"mute and amazed was alden; and listen'd and look'd at priscilla,
thinking he never had seen her more fair, more divine in her beauty."
—longfellow.
it is the 2d of march—four months later (barely four months, for some days must still elapse before that time is fully up)—and a raw evening,—very raw, and cold even for the time of year,—when the train, stopping at the victoria station, suffers a young man to alight from it.
he is a tall young man, slight and upright, clad in one of the comfortable long coats of the period, with an aristocratic face and sweet, keen blue eyes. his moustache, fair and lengthy, is drooping sadly through dampness and the general inclemency of the weather.
pushing his way through the other passengers, with a discontented expression upon his genial face that rather misbecomes it, he emerges into the open air, to find that a smart drizzle, unworthy the name of rain, is falling inhospitably upon him.
there is a fog,—not as thick as it might be, but a decided fog,—and everything is gloomy to the last degree.
stumbling up against another tall young man, dressed almost to a tie the same as himself, he smothers the uncivil ejaculation that rises so naturally to his lips, and after a second glance changes it to one of greeting.
"ah, fenning, is it you?" he says. "this beastly fog prevented my recognizing you at first. how are you? it is ages since last we met."
"is it indeed you, luttrell?" says the new-comer, stopping short and altering his sour look to one of pleased astonishment. "you in the flesh? let us look at you?" drawing luttrell into the neighborhood of an unhappy lamp that tries against its conscience to think it is showing light and grows every minute fainter and more depressed in its struggle against truth. "all the way from paddyland, where he has spent four long months," says mr. fenning, "and he is still alive! it is inconceivable. let me examine you. sound, i protest,—sound in wind and limb; not a defacing mark! i wouldn't have believed it if i hadn't seen it. i am awful glad to see you, old boy. what are you going to do with yourself this evening?"
"i wish i knew. i am absolutely thrown upon the world. you will take me somewhere with you, if you have any charity about you."
"i'm engaged for this evening." with a groan. "ain't i unlucky? hang it all, something told me to refuse old wiggins's emblazoned card, but i wouldn't be warned. now, what can i do for you?"
"you can at least advise me how best to kill time to-night."
"the alhambra has a good thing on," says young fenning, brightening; "and the argyll——"
"i'm used up, morally and physically," interrupts luttrell, rather impatiently. "suggest something calmer—musical, or that."
"oh, musical! that is mild. i have been educated in the belief that a sojourn in ireland renders one savage for the remainder of his days. i blush for my ignorance. if it is first-class music you want, go to hear wynter sing. she does sing this evening, happily for you, and anything more delicious, both in face and voice, has not aroused london to madness for a considerable time. go, hear her, but leave your heart at your hotel before going. the grosvenor, is it, or the langham? the langham. ah, i shall call to-morrow. by-bye, old man. go and see wynter, and you will be richly rewarded. she is tremendously lovely."
"i will," says luttrell; and having dined and dressed himself, he goes and does it.
feeling listless, and not in the slightest degree interested in the coming performance, he enters the concert room, to find himself decidedly late. some one has evidently just finished singing, and the applause that followed the effort has not yet quite died away.
with all the air of a man who wonders vaguely within himself what in the world has brought him here, luttrell makes his way to a vacant chair and seats himself beside an elderly, pleasant-faced man, too darkly-skinned and too bright-eyed to belong to this country.
"you are late,—late," says this stranger, in perfect english, and, with all the geniality of most foreigners, making room for him. "she has just sung."
"has she?" faintly amused. "who?"
"miss—wynter. ah! you have sustained a loss."
"i am unlucky," says luttrell, feeling some slight disappointment,—very slight. good singers can be heard again. "i came expressly to hear her. i have been told she sings well."
"well—well!" disdainfully. "your informant was careful not to overstep the truth. it is marvelous—exquisite—her voice," says the italian, with such unrepressed enthusiasm as makes luttrell smile. "these antediluvian attachments," thinks he, "are always severe."
"you make me more regretful every minute," he says, politely. "i feel as though i had lost something."
