CHAPTER II.
HOW MOLLY HEARD THE NEWS.
"Molly, Molly, listen to me. I've something to tell you, Molly."
"What is it?"
"Put that book down. What are you reading? The History of a Good Little Girl. Oh, I know; and there was a naughty boy, who tied a string across the stairs, and the grannie tumbled down and broke her leg. That's all; at least, she got well again, and he was sorry, and never did anything naughty again. So now you know, and you can stop. Listen to me, Molly."
Roy jerked the book out of his twin-sister's hands. It was not a handsome and well-illustrated volume, like those now in vogue, but it was bound in dull boards, and the woodcuts were fantastically hideous. To Molly Baron, who had never seen anything better, such a volume brought delight. She loved reading, while Roy hated it, unless he found a book about battles.
Molly had a pale little face, with large anxious black eyes, and short dark hair, brushed smoothly back. She wore a frock of thick blue stuff, short-waisted and low-necked, while her thin brown arms were bare.
Nobody else was in the schoolroom, which served also as a playroom for the two children. Its furniture was scanty, including no easy-chairs or footstools, but only straight-backed hard-seated chairs and backless wooden stools. Mrs. Baron was a mother unusually given to the expression of tender feeling, in a sterner age than this of ours; but even she never dreamt of permitting her children opportunities for lounging. They had to grow up straight-backed, whatever might befall.
In this room Roy and Molly had done all their lessons together, till Roy reached the age of nine years; and the day on which he began to attend a day-school had witnessed the first deep desolation of little Molly's heart. An ever-present dread was upon her of the coming time—she knew it must come—when he would be sent away to a boarding-school, and she would be left alone. But as yet no date had been named to her, and she hugged the present condition of affairs, trying to believe that it would go on indefinitely.
Since Molly had read the book at least six times already, she made no protest, but simply waited to hear the news.
"Guess what's going to happen. Guess, Molly."
"How can I tell? What sort of thing?"
"I'm going to France—to Paris!"
Roy turned head over heels, and came right side up again.
"Why? What for? Why are we going?"
"I didn't say you. I said I was. Papa and mamma mean to take me with them. And Den too."
"And not—me!"
Molly held up her head resolutely, trying not to let even her lips quiver. She gazed hard at the opposite wall.
Roy was far too much absorbed with his own prospects to notice her distress. To leave Molly for the delights of foreign travel meant nothing to him, though, had she been the one to go, and he the one to stay behind, he would no doubt have felt differently. In all their lives the twins had never yet been separated for more than one or two nights. Naturally, however, when the first real separation came, it would mean more to the girl than to the boy. Roy had to the full a boy's love of novelty.
"We shall go over the sea, and then I shall know how the sailors feel. If I wasn't going to be a soldier I should want to be a sailor; but of course I'm going to be what papa and Den are, and I like that best, only I've got to wait longer for it. And we shall stay in Paris, and there will be mounseers everywhere. Won't that be funny? And I shall write and tell you all about it"—as her silence dawned upon him. "And you'll have Jack and Polly, you know."
"If I was going to Paris, would you think Jack and Polly enough instead?" demanded Molly, out of her sore heart, still staring fixedly at the wall. A great lump was struggling in her throat.
"But you're not going, and I am. And you and Jack can have fun together."
"Jack's grown up; he isn't a boy, like you." Molly would have liked much to add, "He isn't my twin, Roy," but at the bare idea of saying such words her whole heart seemed to rise up in one huge billow, and very nearly swamped her self-control. She had to clench her hands and to bite her lips fiercely. If Roy did not care about leaving her, she was not going to let him see that she cared about losing him.
Roy seated himself astride on a chair, with his face to the back, and told his tale. He described his position outside the drawing-room window, and related the stray words which had reached his ears, making no secret of the fact that he had done his best to hear more. A glitter appeared in Molly's eyes, as she listened, and when the story was ended she said, with a catch of her breath—
"I think I shouldn't be so glad to go if—if you—weren't going too. And I shouldn't like to be you, to have listened on the sly. It was mean."
