Part 86 (2/2)

”And how about to-morrow?”

”To-morrow probably some other fair lady will take pity on you. It would be much too slow,”--mischievously--”to expect you to go driving with your wife every day.”

”I don't think I can see it in that light. Cecil,”--coming to her side, and with a sudden though gentle boldness, taking her in his arms,--”when are you going to forgive me and take me to your heart?”

”What is it you want, you tiresome man?” asks Cecil, with a miserable attempt at a frown.

”Your love,” replies he, kissing the weak-minded little pucker off her forehead and the pretended pout from her lips, without this time saying, ”by your leave,” or ”with your leave.”

”And when you have it, what then?”

”I shall be the happiest man alive.”

”Then _be_ the happiest man alive,” murmurs she, with tears in her eyes, although the smile still lingers round her lips.

It is thus she gives in.

”And when,” asks Stafford, half an hour later, all the retrospective confessions and disclosures having taken some time to get through,--”when shall I install a mistress in the capacious but exceedingly gloomy abode my ancestors so unkindly left to me?”

”Do not even think of such a thing for ever so long. Perhaps next summer I may----”

”Oh, nonsense! Why not say this time ten years?”

”But at present my thoughts are full of my dear Molly. Ah! when shall I see her as happy as--as--I am?”

Here Sir Penthony, moved by a sense of duty and a knowledge of the fitness of things, instantly kisses her again.

He has barely performed this necessary act when the redoubtable Charles puts his head in at the door and says:

”The carriage is waiting, my lady.”

”Very good,” returns Lady Stafford, who, according to Charles's version of the affair, a few hours later, is as ”red as a peony.” ”You will stay here, Penthony,”--murmuring his name with a grace and a sweet hesitation quite irresistible,--”while I go and make ready for our drive.”

CHAPTER x.x.xV.

”When I arose and saw the dawn, I sigh'd for thee; When light rode high, and the dew was gone, And noon lay heavy on flower and tree, And the weary day turn'd to his rest, Lingering like an unloved guest, I sighed for thee.”

--Sh.e.l.ley.

In her own small chamber, with all her pretty hair falling loosely round her, stands Molly before her gla.s.s, a smile upon her lips. For is not her lover to be with her in two short hours? Already, perhaps, he is on his way to her, as anxious, as eager to fold her in his arms as she will be to fly to them.

A sweet agitation possesses her. Her every thought is fraught with joy; and if at times a misgiving, a suspicion of the hopelessness of it all, comes as a shadow between her and the sun of her content (for is not her marriage with Luttrell a thing as remote now as when they parted?), she puts it from her and refuses to acknowledge a single flaw in this one day's happiness.

She brushes out her long hair, rolling it into its usual soft knot behind, and weaves a kiss or two and a few tender words into each rich coil. She dons her prettiest gown, and puts on all the bravery she possesses, to make herself more fair in the eyes of her beloved, lest by any means he should think her less worthy of regard than when last he saw her.

With a final, almost dissatisfied, glance at the mirror she goes down-stairs to await his coming, all her heart one glad song.

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