"so you have. but be consoled. she will sing again later on."
leaning back, luttrell takes a survey of the room. it is crowded to excess, and brilliant as lights and gay apparel can make it. fans are flashing, so are jewels, so are gems of greater value still,—black eyes, blue and gray. pretty dresses are melting into other pretty dresses, and there is a great deal of beauty everywhere for those who choose to look for it.
after a while his gaze, slowly traveling, falls on cecil stafford. she is showing even more than usually bonny and winsome in some chef-d'œuvre of worth's, and is making herself very agreeable to a tall, lanky, eighteenth century sort of man who sits beside her, and is kindly allowing himself to be amused.
an intense desire to go to her and put the fifty questions that in an instant rise to his lips seizes luttrell; but she is unhappily so situated that he cannot get at her. unless he were to summon up fortitude to crush past three grim dowagers, two elaborately-attired girls, and one sour old spinster, it cannot be done; and tedcastle, at least, has not the sort of pluck necessary to carry him through with it.
cecil, seeing him, starts and colors, and then nods and smiles gayly at him in pleased surprise. a moment afterward her expression changes, and something so like dismay as to cause luttrell astonishment covers her face.
then the business of the evening proceeds, and she turns her attention to the singers, and he has no more time to wonder at her sudden change of countenance.
a very small young lady, hidden away in countless yards of pink silk, delights them with one of the ballads of the day. her voice is far the biggest part of her, and awakens in one's mind a curious craving to know where it comes from.
then a wonderfully ugly man, with a delightful face, plays on the violin something that reminds one of all the sweetest birds that sing, and is sufficiently ravishing to call forth at intervals the exclamation, "good, good!" from luttrell's neighbor.
then a very large woman warbles a french chansonnette in the tiniest, most flute-like of voices; and then——
who is it that comes with such grave and simple dignity across the boards, with her small head proudly but gracefully upheld, her large eyes calm and sweet and steady?
for a moment luttrell disbelieves his senses. then a mist rises before him, a choking sensation comes into his throat. laying his hand upon the back of the chair nearest him, he fortunately manages to retain his composure, while heart, and mind, and eyes, are centred on molly bawn.
an instantaneous hush falls upon the assembly; the very fans drop silently into their owners' laps; not a whisper can be heard. the opening chords are played by some one, and then molly begins to sing.
it is some new, exquisite rendering of kingsley's exquisite words she has chosen:
"oh, that we two were maying!—"
and she sings it with all the pathos, the genius, of which she is capable.
she has no thought for all the gay crowd that stays entranced upon her tones. she looks far above them, her serene face—pale, but full of gentle self-possession—more sweet than any poem. she is singing with all her heart for her beloved,—for letitia, and lovat, and the children, and john in heaven.
a passionate longing to be near her—to touch her—to speak—to be answered back again—seizes luttrell. he takes in hungrily all the minutiæ of her clothing, her manner, her expression. he sees the soft, gleaming bunches of snow-drops at her bosom and in her hair. her hands, lightly crossed before her, are innocent of rings. her simple black gown of some clinging, transparent material—barely opened at the neck—makes even more fair the milk-white of her throat (that is scarcely less white than the snowy flowers).
her hair is drawn back into its old loose knot behind, in the simple style that suits her. she has a tiny band of black velvet round her neck. how fair she is,—how sweet, yet full of a tender melancholy! he is glad in his heart for that little pensive shade, and thinks, though more fragile, she never looked so lovely in her life.
she has commenced the last verse:
"oh, that we two lay sleeping
in our nest in the church-yard sod,
with our limbs at rest
on the quiet earth's breast,
and our souls at home with god!"
she is almost safely through it. there is such a deadly silence as ever presages a storm, when by some luckless chance her eyes, that seldom wander, fall full on luttrell's upturned, agitated face.
his fascinated, burning gaze compels her to return it. oh, that he should see her here, singing before all these people! for the first time a terrible sense of shame overpowers her; a longing to escape the eyes that from all parts of the hall appear to stare at her and criticise her voice—herself!
she turns a little faint, wavers slightly, and then breaks down.
covering her face with her hands, and with a gesture of passion and regret, she falls hurriedly into the background and is gone.
immediately kindly applause bursts forth. what has happened to the favorite? is she ill, or faint, or has some lost dead chord of her life suddenly sounded again? every one is at a loss, and every one is curious. it is interesting,—perhaps the most interesting part of the whole performance,—and to-morrow will tell them all about it.
tedcastle starts to his feet, half mad with agitation, his face ashen white. there is no knowing what he might not have done in this moment of excitement had not his foreign neighbor, laying hands upon him, gently forced him back again into his seat.