Roy sat motionless. That view of the matter had not yet occurred to him. He dismissed Molly's first words as unimportant, being merely a girl's unreasonable view of things, with which he as a boy could not be expected to agree. But that he—Roy Baron, son of a Colonel in His Majesty's Guards—should be accused of "meanness!" The word stung sharply. Roy always pictured his own future in connection with a scarlet coat, a three-cornered cocked hat, a beautiful pigtail, and the stiffest of military stocks to hold up his chin. He knew something of a soldier's sense of honour, and even now he felt ready to fight his country's battles. And that he should be accused of meanness—and by a girl!
"I do think so," Molly added. "It was horridly mean. Prying into what you weren't meant to hear! And then coming and telling me! If I had done such a thing, you'd have been the first to call it mean."
Roy stood bolt upright.
"You needn't have said it to me like that!" he said. "You might have told me, Molly—different, somehow. But I wouldn't be mean for anything, and I'm going to tell papa, straight off."
Roy did not ask Molly to go with him, and she was keenly sensible of the omission. He marched off alone, carrying his head as high as if the military stock had already encircled his throat. When he went into the drawing-room there was a pause in the conversation; and this seemed to show that Molly was in the right. She might be cross, but perhaps she had judged correctly.
"Run away, Roy," the Colonel said. "We did not send for you, and we are busy."
"Please, sir, may I say something first?" Roy advanced unfalteringly, and stood in front of the Colonel.
"Well, be quick, my boy. You are interrupting us."
Roy's honest grey eyes met his father's. "I was out there," he said, pointing to the verandah. "And I heard something. I didn't think about its being a secret, and I listened. I heard about going to Paris, and I—I went and told Molly. And she said it was mean of me. And I—couldn't be mean, sir!"
"No, Roy, you couldn't," the Colonel answered with gravity, while delighted at the boy's openness.
"I didn't mean any harm; but I suppose I oughtn't to have listened. I won't ever again, sir."
"Well, yes; of course that was wrong," the Colonel said, with a careful choice of words. "You should have told us that you were there. And you must not look upon the plan as—ahem—as quite settled. We are merely discussing it; and we might change our intentions——"
"I am sure, my dear sir, I heartily wish you would," chimed in Mrs. Bryce.
The Colonel made her a stately bow.
"And if I had found you out, Roy, overhearing us, I should certainly have blamed you. But as you have voluntarily confessed it, I"—the Colonel hesitated, conscious of his wife's pleading gaze—"well, we need say no more about the matter. You have acted rightly in coming at once to me; and I am convinced that you will not do such a thing again. Now you may run away."
Roy bounded off in the best of spirits, and Mrs. Bryce remarked, "There is an opportunity to give up your scheme. Best possible punishment for the boy. Were he my boy he should suffer for his behaviour."
"But Roy is my son," the Colonel said, and there was an accent of pride in his voice.
The pretty girl, with tall feathers in her bonnet, glided softly out of the room after Roy. She did not follow him far. She saw him vanish in the direction of the garden, flourishing his heels like a young colt, and she went the other way, towards the school-room. For Roy had told Molly about the Paris plan, and Polly guessed what that would mean to Molly.
Mary Keene and her brother John, commonly known as "Polly" and "Jack," were not really cousins to Roy and Molly, though treated as such by the family. Their widowed grandmother, Mrs. Keene, had, some fourteen years earlier, married a second time—rather late in life—and her new husband, Mr. Fairbank, had one daughter, Harriette, then just married to Captain Baron. Two or three years later her own grandchildren, Jack and Polly, were left orphans, and were taken in permanently by Mr. and Mrs. Fairbank. When Mr. Fairbank died, some four or five years before this date, his twice-widowed wife took up her abode, with her grandchildren, in Bath, then a fashionable place of residence for "the quality." Jack, who was a year and more older than Polly had, at the beginning of this story, just been gazetted to a regiment of the line, which was quartered in Bath.
Molly was very fond of Polly, and she had also a warm admiration for Jack; but no one in the world could be to her like her own twin-brother, Roy; and Roy's indifference to this first serious separation had cut her to the quick. When Polly entered the schoolroom, she at first thought that Molly had fled; but she detected a little heap in the farthest and darkest corner, and soon she heard the sound of a smothered sob, followed quickly by a second and a third.
