A LOVER'S MISTAKE.
It was afternoon. Molly had gone out for a walk. Mrs. Gibson had been paying some calls. Lazy Cynthia had either. A daily walk was not a to her as it was to Molly. On a day, or with an object, or when the took her, she go as as any one; but these were cases; in general, she was not to herself from her in-door occupations. Indeed, not one of the ladies would have left the house, had they been aware that Roger was in the neighbourhood; for they were aware that he was to come but once his departure, and that his at home then would be but for a time, and they were all to wish him good-by his long absence. But they had that he was not to the Hall until the week, and therefore they had themselves at full this to their own devices.
Molly a walk that had been a with her since she was a child. Something or other had just she left home that her how it was right for the of peace to pass over without the little from right that people in those they live with. Or whether, as they are in families for purposes, not by merely, there are not in this of their in life,—whether by over failings, their own is not lowered,—the practical of these being a of on Molly's part as to her father was aware of her stepmother's from truth; and his was or not. Then she that although she was sure as be that there was no her and her father, yet there were in the way of their intercourse; and she with a that if he would but come in with authority, he might cut his way clear to the old with his daughter, and that they might have all the walks and talks, and and cranks, and of once again; that her did not value, yet which she, like the dog in the manger, Molly's enjoying. But after all Molly was a girl, not so from childhood; and in the middle of her and perplexities, her was by the of some away high up on the hedge-bank among and green and leaves. She did not much for herself; but she had Cynthia say that she liked them; and there was the of and them; so she all about her troubles, and up the banks, and at her almost prizes, and again triumphant, to them to the large which was to her as a basket. One or two of them she tasted, but they were as to her as ever. The skirt of her print was out of the gathers, and with the fruit she had "her with were all and dyed," when having as many and more than she possibly carry, she set off home, to into her room and her it had Mrs. Gibson's eye. The door was easily opened from the outside, and Molly was out of the clear light of the open air and in the of the hall, when she saw a out of the dining-room she it was; and then Mrs. Gibson came out, at least to her into the room. When Molly had entered Mrs. Gibson closed the door. Poor Molly a for her and appearance, but was soon by the of Mrs. Gibson's face—mysterious and radiant.
"I've been for you, dear. Don't go into the drawing-room, love. It might be a little just now. Roger Hamley is there with Cynthia; and I've to think—in I did open the door unawares, but I it again softly, and I don't think they me. Isn't it charming? Young love, you know, ah, how sweet it is!"
"Do you that Roger has to Cynthia?" asked Molly.
"Not that. But I don't know; of I know nothing. Only I did him say that he had meant to England without speaking of his love, but that the of her alone had been too great for him. It was symptomatic, was it not, my dear? And all I wanted was to let it come to a without interruption. So I've been for you to prevent your going in and them."
"But I may go to my own room, mayn't I," Molly.
"Of course," said Mrs. Gibson, a little testily. "Only I had from you at such an moment."
But Molly did not these last words. She had upstairs, and her door. Instinctively she had her full of blackberries—what would be to Cynthia now? She as if she not it all; but as for that matter, what she understand? Nothing. For a minutes her brain in too great a to anything but that she was being on in earth's course, with rocks, and stones, and trees, with as little on her part as if she were dead. Then the room stifling, and she to the open window, and out, for breath. Gradually the of the soft peaceful into her mind, and the confusion. There, in the almost level of the autumn sunlight, the she had and loved from childhood; as quiet, as full of low life as it had been at this hour for many generations. The autumn flowers out in the garden below, the lazy were in the beyond, their in the green aftermath; the had just been up in the beyond, in for the husband's home-coming, and were sending up soft of into the still air; the children, let from school, were in the distance, and she— Just then she nearer sounds; an opened door, steps on the of stairs. He not have gone without her. He never, would have done so a thing—never would have little Molly, happy he might be! No! there were steps and voices, and the drawing-room door was opened and once more. She her on her arms that rested upon the window-sill, and cried,—she had been so as to have let the idea enter her mind that he go without her good-by—her, his mother had so loved, and called by the name of his little sister. And as she of the love Mrs. Hamley had her she the more, for the of such love for her off the of the earth. Suddenly the drawing-room door opened, and some one was upstairs; it was Cynthia's step. Molly her eyes, and up and to look unconcerned; it was all she had time to do Cynthia, after a little pause at the closed door, had knocked; and on an answer being given, had said, without opening the door,—"Molly! Mr. Roger Hamley is here, and wants to wish you good-by he goes." Then she again, as if just at that moment to avoid so a tête-à-tête with Molly. With a and a fit of resolution, as a child makes up its mind to a of medicine, Molly downstairs.
