"a single stream of all her soft brown hair

poured on one side.

half light, half shade,

she stood, a sight to make an old man young."

—gardener's daughter.

thrusting her little bare feet into her slippers, she takes up a candle and walks softly down the stairs, past the smoking and billiard-rooms, into the drawing-room, where the paper has been left.

all the lamps have been extinguished, leaving the apartment, which is immense, steeped in darkness. coming into it from the brilliantly-lighted hall outside, with only a candle in her hand, the gloom seems even greater, and overcomes her sight to such a degree that she has traversed at least one-half its length before she discovers she is not its only occupant.

seated before a writing-table, with his hand, indeed, upon the very blotting-book she seeks, and with only another candle similar to hers to lend him light, sits luttrell.

as her eyes meet his she starts, colors violently, and is for the moment utterly abashed.

involuntarily she glances down at the soft blue dressing-gown she wears, over which her hair—brushed and arranged for the night—falls in soft, rippling, gold-brown masses, and from thence to the little naked feet that peep out shamelessly from their blue slippers.

the crimson blood rises to her face. covered with a painful though pretty confusion, she stands quite still, and lets her tell-tale eyes seek the ground.

luttrell has risen, and, without any particular design, has advanced toward her. perhaps the force of habit compels him to do so; perhaps intense and not altogether welcome surprise. for the future to see her is but to add one more pang to his intolerable regret.

"i was writing to you," he says, indicating with a slight movement of the hand the chair on which he has been sitting, and thus breaking the awful silence which threatens to last until next day, so mute has molly grown. with a delicate sense of chivalry he endeavors to appear oblivious of her rather scanty and disconcerting—however becoming—costume. "but as it is, perhaps i may as well say to you what is on my mind,—if you will permit me."

"i cannot forbid your speech." coldly.

"i will not keep you long. but"—with a slight, almost imperceptible, glance at her dressing-gown—"perhaps you are in a hurry?"

"i am—rather." at this juncture, had they been friends, molly would undoubtedly have laughed. as it is, she is profoundly serious. "still, if it is anything important, i will hear you."

"can i do anything for you?" asks he, hesitating, evidently fearing to approach the desired subject.

"nothing, thank you. i came only for a paper,—left in the blotting-book. if you wish to speak, do so quickly, as i must go." then, as he still hesitates, "why do you pause?"

"because i fear incurring your displeasure once again; and surely the passages between us have been bad enough already."

"do not fear." coldly. "it is no longer in your power to wound me."

"true. i should not have allowed that fact to escape me. yet hear me. it is my love urges me on."

"your—love!" with slow and scornful disbelief.

"yes,—mine. in spite of all that has come and gone, you know me well enough to understand how dear you still are to me. no, you need not say a word. i can see by your face that you will never pardon. there is no greater curse than to love a woman who gives one but bare tolerance in return."

"why did you not think of all this while there was yet time?"

"one drifts—until it is too late to seek for remedies. my heaviest misfortune lies in the fact that i cannot root you from my heart."

"a terrible misfortune, no doubt,"—with a little angry flash from her azure eyes,—"but one that time will cure."

"will it?" wistfully. "shall i indeed learn to forget you, molly,—to look back upon my brief but happy past as an idle dream? i hardly hope so much."

"and would you waste all your best days," asks she, in tones that tremble ever so little, "in thinking of me? remember all you said,—all you meant,—how 'thankful you were to find me out in time.'"

"and will you condemn forever because of a few words spoken in a moment of despair and terrible disappointment?" pleads he. "i acknowledge my fault. i was wrong; i was too hasty. i behaved like a brute, if you will; but then i believed i had grounds for fear. when once i saw your face, heard your voice, looked into your eyes, i knew how false my accusations were; but it was then too late."

"too late, indeed."

"how calmly you can say it!" with exquisite reproach. "have five minutes blotted out five months? did you know all the anguish i endured on seeing you with—shadwell—i think you might forgive."

"i might. but i could not forget. would i again consent to be at the mercy of one who without a question pronounced me guilty? a thousand times no!"

"say at once you are glad to be rid of me," breaks he in bitterly, stung by her persistent coldness.

"you are forgetting your original purpose," she says, after a slight pause, declining to notice his last remark. "was there not something you wished to say to me?"

"yes." rousing himself with an impatient sigh. "molly," blanching a little, and trying to read her face, with all his heart in his eyes,—"are you going to marry shadwell?"

molly colors richly (a rare thing with her), grows pale again, clasps and unclasps her slender fingers nervously, before she makes reply. a prompting toward mischief grows within her, together with a sense of anger that he should dare put such a question to her under existing circumstances.