Polly waited a moment, to draw off her gloves, and then she made her way to the corner, sat down on the ground, and put a pair of gentle arms round the child.
"O fie, little Molly, fie! This won't do at all, you know. Crying to have to go home with me! That is altogether wrong and silly. And so unkind too. It makes me feel half inclined to cry also, because I wanted to have dear little Molly, and now I know that Molly does not care to come. Molly, you dear little goose, don't you know that people can't be always and for ever together the whole of their lives? It isn't the way of the world, dear; and you and I can't alter the world to please ourselves. Roy is glad to go to Paris, of course; and so would you be, and so should I be, in his place. But everybody can't go to Paris at the same time. Fie, fie, little Molly, to mind so much what isn't worth making your eyes red about! Fie, dear! Wake up, and don't be doleful. Always laugh, if you can; because if you are unhappy, it makes other people unhappy as well. And that is such a pity. You don't wish to set me off crying too, do you?"
The elder girl's eyes had a suspicious look in them of tears not far off, as she bent over the child.
"Other people have troubles, as well as you, little Moll. Try to believe that, and try to be brave. We don't all—I mean, they don't all talk about their troubles always. It is of no use. Things have to be borne, and crying does no good. So stop the tears, Molly, and hold up your head, and think how nice it will be to see my grandmother and Jack, and the Bath Pump-room, and all the fine ladies and gentlemen walking about in their smart clothes."
A squeeze of Molly's arms came in reply.
"There will be Admiral and Mrs. Peirce to see, for the Admiral is now at home, and they are in Bath—and little Will Peirce, who soon is to be a middy in His Majesty's Navy. And Jack shall show himself to you in his new scarlet coat. You would not think how well he looks in it. I am proud of him, and so must you be; for Jack is everything in the world to me. No, not quite everything, but a great deal, as Roy is to you. Yet, I do not expect always to keep Jack by my side. He will have to go some day, and he will have to fight for old England. And when that day comes, I shall bid him farewell with a smile; for I would not be a drag upon him, nor wish to hold him back. And Roy will go also; and you will bear it bravely, little Moll. I am sure you will—like a soldier's daughter."
The soft caressing voice, the cool rose-leaf cheek against her own, the lovely dark eyes smiling upon her, all comforted poor Molly's sore heart; and she clung to Polly, and cried away more than half her pain.
"Don't tell Roy," she petitioned presently. "He doesn't mind, and he must not think that I do."
"Why not? That is naughty pride, Molly. It is always the women who care, not the men." Polly held up her head, and a far-away look crept into the soft eyes. "Dear, you must expect it to be so. Men have so much to do and to think about. But we have time to grieve, when they go away to fight; and they are always so glad to go."
"Are they?" a deep and quiet voice asked, close to her side, and Polly started strangely. For a moment her tiny shell-pink ears became crimson, and then she looked up, smiling.
"How do you do, Captain Ivor?"
Denham Ivor in his uniform—large-skirted military coat, black gaiters, white breeches, pig-tail, and gold-laced cocked hat in hand—looked even taller than out of it, and at all times he was wont to overtop the average man. He had a fine face, well browned, with regular features and dark eyes, ordinarily calm, and he bore his head in a stately fashion, while his manners were marked by a grave courtesy, which might seem strange beside modern freedom. As he looked down upon Polly, a subdued glow awoke in those earnest eyes.
Polly had not sprung up. She was still kneeling on the floor beside Molly, and her slim figure in its white frock looked very child-like. The flush had died as fast as it had arisen. Molly was clinging to her, with hidden face, and for an instant the fresh voice failed to reach the younger girl's understanding. Then Molly became aware of another spectator, and quitting her hold, she fled from the room. Polly rose gracefully.
"We will now go to the drawing-room," she suggested.
"Nay, wait a moment, I entreat. One instant"—and the bronzed face had grown positively pale. "I beseech of you to listen to me. For indeed, I have somewhat to say which I can no longer resolve to keep to myself. No, not even for one more day. Somewhat that you alone can answer, thereby making me the most happy or the most miserable of men."
A tiny gleam came to Polly's downcast eyes.
"If you have aught that is weighty to say, it may be that I could but refer you to my grandmother," she suggested demurely.
