter wakening.
Opening the little packet, she found inside it a gold bracelet, embracing a tiny bunch of dead forget-me-nots, with this inscription folded round them:
”There shall not be one minute in an hour Wherein I will not kiss my sweet love's flower.”