"my friend, consider her," he whispers, in a firm but soft voice. then, after a moment's pause, "come with me," he says, and, leading the way, beckons to luttrell, who rises mechanically and follows him.
into a small private apartment that opens off the hall the italian takes him, and, pushing toward him a chair, sinks into another himself.
"she is the woman you love?" he asks, presently, in such a kindly tone as carries away all suspicion of impertinence.
"yes," answers luttrell, simply.
"well, and i love her too,—as a pupil,—a beloved pupil," says the elder man, with a smile, removing his spectacles. "my name is marigny."
tedcastle bows involuntarily to the great teacher and master of music.
"how often she has spoken of you!" he says warmly, feeling already a friendship for this gentle preceptor.
"yes, yes; mine was the happiness to give to the world this glorious voice," he says, enthusiastically. "and what a gift it is! rare,—wonderful. but you, sir,—you are engaged to her?"
"we were—we are engaged," says luttrell, his eyes dark with emotion. "but it is months since we have met. i came to london to seek her; but did not dream that here—here—— misfortune has separated us; but if i lived for a hundred years i should never cease—to——"
he stops, and, getting up abruptly, paces the room in silent impatience.
"you have spoiled her song," says the italian, regretfully. "and she was in such voice to-night! hark!" raising his hand as the clapping and applause still reach him through the door. "hark! how they appreciate even her failures!"
"can i see her?"
"i doubt it. she is so prudent. she will speak to no one. and then madame her sister is always with her. i trust you, sir,—your face is not to be disbelieved; but i cannot give you her address. i have sworn to her not to reveal it to any one, and i must not release myself from my word without her consent."
"the fates are against me," says luttrell, drearily.
then he bids good-night to the signor, and, going out into the night, paces up and down in a fever of longing and disappointment.
at length the concert is over, and every one is departing. tedcastle, making his way to the private entrance, watches anxiously, though with little hope for what may come.
but others are watching also to catch a glimpse of the admired singer, and the crowd round the door is immense.
insensibly, in spite of his efforts, he finds himself less near the entrance than when first he took up his stand there; and just as he is trying, with small regard to courtesy, to retrieve his position, there is a slight murmur among those assembled, and a second later some one, slender, black-robed, emerges, heavily cloaked, and with some light, fleecy thing thrown over her head, so as even to conceal her face, and quickly enters the cab that awaits her.
as she places her foot upon the step of the vehicle a portion of the white woolen shawl that hides her features falls back, and for one instant luttrell catches sight of the pale, beautiful face that, waking and sleeping, has haunted him all these past months, and will haunt him till he dies.
she is followed by a tall woman, with a full posée figure also draped in black, whom even at that distance he recognizes as mrs. massereene.
he makes one more vigorous effort to reach them, but too late. almost as his hand touches the cab the driver receives his orders, whips up his emaciated charger, and disappears down the street.
they are gone. with a muttered exclamation, that savors not of thanksgiving, luttrell turns aside, and, calling a hansom, drives straight to cecil stafford's.
whether molly slept or did not sleep that night remains a mystery. the following morning tells no tales. there are fresh, faint roses in her cheeks, a brightness in her eyes that for months has been absent from them. if a little quiet and preoccupied in manner, she is gayer and happier in voice and speech once her attention is gained.
sitting in her small drawing-room, with her whole being in a very tumult of expectation, she listens feverishly to every knock.
it is not yet quite four months since she and luttrell parted. the prescribed period has not altogether expired; and during their separation she has indeed verified her own predictions,—she has proved an undeniable success. under the assumed name of wynter she has sought and obtained the universal applause of the london world.
she has also kept her word. not once during all these trying months has she written to her lover; only once has she received a line from him.
last valentine's morning cecil stafford, dropping in, brought her a small packet closely sealed and directed simply to "molly bawn." the mere writing made poor molly's heart beat and her pulses throb to pain, as in one second it recalled to mind all her past joys, all the good days she had dreamed through, unknowing of the bitter wakening.
opening the little packet, she found inside it a gold bracelet, embracing a tiny bunch of dead forget-me-nots, with this inscription folded round them:
"there shall not be one minute in an hour
wherein i will not kiss my sweet love's flower."
except this one token of remembrance, she has had nothing to make her know whether indeed she still lives in his memory or has been forgotten,—perhaps superseded, until last night. then, as she met his eyes, that told a story more convincing than any words, and marking the passionate delight and longing on his face, she dared to assure herself of his constancy.
