Part 89 (1/2)

The very next morning brings Molly the news of her grandfather's death.

He had died quietly in his chair the day before without a sign, and without one near him. As he had lived, so had he died--alone.

The news conveyed by Mr. Buscarlet shocks Molly greatly, and causes her, if not actual sorrow, at least a keen regret. To have him die thus, without reconciliation or one word of forgiveness,--to have him go from this world to the next, hard of heart and unrelenting, saddens her for his soul's sake.

The funeral is to be on Thursday, and this is Tuesday. So Mr. Buscarlet writes, and adds that, by express desire of Mr. Amherst, the will is to be opened and read immediately after the funeral before all those who spent last autumn in his house. ”Your presence,” writes the attorney, ”is particularly desired.”

In the afternoon Lady Stafford drops in, laden, as usual, with golden grain (like the Argosy), in the shape of cakes and sweetmeats for the children, who look upon her with much reverence in the light of a modern and much-improved Santa Claus.

”I see you have heard of your grandfather's death by your face,” she says, gravely. ”Here, children,”--throwing them their several packages,--”take your property and run away while I have a chat with mamma and Auntie Molly.”

”Teddy brought us such nice sugar cigars yesterday,” says Renee, who, in her black frock and white pinafore and golden locks, looks perfectly angelic: ”only I was sorry they weren't real; the fire at the end didn't burn one bit.”

”How do you know?”

”Because”--with an enchanting smile--”I put it on Daisy's hand, to see if it would, and it wouldn't; and wasn't it a pity?”

”It was, indeed. I am sure Daisy sympathizes with your grief. There, go away, you blood-thirsty child; we are very busy.”

While the children, in some remote corner of the house, are growing gradually happier and stickier, their elders discuss the last new topic.

”I received a letter this morning,” Cecil says, ”summoning me to Herst, to hear the will read. You, too, I suppose?”

”Yes; though why I don't know.”

”I am sure he has left you something. You are his grandchild. It would be unkind of him and most unjust to leave you out altogether, once having acknowledged you.”

”You forget our estrangement.”

”Nevertheless, something tells me there is a legacy in store for you. I shall go down to-morrow night, and you had better come with me.”

”Very well,” says Molly, indifferently.

At Herst, in spite of howling winds and drenching showers, Nature is spreading abroad in haste its countless charms. Earth, struggling disdainfully with its worn-out garb, is striving to change its brown garment for one of dazzling green. Violets, primroses, all the myriad joys of spring, are sweetening the air with a thousand perfumes.

Within the house everything is subdued and hushed, as must be when the master lies low. The servants walk on tiptoe; the common smile is checked; conversation dwindles into compressed whispers, as though they fear by ordinary noise to bring to life again the unloved departed. All is gloom and insincere melancholy.

Cecil and Molly, traveling down together, find Mrs. Darley, minus her husband, has arrived before them. She is as delicately afflicted, as properly distressed, as might be expected; indeed, so faithfully, and with such perfect belief in her own powers, does she perform the pensive _role_, that she fails not to create real admiration in the hearts of her beholders. Molly is especially struck, and knows some natural regret that it is beyond _her_ either to feel or look the part.

Marcia, thinking it wisdom to keep herself invisible, maintains a strict seclusion. The hour of her triumph approaches; she hardly dares let others see the irrepressible exultation that her own heart knows.

Philip has been absent since the morning; so Molly and Lady Stafford dine in the latter's old sitting-room alone, and, confessing as the hours grow late to an unmistakable dread of the ”uncanny,” sleep together, with a view to self-support.

About one o'clock next day all is over. Mr. Amherst has been consigned to his last resting-place,--a tomb unstained by any tears. At three the will is to be read.

Coming out of her room in the early part of the afternoon, Cecil meets unexpectedly with Mr. Potts, who is meandering in a depressed and aimless fas.h.i.+on all over the house.

”You here, Plantagenet! Why, I thought you married to some fascinating damsel in the Emerald Isle,” she cannot help saying in a low voice, giving him her hand. She is glad to see his ugly, good-humored, comical face in the gloomy house, although it _is_ surmounted by his offending hair.