"I always remark," says John, "that sleeping on those treacherous flights of fancy has the effect of taking the gilt off them. When I rise in the morning they are hardly up to the mark, and appear by no means so brilliant as they did over-night. Something within warns me if I don't do it now I won't do it at all. There is more claret on the sideboard—or brandy, if you prefer it," says Mr. Massereene, tenderly.
"Thanks—I want nothing more," replies Luttrell, whose spirits are at zero. As Massereene leaves him, he saunters toward the open window and gazes on the sleeping garden. Outside, the heavens are alive with stars that light the world in a cold, sweet way, although as yet the moon has not risen. All is
"Clear, and bright, and deep;
Soft as love, and calm as death;
Sweet as a summer night without a breath."
Lighting a cigar (by the bye, can any one tell me at what stage of suffering it is a man abandons this unfailing friend as being powerless to soothe?), he walks down the balcony steps, and, still grim and unhappy, makes up his mind to a solitary promenade.
Perhaps he himself is scarcely conscious of the direction he takes, but his footsteps guide him straight over the lawn and down to the very end of it, where a broad stream runs babbling in one corner. It is a veritable love-retreat, hedged in by larches and low-lying evergreens, so as to be completely concealed from view, and a favorite haunt of Molly's—indeed, such a favorite that now as he enters it he finds himself face to face with her.
An impromptu tableau follows. For a full minute they regard each other unwillingly, too surprised for disdain, and then, with a laudable desire to show how unworthy of consideration either deems the other, they turn slowly away until a shoulder and half a face alone are visible.
Now, Luttrell has the best of it, because he is the happy possessor of the cigar: this gives him something to do, and he smokes on persistently, not to say viciously. Miss Massereene, being without occupation beyond what one's thumbs may afford, is conscious of being at a disadvantage, and wishes she had earlier in life cultivated a passion for tobacco.
Meanwhile, the noisy brook flows on merrily, chattering as it goes, and reflecting the twinkling stars, with their more sedate brethren, the planets. Deep down in the very heart of the water they lie, quivering, changing, gleaming, while the stream whispers their lullaby and dashes its cool soft sides against the banks. A solitary bird drops down to crave a drink, terrifying the other inhabitants of the rushes by the trembling of its wings; a frog creeps in with a dull splash; to all the stream makes kind response; while on its bosom
"Broad water-lilies lay tremulously,
And starry river-buds glimmered by;
And round them the soft stream did glide and dance,
With a motion of sweet sound and radiance."
A little way above, a miniature cataract adds its tiny roar to the many "breathings of the night;" at Molly's feet lie great bunches of blue forget-me-nots.
Stooping, she gathers a handful to fasten at her breast; a few sprays still remain in her hands idle; she has turned so that her full face is to her companion: he has never stirred.
He is still puffing away in a somewhat indignant fashion at the unoffending cigar, looking taller, more unbending in his evening clothes, helped by the dignity of his wrongs. Miss Massereene, having indulged in a long examination of his would-be stern profile, decides on the spot that if there is one thing on earth toward which she bears a rancorous hatred it is an ill-tempered man. What does he mean by standing there without speaking to her? She makes an undying vow that, were he so to stand forever, she would not open her lips to him; and exactly sixty seconds after making that terrible vow she says—oh, so sweetly!—"Mr. Luttrell!"
He instantly pitches the obnoxious cigar into the water, where it dies away with an angry fizz, and turns to her.
She is standing a few yards distant from him, with her head a little bent and the bunch of forget-me-nots in one hand, moving them slowly, slowly across her lips. There is penitence, coquetry, mischief, a thousand graces in her attitude.
Now, feeling his eyes upon her, she moves the flowers about three inches from her mouth, and, regarding them lovingly, says, "Are not they pretty!" as though her whole soul is wrapt in contemplation of their beauty, and as though no other deeper thought has led her to address him.
"Very. They are like your eyes," replies he, gravely, and with some hesitation, as if the words came reluctantly.
This is a concession, and so she feels it. A compliment to a true woman comes never amiss; and the knowledge that it has been wrung from him against his will, being but a tribute to its truth, adds yet another charm. Without appearing conscious of the fact, she moves a few steps nearer to him, always with her eyes bent upon the flowers, the grass, anywhere but on him: because you will understand how impossible it is for one person to drink in the full beauty of another if checked by that other's watchfulness. Molly, at all events, understands it thoroughly.
When she is quite close to him, so close that if she stirs her dress must touch him, so close that her flower-like face is dangerously near his arm, she whispers, softly:
"I am sorry."
"Are you?" says Luttrell, stupidly, although his heart is throbbing passionately, although every pulse is beating almost to pain. If his life depended upon it, or perhaps because of it, he can frame no more eloquent speech.
"Yes," murmurs Molly, with a thorough comprehension of all he is feeling. "And now we will be friends again, will we not?" Holding out to him a little cool, shy hand.
"Not friends," says the young man, in a low, passionate tone, clasping her hand eagerly: "it is too cold a word. I cannot be your friend. Your lover, your slave, if you will; only let me feel near to you. Molly,"—abandoning her slender fingers for the far sweeter possession of herself, and folding his arms around her with gentle audacity—"speak to me. Why are you so silent? Why do you not even look at me? You cannot want me to tell you of the love that is consuming me, because you know of it."
"I don't think you ought to speak to me like this at all," says Molly, severely, drawing herself out of his embrace, not hurriedly or angrily, but surely; "I am almost positive you should not; and—and John might not like it."
"I don't care a farthing what John likes," exclaims Luttrell, rather forcibly, giving wings to his manners, as his wrongs of the evening blossom. "What has he or any one to do with it but you and I alone? The question is, do you like it?"
"I am not at all sure that I do," says Molly, doubtfully, with a little distracting shake of her head. "You are so vehement, and I——"
"Don't go on," interrupts he, hastily. "You are going to say something unkind, and I won't listen to it. I know it by your eyes. Darling, why are you so cruel to me? Surely you must care for me, be it ever such a little. To think otherwise would—— But I will not think it. Molly,"—with increasing fervor—"say you will marry me."
"But indeed I can't," exclaims Miss Massereene, retreating a step or two, and glancing at him furtively from under her long lashes. "At least"—relenting a little, as she sees his face change and whiten at her words—"not yet. It is all so sudden, so unexpected; and you forget I am not accustomed to this sort of thing. Now, the curates"—with an irrepressible smile—"never went on like this: they always behaved modestly and with such propriety."
"'The curates!' What do they know about it?" returns this young man, most unjustly. "Do you suppose I love you like a curate?"
"And yet, when all is told, I suppose a curate is a man," says Molly, uncertainly, as one doubtful of the truth of her assertion, "and a well-behaved one, too. Now, you are quite different; and you have known me such a little time."
"What has time to do with it? The beginning and the ending of the whole matter is this: I love you!"
He is holding her hands and gazing down