now, as she sits restlessly awaiting what time may bring her, she thinks, with a smile, that, sad as her life may be and is, she is surely blessed as few are in a possession of which none can rob her, the tender, faithful affection of one heart.
she is still smiling, and breathing a little glad sigh over this thought, when the door opens and lady stafford comes in. she is radiant, a very sunbeam, in spite of the fact that sir penthony is again an absentee from his native land, having bidden adieu to english shores three months ago in a fit of pique, brought on by cecil's perversity.
some small dissension, some trivial disagreement, anger on his part, seeming indifference on hers, and the deed was done. he left her indignant, enraged, but probably more in love with her than ever; while she—— but who shall fathom a woman's heart?
"you saw him last night?" asks molly, rising, with a brilliant blush, to receive her visitor. "cecil, did you know he was coming? you might have told me." for her there is but one "he."
"so i should, my dear, directly; but the fact is, i didn't know. the stupid boy never wrote me a line on the subject. it appears he got a fortnight's leave, and came posthaste to london to find you. such a lover as he makes. and where should he go by the merest chance, the very first evening, but into your actual presence? it is a romance," says her ladyship, much delighted; "positively it is a shame to let it sink into oblivion. some one should recommend it to the laureate as a theme for his next production."
"well?" says molly, who at this moment is guilty of irreverence in her thoughts toward the great poet.
"well, now, of course he wants to know when he may see you."
"you didn't give him my address?" with an amount of disappointment in her tone impossible to suppress.
"i always notice," says cecil, in despair, "that whenever (which is seldom) i do the right thing it turns out afterward to be the wrong thing. you swore me in to keep your secret four months ago, and i have done so religiously. to-day, sorely against my will, i honestly confess, i still remained faithful to my promise, and see the result. you could almost beat me,—don't deny it, molly; i see it in your eyes. if we were both south sea islanders i should be black and blue this instant. it is the fear of scandal alone restrains you."
"you were quite right." warmly. "i admire you for it; only——"
"yes, just so. it was all i could do to refuse the poor dear fellow, he pressed me so hard; but for the first (and now i shall make it the last) time in my life, i was firm. i'm sure i wish i hadn't been. i earned both your displeasure and his."
"not mine, dearest."
"besides, another motive for my determination was this: both he and i doubted if you would receive him until the four months were verily up,—you are such a roman matron in the way of sternness."
"my sternness, as you call it, is a thing of the past. yes, i will see him whenever he may choose to come."
"which will be in about two hours precisely; that is, the moment he sees me and learns his fate. i told him to call again about one o'clock, when i supposed i should have news for him. it is almost that now." with a hasty glance at her watch. "i must fly. but first, give me a line for him, molly, to convince him of your fallibility."
"have you heard anything of sir penthony?" asks molly, when she has scribbled a tiny note and given it to her friend.
"yes; i hear he either is in london or was yesterday, or will be to-morrow,—i am not clear which." with affected indifference. "i told you he was sure to turn up again all right, like a bad halfpenny; so i was not uneasy about him. i only hope he will reappear in better temper than when he left."
"now, confess you are delighted at the idea of so soon seeing him again," says molly, laughing.
"well, i'm not in such radiant spirits as somebody i could mention." mischievously. "and as to confessing, i never do that. i should make a bad catholic. i should be in perpetual hot water with my spiritual adviser. but if he comes back penitent, and shows himself less exigeant, i shan't refuse his overtures of peace. now, don't make me keep your teddy waiting any longer. he is shut up in my boudoir enduring grinding torments all this time, and without a companion or the chance of one, as i left word that i should be at home to no one but him this morning. good-bye, darling. give my love to letitia and the wee scraps. and—these bonbons—i had almost forgotten them."
"oh, by the bye, did you hear what daisy said the other day apropos of your china?"
"no."
"when we had left your house and walked for some time in a silence most unusual where she is, she said, in her small, solemn way, 'molly, why does lady stafford have her kitchen in her drawing-room?' now, was it not a capital bit of china-mania? i thought it very severe on the times."
"it was cruel. i shall instantly send my plates and jugs, and that delicious old worcester tureen down-stairs to their proper place," says cecil, laughing. "there is no criticism so cutting as a child's."
