Molly Bawn | Page 7

and
leaving her three-year-old daughter in the care of her step-son.
At twenty-one, therefore, John Massereene found himself alone in the
world, with about three hundred pounds a year and a small, tearful,
clinging, forlorn child. Having followed his father's profession, more

from a desire to gratify that father than from direct inclination, he found,
when too late, that he neither liked it nor did it like him. He had, as he
believed, a talent for farming; so that when, on the death of a distant
relation, he found himself, when all was told, the possessor of seven
hundred pounds a year, he bought Brooklyn, a modest place in one of
the English shires, married his first love, and carried her and Molly
home to it.
Once or twice in the early part of her life he had made an appeal to old
Mr. Amherst, Molly's grandfather, on her behalf,--more from a sense of
duty owing to her than from any desire to rid himself of the child, who
had, indeed, with her pretty, coaxing ways, made a very cozy nest for
herself in the deepest recesses of his large heart. But all such appeals
had been unavailing. So that Molly had grown from baby to child, from
child to girl, without having so much as seen her nearest relations,
although Herst Royal was situated in the very county next to hers.
Even now, in spite of her having attained her eighteenth year, this
ostracism is a matter of the most perfect indifference to Molly. She has
been bred in a very sound contempt for the hard old man who so
cruelly neglected her mother,--the poor mother whose love she never
missed, so faithfully has John fulfilled her dying wishes. There is no
poverty about this love, in which she has grown and strengthened: it is
rich, all-sufficing. Even Letitia's coming only added another ray to its
brightness.
They are a harmonious family, the Massereenes; they blend; they
seldom disagree. Letitia, with her handsome English face, her tall,
posée figure, and ready smile, makes a delicious centre-piece; John a
good background; Molly a bit of perfect sunlight; the children flecks of
vivid coloring here and there. They are an easy, laughter-loving people,
with a rare store of contentment. They are much affected by those in
their immediate neighborhood. Their servants have a good time of it.
They are never out of temper when dinner is a quarter of an hour late.
They all very much admire Molly, and Molly very much agrees with
them. They are fond of taking their tea in summer in the open air; they
are not fond of over-early rising; they never bore you with a description

of the first faint beams of dawn; they fail to see any beauty in the dew
at five o'clock in the morning; they are very reasonable people.
Yet the morning after his arrival, Luttrell, jumping out of his bed at
eight o'clock, finds, on looking out of his window that overhangs the
garden, Flora already among her flowers. Drawing back hastily,--he is a
modest young man,--he grows suddenly energetic and makes good
speed with his toilet.
When he is half dressed--that is, when his hair is brushed; but as yet his
shirt is guiltless of a waistcoat--he cannot refrain from looking forth
again, to see if she may yet be there, and, looking, meets her eyes.
He is slightly abashed; she is not. Mr. Massereene in his shirt and
trousers is a thing very frequently seen at his window during the
summer mornings. Mr. Luttrell presents much the same appearance. It
certainly does occur to Molly that of the two men the new-comer is
decidedly the better looking of the two, whereat, without any treachery
toward John, she greatly rejoices. It does not occur to her that a blush at
this moment would be a blush in the right place. On the contrary, she
nods gayly at him, and calls out:
"Hurry! You cannot think what a delicious morning it is." And then
goes on with her snipping and paring with the heartiest unconcern.
After which Luttrell's method of getting into the remainder of his
clothes can only be described as a scramble.
"How did you sleep?" asks Molly, a few minutes later, when he has
joined her, looking up from the rose-bush over which she is bending,
that holds no flower so sweet as her own self. "Well, I hope?"
"Very well, thank you," with a smile, his eyes fixed immovably upon
the fresh beauty of her face.
"You look suspicious," says she, with a little laugh. "Are you thinking
my question odd? I know when people are put over-night in a haunted
chamber they are always asked the next morning whether they 'slept
well,' in the fond hope that