Molly Bawn | Page 9

curiosity.
He is not 'on view,' is he?"
"Not yet," says Molly, with an airy laugh. "Probably when he dies they
will embalm him, and forward him to the British Museum, as a
remarkable species of his kind; and then we shall all get the full value
of one shilling. I myself would walk to London to see that."
"So would I," says Luttrell, "if you would promise to tell me the day
you are going."
"Letitia, I feel myself de trop, whatever you may," exclaims John,
rising. "And see how time flies; it is almost half-past ten. Really, we
grow lazier every day. I shudder to think at what hour I shall get my
breakfast by the time I am an old man."
(Poor John!)
"Why, you are as old as the hills this moment," says Molly, drawing

down his kind face, that bears such a strong resemblance to her own, to
bestow upon it a soft sweet kiss. "You are not to grow any older,--mind
that; you are to keep on looking just as you look now forever, or I will
not forgive you. Now go away and make yourself charming for your
Lady Barton."
"Oh, I don't spend three hours before my looking-glass," says John,
"whenever I go anywhere." He is smoothing her beautiful hair with
loving fingers as he speaks. "But I think I will utter one word of
warning, Ted, before I leave you to her tender mercies for the day.
Don't give in to her. If you do, she will lead you an awful life. At first
she bullied me until I hardly dared to call my soul my own; but when I
found Letitia I plucked up spirit (you know a worm will turn), and
ventured to defy her, and since that existence has been bearable."
"Letitia, come to my defense," says Molly, in a tragic tone, stretching
out her arms to her sister-in-law, who has been busy pacifying her
youngest hope. As he has at last, however, declared himself content
with five lumps of sugar and eight sweet biscuits, she finds time to look
up and smile brightly at Molly.
"Letitia, my dear, don't perjure yourself," says John. "You know I
speak the truth. A last word, Luttrell." He is standing behind his sister
as he speaks, and taking her arms he puts her in a chair, and placing her
elbows on the table, so that her pretty face sinks into her hands, goes on:
"The moment you see her take this attitude, run! don't pause to think, or
speculate; run! Because it always means mischief; you may know then
that she has quite made up her mind. I speak from experience.
Good-bye, children. I hope you will enjoy each other's society. I shall
be busy until I leave, so you probably won't see me again."
As Letitia follows him from the room, Molly turns her eyes on Luttrell.
"Are you afraid of me?" asks she, with a glance half questioning, half
coquettish.
"I am," replies he, slowly.

* * * * *
"Now you are all my own property," says Molly, gayly, three hours
later, after they have bidden good-bye to Mr. and Mrs. Massereene, and
eaten their own luncheon tête-à-tête. "You cannot escape me. And what
shall we do with ourselves this glorious afternoon?
Walk?--talk?--or----"
"Talk," says Luttrell, lazily.
"No, walk," says Molly, emphatically.
"If you have made up your mind to it, of course there is little use in my
suggesting anything."
"Very little. Not that you ever do suggest anything," maliciously. "Now
stay there, and resign yourself to your fate, while I go and put on my
hat."
Along the grass, over the lawn, down to the water's edge, over the
water, and into the green fields beyond, the young man follows his
guide. Above, the blazing sun is shining with all its might upon the
goodly earth; beneath, the grass is browning, withering beneath its rays;
and in the man's heart has bloomed that tenderest, cruelest, sweetest of
all delights, first love.
He has almost ceased to deny this fact to himself. Already he knows,
by the miserable doubts that pursue him, how foolishly he lies to
himself when he thinks otherwise. The sweet carelessness, the
all-satisfying joy in the present that once was his, has now in his hour
of need proved false, and, flying, leaves but a dull unrest in its place.
He has fallen madly, gladly, idiotically in love with beautiful Molly
Massereene.
Every curve of her pliant body is to him an untold poem; every touch of
her hands is a new delight; every tone of her voice is as a song rising
from out of the gloom of the lonely night.

"Here you are to stand and admire our potatoes," says Molly, standing
still, and