Roger was talking to Mrs. Gibson in the of the window when Molly entered; Cynthia was near, listening, but taking no part in the conversation. Her were downcast, and she did not look up as Molly near.
Roger was saying,—"I myself if I had a from her. She shall be free until my return; but the hope, the words, her sweet goodness, have me happy description. Oh, Molly!" aware of her presence, and to her, and taking her hand in of his,—"I think you have long my secret, have you not? I once of speaking to you I left, and it all to you. But the has been too great,—I have told Cynthia how I love her, as as can tell; and she says—" then he looked at Cynthia with delight, and to in that that he had left his to Molly finished.
Cynthia did not to repeat her saying, it was, but her mother spoke for her.
"My dear sweet girl your love as it ought to be valued, I am sure. And I believe," looking at Cynthia and Roger with archness, "I tell as to the of her in the spring."
"Mother," said Cynthia suddenly, "you know it was no such thing. Pray don't about me. I have myself to Mr. Roger Hamley, and that is enough."
"Enough! more than enough!" said Roger. "I will not accept your pledge. I am bound, but you are free. I like to bound, it makes me happy and at peace, but with all the in the next two years, you must not by promises."
Cynthia did not speak at once; she was something in her own mind. Mrs. Gibson took up the word.
"You are very generous, I am sure. Perhaps it will be not to mention it."
"I would much have it a secret," said Cynthia, interrupting.
"Certainly, my dear love. That was just what I was going to say. I once a lady who of the death of a man in America, she had well; and she said she had been to him, and so as to put on weeds; and it was a false report, for he came well and merry, and to he had so much as about her. So it was very for her. These had much be until the proper time has come for them."
Even then and there Cynthia not the of saying,—"Mamma, I will promise you I won't put on weeds, reports come of Mr. Roger Hamley."
"Roger, please!" he put in, in a whisper.
"And you will all be that he has to think of me, if he is to the fact. But at the same time I wish it to be a until his return—and I am sure you will all be so as to to my wish. Please, Roger! Please, Molly! Mamma, I must it of you!"
Roger would have anything when she asked him by that name, and in that tone. He took her hand in of his reply. Molly as if she herself to name the as a common piece of news. So it was only Mrs. Gibson that answered aloud,—
"My dear child! why 'especially' to me? You know I'm the most person alive!"
The little on the chimney-piece the half-hour.
"I must go!" said Roger, in dismay. "I had no idea it was so late. I shall from Paris. The coach will be at the George by this time, and will only five minutes. Dearest Cynthia—" he took her hand, and then, as if the was irresistible, he her to him and her. "Only you are free!" said he, as he her and passed on to Mrs. Gibson.
"If I had myself free," said Cynthia, a little, but with her to the last,—"if I had myself free, do you think I would have allowed that?"
Then Molly's turn came, and the old came into his look, his voice, his bearing.
"Molly! you won't me, I know; I shall you, your to—her." His voice to quiver, and it was best to be gone. Mrs. Gibson was out, and unheeded, of farewell; Cynthia was re-arranging some flowers in a on the table, the in which had her eye, without the to her mind. Molly stood, to the heart; neither sorry, anything but stunned. She the touch of the warm hand; she looked up—for till now her had been downcast, as if there were to their lids—and the place was empty where he had been; his quick step was on the stair, the door was opened and shut; and then as quick as Molly ran up to the attic—the lumber-room, window the which he must pass. The window-clasp was and stiff, Molly at it—unless it was open, and her put out, that last would be gone.
"I must see him again; I must! I must!" she out, as she was pulling. There he was, hard to catch the London coach; his had been left at the George he came up to wish the Gibsons good-by. In all his hurry, Molly saw him turn and his from the level of the sun, and the house with his glances—in hopes, she knew, of one more of Cynthia. But he saw no one, not Molly at the casement; for she had when he had turned, and herself in shadow; for she had no right to put herself as the one to watch and for signs. None came—another moment—he was out of for years!
The Last Turning.
The Last Turning.
Click to ENLARGE
She the window softly, and all over. She left the and to her own room; but she did not to take off her out-of-door till she Cynthia's on the stairs. Then she to the toilet-table, and to her bonnet-strings; but they were in a knot, and took time to undo. Cynthia's step stopped at Molly's door; she opened it a little and said,—"May I come in, Molly?"