"But perhaps you can divine what that weighty thing is. And what if already I have written to your grandmother; and if she has consented to my suit?"
Young ladies did not give themselves away too cheaply in those days. Polly was barely eighteen; but, for all that, she had a very dainty air of dignity. And if, during past weeks, she had gone through some troublous hours, recognising how much she cared for Captain Ivor, and wondering, despite his marked attentions, whether he seriously cared for her, she was not going to admit as much in any haste to the individual in question. So she dropped an elegant little curtsey, and asked, with the most innocent air imaginable—
"Then, pray, sir, what may be your will?"
"Sweet Polly, may I speak?"
A solid square stool—well adapted for present purposes—was close at hand, and promptly down upon this with both knees went the tall grenadier, in the most approved fashion of his day. Sweet Polly could not long stand out against his earnest pleading. So, with a show of coy reserve, she gradually yielded, intimating that she did like him just a little; that some day or other she thought she could be his wife; that meantime she would somehow manage to keep him in her memory.
"And next week you are away to Paris!" she said, perhaps secretly wondering why he did not prefer to spend his leave in Bath. "For a whole long fortnight!"
"I could wish that I were not going. But all is arranged and the Colonel desires it. I must not fail him now at the last. If I can see my way to return at the end of a se'night, I will assuredly do so. If not—I shall still have a fortnight after my return. I shall know what to do with that time, sweetheart."
It is to be feared that Polly found small leisure thereafter for meditating on the childish woes of little Molly, so full was her head of the brave young Grenadier Captain, who had vowed to devote his life to her.
Just one or two weeks of separation, and then she would have him with her again; and hers would be the ineffable delight of showing off this gallant lover among all her Bath friends. How they would one and all envy Polly!
A small touch of feminine vanity no doubt crept in here, though Polly's whole girlish heart was given to Denham. But in his deeper love for her there was no thought of what others might say. He would, of course, be proud of the fair creature whom he had won; yet in his love there was no room found for the puerile element. It pervaded the man's entire being.
He stood very much alone in the world as regarded kinship, having been left an orphan at an early age, under the guardianship of Colonel Baron, his father's cousin, and having no brothers, sisters or other near relatives. The Barons' house had been, ever since Colonel Baron's marriage, a home to him; and while Colonel Baron was in some sense almost as his father, Mrs. Baron occupied rather the position of an elder sister. To Roy and Molly, Denham had always been like a brother. He had seen a good deal of both Polly and Jack in their childhood, but during later years he had been much on service abroad; and his first view of Polly Keene, his quondam playmate, transformed into a grown-up young lady, had been but a few weeks before this date. Denham had lost his heart to her in the first half-hour of their renewed acquaintance; and Polly soon discovered that he was the one man in the world who had her happiness in his keeping.
Despite the warm affection of his Baron cousins, Denham had possessed hitherto none as absolutely his own. Now that he had won "Sweet Polly," life would wear for him a new aspect.
And when, three or four days later, good-byes were said, no voice whispered to him or to Polly, how long-drawn-out a separation lay ahead.
(To be continued.)
TWILIGHT MUSIC.
[MARY'S PART.]
By WILLIAM T. SAWARD.
Not only in that village home
To minister to many needs;
Fulfil the tasks that hourly come,
Or meditate along the meads;
Bring sunshine to a darkened life;
Make home the sweetest place on earth;
Fresh smiles to smooth away the strife,
Or gather for the time of dearth.
She trained her ear to catch the strains
Of all the harps on Sion's Hill;
Where Jordan's sacred valley drains
The tiny streamlets as they fill.
The Homeland, cumbered round with care—
Trees, flowers and rivers—useless things—
No voices on the evening air,
No twilight and the peace it brings—
A clump of trees, a scarp of rock,
A long, low valley, colourless;
Clouds in a heavy sky, that mock
Thoughts tinged with their own bitterness.
But, passion-hushed, the quiet mind,
Attuned to Wisdom's sweeter way,
Hears, even in the sobbing wind,
The promise of a better day.
Thus higher wisdom teaches still
A lowliness of mind and heart;
The sweet subservience of the Will,
The gladness of that better part.
[CHRONICLES OF AN ANGLO-CALIFORNIAN RANCH.]
By MARGARET INNES.