"i cannot see by what right you put to me such a question—now," she says, at length, haughtily. "my affairs can no longer concern you." with an offended gleam at him from under her long lashes.

"but they do," cries he, hotly, maddened by her blush, which he has attributed jealously to a wrong cause. "how can i see you throwing yourself away upon a roué—a blackleg—without uttering a word of warning?"

"'a roué—a blackleg'? those are strong terms. what has captain shadwell done to deserve them? a blackleg! how?"

"perhaps i go too far when i say that," says luttrell, wishing with all his heart he knew something vile of shadwell; "but he has gone as near it as any man well can. you and he cannot have a thought in common. will you sacrifice your entire life without considering well the consequences?"

"he is a gentleman, at all events," says miss massereene, slowly, cuttingly. "he never backbites his friends. he is courteous in his manner; and—he knows how to keep—his temper. i do not believe any of your insinuations."

"you defend him?" cries luttrell, vehemently. "does that mean that you already love him? it is impossible! in a few short weeks to forget all the vows we interchanged, all the good days we spent at brooklyn, before we ever came to this accursed place! there at least you liked me well enough,—you were willing to trust to me your life's happiness; here!—and now you almost tell me you love this man, who is utterly unworthy of you. speak. say it is not so."

"i shall tell you nothing. you have no right to ask me. what is there to prevent my marrying whom i choose? have you so soon forgotten that last night you—jilted me?" she speaks bitterly, and turns from him with an unlovely laugh.

"molly," cries the young man, in low tones, full of passion, catching her hand, all the violent emotion he has been so painfully striving to suppress since her entrance breaking loose now, "listen to me for one moment. do not kill me. my whole heart is bound up in you. you are too young to be so cruel. darling, i was mad when i deemed i could live without you. i have been mad ever since that fatal hour last night. will you forgive me? will you?"

"let my hand go, mr. luttrell," says the girl, with a dry sob. is it anger, or grief, or pride? "you had me once, and you would not keep me. you shall never again have the chance of throwing me over: be assured of that."

she draws her fingers from his burning clasp, and once more turns away, with her eyes bent carefully upon the carpet, lest he shall notice the tears that threaten to overflow them. she walks resolutely but slowly past where he is standing, with folded arms, leaning against the wall, toward the door.

just as her fingers close on the handle she becomes aware of footsteps on the outside coming leisurely toward her.

instinctively she shrinks backward, casts a hasty, horrified glance at her dressing-gown, her bare feet, her loosened hair; then, with a movement full of confidence, mingled with fear, she hastens back to luttrell (who, too, has heard the disconcerting sound) and glances up at him appealingly.

"there is somebody coming," she breathes, in a terrified whisper.

the footsteps come nearer,—nearer still; they reach the very threshold, and then pause. will their owner come in?

in the fear and agony and doubt of the moment, molly lays her two white hands upon her bosom and stands listening intently, with wide-open gleaming eyes, too frightened to move or make any attempt at concealment; while luttrell, although alarmed for her, cannot withdraw his gaze from her lovely face.

somebody's hand steals along the door as though searching for the handle. with renewed hope luttrell instantly blows out both the candles near him, reducing the room to utter darkness, and draws molly behind the window-curtains.

there is a breathless pause. the door opens slowly,—slowly. with a gasp that can almost be heard, molly puts out one hand in the darkness and lays it heavily upon luttrell's arm. his fingers close over it.

"hush! not a word," whispers he.

"oh, i am so frightened!" returns she.

his heart has begun to beat madly. to feel her so close to him, although only through unwished-for accident, is dangerously sweet. by a supreme effort he keeps himself from taking her in his arms and giving her one last embrace; but honor, the hour, the situation, all alike forbid. so he only tightens his clasp upon her hand and smothers a sigh between his lips.

whoever the intruder may be, he, she, or it, is without light; no truth-compelling ray illumines the gloom; and presently, after a slight hesitation, the door is closed again, and the footsteps go lightly, cautiously away through the hall, leaving them once more alone in the long, dark, ghostly drawing-room.

molly draws her hand hurriedly away, and moving quietly from luttrell's side, breathes a sigh, half relief, half embarrassment; while he, groping his way to the writing-table, finds a match, and, striking it, throws light upon the scene again.

at the same moment molly emerges from the curtains, with a heightened color, and eyes, sweet but shamed, that positively refuse to meet his.

