Part 92 (2/2)

”I said I should like to see him once again for the old days' sake, before he left England, which I heard he was on the point of doing. And I also told him, to please you,”--smiling,--”what was an undeniable lie,--that, but for the children, I was here alone.”

”Quite right,” says Miss Ma.s.sereene, unblus.h.i.+ngly. Then, with considerable impatience, ”Will that postman _never_ come?”

All country posts are irregular, and this one is not a pleasant exception. To-day, to create aggravation, it is at least one good half-hour later than usual. When at length, however, it does come, it brings the expected letter from Luttrell.

”Open it quickly,--quickly, Letty,” says her sister, and Let.i.tia hastens and reads it with much solemnity.

It is short and rather reckless in tone. It tells them the writer, having effected the desired exchange, hopes to start for India in two weeks at furthest, and that, as he had never at any time contemplated leaving England without bidding Mrs. Ma.s.sereene good-bye, he would seize the opportunity--she being _now alone_ (heavily dashed)--to run down to Brooklyn to see her this very day.

”Oh, Letty! to-day!” exclaims Molly, paling and flus.h.i.+ng, and paling again. ”How I wish it was tomorrow!”

”Could there be any one more inconsistent than you, my dear Molly? You have been praying for three whole weeks to see him, and now your prayer is answered you look absolutely miserable.”

”It is so sudden,” says poor Molly. ”And--he never mentioned my name.

What if he refuses to have anything to say to me even now? What shall I do then?”

”Nonsense, my dear! When once he sees you, he will forget all his ridiculous pride, and throw himself, like a sensible man, at your feet.”

”I wish I could think so. Letty,”--tearfully, and in a distinctly wheedling tone,--”wouldn't _you_ speak to him?”

”Indeed I would not,” says Let.i.tia, indignantly. ”What, after writing that lie! No, you must of course see him yourself. And, indeed, my dear child,”--laughing,--”you have only to meet him, wearing the lugubrious expression you at present exhibit, to melt his heart, were it the stoniest one in Europe. See,”--drawing her to a mirror,--”was there ever such a Dolores?”

Seeing her own forlorn visage, Molly instantly laughs, thereby ruining forever the dismal look of it that might have stood her in such good stead.

”I suppose he will dine,” says Let.i.tia, thoughtfully. ”I must go speak to cook.”

”Perhaps he will take the very first train back to London,” says Molly, still gloomy.

”Perhaps so. Still, we must be prepared for the worst,” wickedly.

”Therefore, cook and I must consult. Molly,”--pausing at the door,--”you have exactly four hours in which to make yourself beautiful, as he cannot possibly be here before two. And if in that time you cannot create a costume calculated to reduce him to slavery, I shall lose my good opinion of you. By the bye, Molly,”--earnestly, and with something akin to anxiety,--”do you think he likes meringues?”

”How can you be so foolish?” says Miss Ma.s.sereene, reprovingly. ”Of course if he dines he will be in the humor to like anything I like, and I _love_ meringues. But if not,--if not,”--with a heavy sigh,--”you can eat all the meringues yourself.”

”Dear, dear!” says Let.i.tia. ”She is really very bad.”

Almost as the clock strikes two, Molly enters the orchard, having given strict orders to Sarah to send Mr. Luttrell there when he arrives, in search of Mrs. Ma.s.sereene.

She has dressed herself with great care, and very becomingly, being one of those people who know instantly, by instinct, the exact shade and style that suits them. Besides which, she has too much good taste and too much good sense to be a slave to that tyrant, Fas.h.i.+on.

Here and there the fruit-trees are throwing out tender buds, that glance half shrinkingly upon the world, and show a desire to nestle again amidst their leaves, full of a regret that they have left so soon their wiser sisters.

There is a wonderful sweetness in the air,--a freshness indescribable,--a rare spring perfume. Myriad violets gleam up at her, white and purple, from the roots of apple-trees, inviting her to gather them. But she heeds them not: they might as well be stinging-nettles, for all the notice she bestows upon them. Or is it that the unutterable hope in her own heart overpowers their sweetness?

All her thoughts are centred on the impending interview. How if she shall fail after all? What then? Her heart sinks within her, her hands grow cold with fear. On the instant the blackness of her life in such a case spreads itself out before her like a map,--the lonely pilgrimage,--the unlovely journey, without companions.h.i.+p, or warmth, or pleasant suns.h.i.+ne.

Then she hears the click of the garden gate, and the firm, quick step of him who comes to her up the hilly path between the strawberry-beds.

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