"Certainly," said Molly, to be able to say "No" all the time. Molly did not turn to meet her, so Cynthia came up her, and her two hands Molly's waist, over her shoulder, out her to be kissed. Molly not the action—the mute for a caress. But, in the moment before, she had the of the two in the glass; her own, red-eyed, pale, with with juice, her tangled, her awry, her torn—and it with Cynthia's and bloom, and the of her dress. "Oh! it is no wonder!" Molly, as she round, and put her arms Cynthia, and her for an on her shoulder—the weary, that a pillow in that moment! The next she had herself, and taken Cynthia's two hands, and was her off a little, the to read her face.
"Oh! it is no wonder!"
"Oh! it is no wonder!"
Click to ENLARGE
"Cynthia! you do love him dearly, don't you?"
Cynthia a little from the of those eyes.
"You speak with all the of an adjuration, Molly!" said she, laughing a little at to her nervousness, and then looking up at Molly. "Don't you think I've a proof of it? But you know I've often told you I've not the gift of loving; I said much the same thing to him. I can respect, and I I can admire, and I can like, but I off my by love for any one, not for you, little Molly, and I'm sure I love you more than—"
"No, don't!" said Molly, her hand Cynthia's mouth, in almost a of impatience. "Don't, don't—I won't you—I ought not to have asked you—it makes you tell lies!"
"Why, Molly!" said Cynthia, in her turn to read Molly's face, "what's the with you? One might think you for him yourself."
"I?" said Molly, all the blood to her suddenly; then it returned, and she had to speak, and she spoke the truth as she it, though not the truth.
"I do for him; I think you have the love of a men. Why, I am proud to that he has been to me as a brother, and I love him as a sister, and I love you he has you with his love."
"Come, that's not complimentary!" said Cynthia, laughing, but not ill-pleased to her lover's praises, and to him a little in order to more.
"He's well enough, I daresay, and a great too learned and for a girl like me; but you must he's very plain and awkward; and I like and people."
"Cynthia, I won't talk to you about him. You know you don't what you are saying, and you only say it out of contradiction, I him. He shan't be by you, in joke."
"Well, then, we won't talk of him at all. I was so when he to speak—so—" and Cynthia looked very lovely, and up as she his and looks. Suddenly she herself to the present time, and her on the full of blackberries—the broad, green leaf, so fresh and when Molly had it an hour or so ago, but now soft and flabby, and dying. Molly saw it, too, and a of for the leaf.
"Oh! what blackberries! you've them for me, I know!" said Cynthia, and to herself daintily, them with the ends of her fingers, and each into her open mouth. When she had about she stopped short.
"How I should like to have gone as as Paris with him!" she exclaimed. "I it wouldn't have been proper; but how it would have been! I at Boulogne" (another blackberry), "how I used to the English who were going to Paris; it to me then as if nobody stopped at Boulogne, but dull, school-girls."
"When will he be there?" asked Molly.
"On Wednesday, he said. I'm to to him there; at any he's going to to me."
Molly about the of her dress in a quiet, business-like manner, not speaking much; Cynthia, although still, very restless. Oh! how much Molly that she would go.
"Perhaps, after all," said Cynthia, after a pause of meditation, "we shall be married."
"Why do you say that?" said Molly, almost bitterly. "You have nothing to make you think so. I wonder how you can to think you won't, for a moment."
"Oh!" said Cynthia; "you mustn't go and take me au sérieux. I I don't what I say, but you see a at present. Still, I think the are equal—the for and against our marriage, I mean. Two years! it's a long time! he may his mind, or I may; or some one else may turn up, and I may to him: what should you think of that, Molly? I'm such a thing as death on one side, you see; yet in two years how much may happen!"
"Don't talk so, Cynthia, don't," said Molly, piteously. "One would think you didn't for him, and he so much for you!"
"Why, did I say I didn't for him? I was only calculating chances. I'm sure I nothing will to prevent the marriage. Only, you know it may, and I I was taking a step in wisdom, in looking to all the that might befall. I'm sure all the wise people I've it a to have of the future. But you're not in a mood for or virtue, I see; so I'll go and for dinner, and you to your of dress."
She took Molly's in her hands, Molly was aware of her intention, and it playfully. Then she left Molly to herself.