"i suppose i can trust you—to—say nothing of all this?" she murmurs, unsteadily.

"i suppose you can." haughtily.

his heart is still throbbing passionately; almost, he fears, each separate beat can be heard in the oppressive stillness.

"good-night," says molly, slowly.

"good-night."

shyly, and still without meeting his gaze, she holds out her hand. he takes it softly, reverently, and, emboldened by the gentleness of her expression, says impulsively:

"answer me a last question, darling,—answer me—are you going to marry philip?"

and she answers, also impulsively:

"no."

his face changes; hope once more shines within his blue eyes. involuntarily he draws up his tall, slight figure to its full height, with a glad gesture that bespeaks returning confidence; then he glances longingly first at molly's downcast face, then at the small hand that lies trembling in his own.

"may i?" he asks, and, receiving no denial, stoops and kisses it warmly once, twice, thrice, with fervent devotion.

"my dear, how long you have been!" says cecil, when at length molly returns to her room. "i thought you were never coming. where have you been?"

"in the drawing-room; and oh, cecil! he was there. and he would keep me, asking me question after question."

"i dare say," says cecil, looking her over. "that blue négligée is tremendously becoming. no doubt he has still a good many more questions he would like to put to you. and you call yourself a nice, decorous, well-behaved——"

"don't be silly. you have yet to hear the 'decorous' and thrilling part of my tale. just as we were in the middle of a most animated discussion, what do you think happened? somebody actually came to the door and tried to open it. in an instant tedcastle blew out both our candles and drew me behind the curtain."

"'"curiouser and curiouser," said alice.' i begin to think i'm in wonderland. go on. the plot thickens; the impropriety deepens. it grows more interesting at every word."

"the 'somebody,' whoever it was, opened the door, looked in,—fortunately without a light, or we might have been discovered,—and——"

"you fainted, of course?" says cecil, who is consumed with laughter.

"no, indeed," answers molly; "i neither fainted nor screamed."

"tut! nonsense. i think nothing of you. such a golden opportunity thrown away! in your place i should have been senseless in half a minute in tedcastle's arms."

"forgive my stupidity. i only turned and caught hold of teddy's arm, and held him as though i never meant to let him go."

"perhaps that was your secret wish, were the truth known. molly, you are wiser than i am. what is a paltry fainting fit to the touch of a soft, warm hand? go on."

"well, the invader, when he had gazed into space, withdrew again, leaving us to our own devices. cecil, if we had been discovered! i in my dressing-gown! not all the waters of the atlantic would have saved me from censure. i never was so terrified. who could it have been?"

"'oh! 'twas i, love;

wandering by, love,'"

declares cecil, going off into a perfect peal of laughter. "never, never have i been so entertained! and so i frightened you? well, be comforted. i was terrified in my turn by your long absence; so much so that, without a candle, i crept down-stairs, stole along the hall, and looked into the drawing-room. seeing no one, i retreated, and gained my own room again as fast as i could. oh, how sorry i am i did not know! consider your feelings had i stolen quietly toward your hiding-place step by step! a splendid situation absolutely thrown away."

"you and mr. potts ought to be brother and sister, you both revel so in the bare idea of mischief," says molly, laughing too.

and then cecil, declaring it is all hours, turns her out of her room, and presently sleep falls and settles upon herst and all its inmates.

chapter xxvii.

"death is here, and death is there;

death is busy everywhere;

all around, within, beneath,

above is death,—and we are death.

* * * *

fresh spring, and summer, and winter hoar,

move my faint heart with grief, but with delight

no more, o never more."

—shelley.

it is just two o'clock, and sunday. they have all been to church. they have struggled manfully through their prayers. they have chanted a depressing psalm or two to the most tuneless of ancient ditties. they have even sat out an incomprehensible sermon with polite gravity and many a weary yawn.

the day is dull. so is the rector. so is the curate,—unutterably so.

service over, they file out again into the open air in solemn silence, though at heart glad as children who break school, and wend their way back to herst through the dismantled wood.

the trees are nearly naked: a short, sad, consumptive wind is soughing through them. the grass—what remains of it—is brown, of an unpleasant hue. no flowers smile up at them as they pass quietly along. the sky is leaden. there is a general air of despondency over everything. it is a day laid aside for dismal reflection; a day on which hateful "might have beens" crop up, for "melancholy has marked it for its own."

yet just as they come to a turn in the park, two magpies (harbingers of good when coupled; messengers of evil when apart) fly past them directly across their path.

