Molly Bawn | Page 3

is a general air of
life, a tremulous merriment, everywhere: the voices of the children, a
certain laugh that rings like far-off music, the cooing of the pigeons
beneath the eaves, the cluck-cluck of the silly fowls in the
farm-yard,--all mingle to defy the creeping sense of laziness that the
day generates.
"It is late," says Mr. Massereene to himself, examining his watch for
the fifteenth time as he saunters in a purposeless fashion up and down
before the hall door. There is a suppressed sense of expectancy both in
his manner and in the surroundings. The gravel has been newly raked,
and gleams white and untrodden. The borders of the lawn that join on
to it have been freshly clipped. A post in the railings, that for three
weeks previously has been tottering to its fall, has been securely
propped, and now stands firm and uncompromising as its fellows.
"It is almost seven," says Letitia, showing her fresh, handsome face at
the drawing-room window. "Do you think he will be here for dinner,
John?"
"I am incapable of thought," says John. "I find that when a man who is
in the habit of dining at six is left without his dinner until seven he
grows morose. It is a humiliating discovery. Surely the stomach should
be subservient to the mind; but it isn't. Letitia, like a good girl, do say
you have ordered up the soup."
"But, my dear John, had we not better wait a little longer?"
"My dear Letitia, most certainly not, unless you wish to raise a storm
impossible to quell. At present I feel myself in a mood that a very little
more waiting will render ferocious. Besides,"--seeing his wife slightly
uneasy,--"as he did not turn up about six, he cannot by any possibility

be here until half-past eight."
"And I took such trouble with that dinner!" says Letitia, with a sigh.
"I am more glad to hear it than I can tell you," says her husband, briskly.
"Take my word for it, Letty, your trouble won't go for nothing."
"Gourmand!" says Letitia, with the smile she reserves alone for him.
* * * * *
Eight,--half-past eight--nine.
"I don't believe he is coming at all," says Molly, pettishly, coming out
from the curtains of the window, and advancing straight into the middle
of the room.
Under the chandelier, that has been so effectively touched up for this
recreant knight, she stands bathed in the soft light of the many candles
that beam down with mild kindliness upon her. It seems as though they
love to rest upon her,--to add yet one more charm, if it may be, to the
sweet, graceful figure, the half-angry, wholly charming attitude, the
tender, lovable, fresh young face.
Her eyes, large, dark, and blue,--true Irish eyes, that bespeak her
father's race,--shine with a steady clearness. They do not sparkle, they
are hardly brilliant; they look forth at one with an expression so soft, so
earnest, yet withal so merry, as would make one stake their all on the
sure fact that the heart within her must be golden.
Her nut-brown hair, drawn back from her low brow into a loose coil
behind, is enriched here and there with little sunny tresses, while across
her forehead a few wavy locks--veritable love-locks, in Molly's
case--wander idly, not as of a set purpose, but rather as though they
have there drifted of their own gay will.
Upon her cheeks no roses lie,--unless they be the very creamiest roses
that ever eye beheld. She is absolutely without color until such

occasions rise as when grief or gladness touch her and dye her lovely
skin with their red glow.
But it is her mouth--at once her betrayer and her chief charm--that one
loves. In among its many curves lies all her wickedness,--the beautiful
mouth, so full of mockery, laughter, fun, a certain decision, and
tenderness unspeakable.
She smiles, and all her face is as one perfect sunbeam. Surely never has
she looked so lovely. The smile dies, her lips close, a pensive
sweetness creeps around them, and one terms one's self a fatuous fool
to have deemed her at her best a moment since; and so on through all
the many changes that only serve to show how countless is her store of
hidden charms.
She is slender, but not lean, round, yet certainly not full, and of a
middle height. For herself, she is impulsive; a little too quick at times,
fond of life and laughter, as all youth should be, while perhaps (that I
should live to say it!) down deep within her, somewhere, there hides,
but half suppressed and ever ready to assert itself, a wayward, turbulent
vein that must be termed coquetry.
Now, at this instant the little petulant frown, born of