Molly Bawn | Page 4

"hope deferred,"
that puckers up her forehead has fallen into her eyes, notwithstanding
the jealous guard of the long curling lashes, and, looking out defiantly
from thence, gives her all the appearance of a beloved but angry child
fretting at the delay of some coveted toy.
"I don't believe he is coming at all," she says, again, with increased
emphasis, having received no answer to her first assertion, Letitia being
absorbed in a devout prayer that her words may come true, while John
is disgracefully drowsy. "Oh, fancy the time I have wasted over my
appearance, and all for nothing! I won't be able to get up the
enthusiasm a second time: I feel that. How I hate young men,--young
men in the army especially! They are so selfish and so
good-for-nothing, with no thought for any one on earth but Number
One. Give me a respectable, middle-aged squire, with no aspirations
beyond South-downs and Early York."

"Poor Molly Bawn!" says John, rousing himself to meet the exigencies
of the moment. "'I deeply sympathize.' And just when you are looking
so nice, too: isn't she, Letty? I vow and protest, that young man
deserves nothing less than extinction."
"I wish I had the extinguishing of him," says Molly, viciously. Then,
laughing a little, and clasping her hands loosely behind her back, she
walks to a mirror, the better to admire the long white trailing robe, the
faultless face, the red rose dying on her breast. "And just when I had
taken such pains with my hair!" she says, making a faint grimace at her
own vanity. "John, as there is no one else to admire me, do say
(whether you think it or not) I am the prettiest person you ever saw."
"I wouldn't even hesitate over such a simple lie as that," says John;
"only--Letty is in the room: consider her feelings."
"A quarter to nine. I really think he can't be coming now," breaks in
Letitia, hopefully.
"Coming or not coming, I shan't remain in for him an instant longer this
delicious night," says Molly, walking toward the open window, under
which runs a balcony, and gazing out into the still, calm moonlight.
"He is probably not aware of my existence; so that even if he does
come he will not take my absence in bad part; and if he does, so much
the better. Even in such a poor revenge there is a sweetness."
"Molly," apprehensively, "the dew is falling."
"I hope so," answers Molly, with a smile, stepping out into the cool,
refreshing dark.
Down the wooden steps, along the gravel path, into the land of
dreaming flowers she goes. Pale moonbeams light her way as, with her
gown uplifted, she wanders from bed to bed, and with a dainty
greediness drinks in the honeyed breathings round her. Here now she
stoops to lift with gentle touch a drooping head, lest in its slumber
some defiling earth come near it; and here she stands to mark a spider's
net, brilliant with dews from heaven. A crafty thing to have so fair a

home!--And here she sighs.
"Well, if he doesn't come, what matters it? A stranger cannot claim
regret. And yet what fun it would have been! what fun! (Poor lily, what
evil chance came by you to break your stem and lay your white head
there?) Perhaps--who knows?--he might be the stupidest mortal that
ever dared to live, and then--yet not so stupid as the walls, and trees,
and shrubs, while he can own a tongue to answer back. Ah! wretched
slug, would you devour my tender opening leaves? Ugh! I cannot touch
the slimy thing. Where has my trowel gone? I wish my ears had never
heard his name,--Luttrell; a pretty name, too; but we all know how little
is in that. I feel absurdly disappointed; and why? Because it is decreed
that a man I never have known I never shall know. I doubt my brain is
softening. But why has my tent been pitched in such a lonely spot? And
why did he say he'd come? And why did John tell me he was good to
look at, and, oh! that best of all things--young?"
A sound,--a step,--the vague certainty of a presence near. And Molly,
turning, finds herself but a few yards distant from the expected guest.
The fates have been kind!
A tall young man, slight and clean-limbed, with a well-shaped head so
closely shaven as to suggest a Newgate barber; a long fair moustache, a
long nose, a rather large mouth, luminous azure eyes, and a complexion
the sun has vainly tried to brown, reducing it merely to a deeper
flesh-tint. On the whole, it is a very desirable face that Mr. Luttrell
owns; and so Molly decides in her first