Part 91 (1/2)
Half an hour later, Marcia, sweeping into her room in a torrent of pa.s.sion impossible to quell, summons her maid by a violent attack on her bell.
”Take off this detested mourning,” she says to the astonished girl.
”Remove it from my sight. And get me a colored gown and a Bradshaw.”
The maid, half frightened, obeys, and that night Marcia Amherst quits her English home forever.
CHAPTER x.x.xVII.
”Fare thee well! and if forever, Still forever, fare thee well!”
--Byron.
”Oh, Cecil! now I can marry Tedcastle,” says Molly, at the end of a long and exhaustive conversation that has taken place in her own room.
She blushes a little as she says it; but it is honestly her first thought, and she gives utterance to it. ”Let.i.tia, too, and the children,--I can provide for them. I shall buy back dear old Brooklyn, and give it to them, and they shall be happy once more.”
”I agree with Lord Byron,” says Cecil, laughing. ”'Money makes the man; the want of it, his fellow.' You ought to feel like some princess out of the Arabian Nights' Entertainments.”
”I feel much more like an intruder. What right have I to Herst? What shall I do with so much money?”
”Spend it. There is nothing simpler. Believe me, no one was ever in reality embarra.s.sed by her riches, notwithstanding all they say. The whole thing is marvelous. Who could have antic.i.p.ated such an event? I am sorry I ever said anything disparaging of that dear, delightful, genial, kind-hearted, sociable, generous old gentleman, your grandfather.”
”Don't jest,” says Molly, who is almost hysterical. ”I feel more like crying yet. But I am glad at least to know he forgave me before he died. Poor grandpapa! Cecil, I want so much to see Let.i.tia.”
”Of course, dear. Well,”--consulting her watch,--”I believe we may as well be getting ready if we mean to catch the next train. Will not it be a charming surprise for Let.i.tia? I quite envy you the telling of it.”
”I want you to tell it. I am so nervous I know I shall never get through it without frightening her out of her wits. Do come with me, Cecil, and break the news yourself.”
”Nothing I should like better,” says Cecil. ”Put on your bonnet and let us be off.”
Ringing the bell, she orders round the carriage, and presently she and Molly are wending their way down the stairs.
At the very end of the long, beautiful old hall, stands Philip Shadwell, taking, it may be, a last look from the window, of the place so long regarded as his own.
As they see him, both girls pause, and Molly's lips lose something of their fresh, warm color.
”Go and speak to him now,” says Cecil, and, considerately remembering a hypothetical handkerchief, retraces her steps to the room she had just quitted.
”Philip!” says Molly, timidly, going up to him.
He turns with a start, and colors a dark red on seeing her, but neither moves nor offers greeting.
”Oh, Philip! let me do something for you,” says Molly impulsively, without preparation, and with tears in her eyes. ”I have robbed you, though unwittingly. Let me make amends. Out of all I have let me give you----”
”The only thing I would take from you it is out of your power to give,”
he interrupts her, gently.
”Do not say so,” she pleads, in trembling tones. ”I do not want all the money. I cannot spend it. I do not care for it. _Do_ take some of it, Philip. Let me share----”