"'two for joy!'" cries molly, gayly, glad of any interruption to her depressing thoughts. "i saw them first. the luck is mine."

"i think i saw them first," says sir penthony, with no object beyond a laudable desire to promote argument.

"now, how could you?" says molly. "i am quite twenty yards ahead of you, and must have seen them come round this corner first. now, what shall i get, i wonder? something worth getting, i do hope."

"'blessed are they that expect nothing, for they shall not be disappointed,'" says mr. potts, moodily, who is as gloomy as the day. "i expect nothing."

"you are jealous," retorts molly. "sour grapes,"—making a small moue at him. "but you have no claim upon this luck; it is all my own. let nobody for a moment look upon it as his or hers."

"you are welcome to it. i don't envy you," says cecil, little thinking how prophetic are her words.

they continue their walk and their interrupted thoughts,—the latter leading them in all sorts of contrary directions,—some to love, some to hate, some to cold game-pie and dry champagne.

as they enter the hall at herst, one of the footmen steps forward and hands molly an ugly yellow envelope.

"why, here is my luck, perhaps!" cries she, gayly. "how soon it has come! now, what can be in it? let us all guess."

she is surprised, and her cheeks have flushed a little. her face is full of laughter. her sweet eyes wander from one to another, asking them to join in her amusement. no thought, no faintest suspicion of the awful truth occurs to her, although only a thin piece of paper conceals it from her view.

"a large fortune, perhaps," says sir penthony; while the others close round her, laughing, too. only luttrell stands apart, calmly indifferent.

"or a proposal. that would just suit the rapid times in which we live."

"i think i would at once accept a man who proposed to me by telegraph," says molly, with pretty affectation. "it would show such flattering haste,—such a desire for a kind reply. remember,"—with her finger under the lap of the envelope,—"if the last surmise proves correct i have almost said yes."

she breaks open the paper, and, smiling still, daintily unfolds the enclosure.

what a few words!—two or three strokes of the pen. yet what a change they make in the beautiful, debonnaire countenance! black as ink they stand out beneath her stricken eyes. oh, cruel hand that penned them so abruptly!

"come home at once. make no delay. your brother is dead."

gray as death grows her face; her body turns to stone. so altered is she in this brief space, that when she raises her head some shrink away from her, and some cry out.

"oh, molly! what is it?" asks lady stafford, panic-stricken, seizing her by the arm; while luttrell, scarcely less white than the girl herself, comes unconsciously forward.

molly's arms fall to her sides; the telegram flutters to the floor.

"my brother is dead," she says, in a slow, unmeaning tone.

"he is dead," she says again, in a rather higher, shriller voice, receiving no response from the awed group that surrounds her. their silence evidently puzzles her. her large eyes wander helplessly over all their faces, until at length they fall on luttrell's. here they rest, knowing she has found one that loves her.

"teddy—teddy!" she cries, in an agonized tone of desolation; then, throwing up her arms wildly toward heaven, as though imploring pity, she falls forward senseless into his outstretched arms.

all through the night cecil stafford stays with her, soothing and caressing her as best she can. but all her soothing and caressing falls on barren soil.

up and down the room throughout the weary hours walks molly, praying, longing for the daylight; asking impatiently every now and then if it "will never come." surely on earth there is no greater cross to bear than the passive one of waiting when distress and love call loudly for assistance.

her eyes are dry and tearless; her whole body burns like fire with a dull and throbbing heat. she is composed but restless.

"will it soon be day?" she asks cecil, almost every half hour, with a fierce impatience,—her entire being full of but one idea, which is to reach her home as soon as possible.

and again:

"if i had not fainted i might have been there now. why did i miss that train? why did you let me faint?"

in vain cecil strives to comfort; no thought comes to her but a mad craving for the busy day.

at last it comes, slowly, sweetly. the gray dawn deepens into rose, the sun flings abroad its young and chilly beams upon the earth. it is the opening of a glorious morn. how often have we noticed in our hours of direst grief how it is then nature chooses to deck herself in all her fairest and best, as though to mock us with the very gayety and splendor of her charms!

at half-past seven an early train is starting. long before that time she is dressed, with her hat and jacket on, fearful lest by any delay she should miss it; and when at length the carriage is brought round to the door she runs swiftly down the stairs to meet it.

in the hall below, awaiting her, stands luttrell, ready to accompany her.

"are you going, too?" cecil asks, in a whisper, only half surprised.

"yes, of course. i will take her myself to brooklyn."

