Molly Bawn | Page 5

swift glance of pleased surprise.
Yes, the fates have been more than kind.
As for Luttrell himself, he is standing quite still, in the middle of the
garden-path, staring at this living Flora. Inside not a word has been said
about her, no mention of her name had fallen ever so lightly into the
conversation. He had made his excuses, had received a hearty welcome;
both he and Massereene had declared themselves convinced that not a
day had gone over the head of either since last they parted. He had
bidden Mrs. Massereene good-night, and had come out here to smoke a
cigar in quietude, all without suspicion that the house might yet contain
another lovelier inmate. Is this her favorite hour for rambling? Is she a

spirit? Or a lunatic? Yes, that must be it.
Meanwhile through the moonlight--in it--comes Molly, very slowly, a
perfect creature, in trailing, snowy robes. Luttrell, forgetting the
inevitable cigar,--a great concession,--stands mutely regarding her as,
with warm parted lips and a smile, half amused, half wondering, she
gazes back at him.
"Even a plain woman may gain beauty from a moonbeam; what, then,
must a lovely woman seem when clothed in its pure rays?"
"You are welcome,--very welcome," says Molly, at length, in her low,
soft voice.
"Thank you," returns he, mechanically, still lost in conjecture.
"I am not a fairy, nor a spirit, nor yet a vision," murmurs Molly, now
openly amused. "Have no fear. See," holding out to him a slim cool
hand; "touch me, and be convinced, I am only Molly Massereene."
He takes the hand and holds it closely, still entranced. Already--even
though three minutes have scarcely marked their acquaintance--he is
dimly conscious that there might possibly be worse things in this world
than a perpetual near-to "only Molly Massereene."
"So you did come," she goes on, withdrawing her fingers slowly but
positively, and with a faint uplifting of her straight brows, "after all. I
was so afraid you wouldn't, you were so long. John--we all thought you
had thrown us over."
To have Beauty declare herself overjoyed at the mere fact of your
presence is, under any circumstances, intoxicating. To have such an
avowal made beneath the romantic light of a summer moon is
maddening.
"You cared?" says Luttrell, in hopeful doubt.
"Cared!" with a low gay laugh. "I should think I did care. I quite longed

for you to come. If you only knew as well as I do the terrible,
never-ending dullness of this place, you would understand how one
could long for the coming of any one."
Try as he will, he cannot convince himself that the termination of this
sentence is as satisfactory as its commencement.
"When the evening wore on," with a little depressed shake of her head,
"and still you made no sign, and I began to feel sure it was all too good
to be true, and that you were about to disappoint me and plead some
hateful excuse by the morning post, I almost hated you, and was never
in such a rage in my life. But," again holding out her hand to him, with
a charming smile "I forgive you now."
"Then forgive me one thing more,--my ignorance," says Luttrell,
retaining the fingers this time with much increased firmness. "And tell
me who you are."
"Don't you know, really? You never heard of me from John or---- What
a fall to my pride, and when in my secret heart I had almost flattered
myself that----"
"What?" eagerly.
"Oh, nothing--only---- By the bye, now you have confessed yourself
ignorant of my existence, what did bring you down to this uninteresting
village?" All this with the most perfect naïveté.
"A desire," says Luttrell, smiling in spite of himself, "to see again
your--what shall I say?"--hesitating--"father?"
"Nonsense," says Molly, quickly, with a little frown. "How could you
think John my father? When he looks so young, too. I hope you are not
stupid: we shall never get on if you are. How could he be my father?"
"How could he be your brother?"
"Step-brother, then," says Molly, unwillingly. "I will acknowledge it

for this once only. But never again, mind, as he is dearer to me than
half a dozen real brothers. You like him very much, don't you?"
examining him anxiously. "You must, to take the trouble to come all
the way down here to see him."
"I do, indeed, more than I can say," replies the young man, with wise
heartiness that is yet unfeigned. "He has stood to me too often in the
old school-days to allow of my ever forgetting him. I would go farther
than Morley to meet him, after a lengthened absence such as mine has
been."
"India?" suggests Molly, blandly.
"Yes." Here they both pause, and Molly's eyes