"i might have known you would," cecil says, kindly, and then she kisses molly, who hardly returns the caress, and puts her into the carriage, and, pressing luttrell's hand warmly, watches them until they are driven out of her sight.

during all the long drive not one word does molly utter. neither does luttrell, whose heart is bleeding for her. she takes no notice of him, expresses no surprise at his being with her.

at the station he takes her ticket, through bribery obtains an empty carriage, and, placing a rug round her, seats himself at the farthest end of the compartment from her,—so little does he seek to intrude upon her grief. and yet she takes no heed of him. he might, indeed, be absent, or the veriest stranger, so little does his presence seem to affect her. leaning rather forward, with her hands clasped upon her knees, she scarcely stirs or raises her head throughout the journey, except to go from carriage to train, from train back again to carriage.

once, during their last short drive from the station to brooklyn, moved by compassion, he ventures to address her.

"i wish you could cry, my poor darling," he says, tenderly, taking her hand and fondling it between his own.

"tears could not help me," she answers. and then, as though aroused by his voice, she says, uneasily, "why are you here?"

"because i am his friend and—yours," he returns, gently, making allowance for her small show of irritation.

"true," she says, and no more. five minutes afterward they reach brooklyn.

the door stands wide open. all the world could have entered unrebuked into that silent hall. what need now for bars and bolts? when the great thief has entered in and stolen from them their best, what heart have they to guard against lesser thefts?

luttrell follows molly into the house, his face no whit less white than her own. a great pain is tugging at him,—a pain that is almost an agony. for what greater suffering is there than to watch with unavailing sympathy the anguish of those we love?

he touches her lightly on the arm to rouse her, for she has stood stock-still in the very middle of the hall,—whether through awful fear, or grief, or sudden bitter memory, her heart knoweth.

"molly," says her lover, "let me go with you."

"you still here?" she says, awaking from her thoughts, with a shiver. "i thought you gone. why do you stay? i only ask to be alone."

"i shall go in a few minutes," he pleads, "when i have seen you safe with mrs. massereene. i am afraid for you. suppose you should—suppose—you do not even know—the room," he winds up, desperately. "let me guard you against such an awful surprise as that."

"i do," she answers, pointing, with a shudder, to one room farther on that branches off the hall. "it—is there. leave me; i shall be better by myself."

"i shall see you to-morrow?" he says, diffidently.

"no; i shall see no one to-morrow."

"nevertheless, i shall call to know how you are," he says, persistently, and kissing one of her limp little hands, departs.

outside on the gravel he meets the old man who for years has had care of the garden and general out-door work at brooklyn.

"it is a terrible thing, sir," this ancient individual says, touching his hat to luttrell, who had been rather a favorite with him during his stay last summer. he speaks without being addressed, feeling as though the sad catastrophe that has occurred has leveled some of the etiquette existing between master and man.

"terrible indeed." and then, in a low tone, "how did it happen?"

"'twas just this," says the old man, who is faithful, and has understood for many years most of john massereene's affairs, having lived with him from boy to man; "'twas money that did it. he had invested all he had, as it might be, and he lost it, and the shock went to his heart and killed him. poor soul! poor soul!"

"disease of the heart. who would have suspected it? and he has lost all. surely something remains?"

"only a few hundreds, sir, as i hear,—nothing to signify,—for the poor mistress and the wee bits. it is a fearful thing, sir, and bad to think of. and there's miss molly, too. i never could abide them spickilations, as they're called."

"poor john massereene!" says luttrell, taking off his hat. "he meant no harm to any one,—least of all to those who were nearest to his kindly heart."

"ay, ay, man and boy i knew him. he was always kind and true, was the master,—with no two ways about him. when the letter came as told him all was gone, and that only beggary was before him, he said nothing, only went away to his study dazed like, an' read it, an' read it, and then fell down heart-broken upon the floor. dead he was—stone dead—afore any of us came to him. the poor missis it was as found him first."

"it is too horrible," says luttrell, shuddering. he nods his head to the old man and walks away from him down to the village inn, depressed and saddened.

the gardener's news has been worse than even he anticipated. to be bereft of their dearest is bad enough, but to be thrown penniless on the mercies of the cold and cruel—nay, rather thoughtless—world is surely an aggravation of their misery. death at all times is a calamity; but when it leaves the mourners without actual means of support, how much sadder a thing it is! to know one's comforts shall remain unimpaired after the loss of one's beloved is—in spite of all indignant denial—a solace to the most mournful.