"Perhaps he will take the very first train back to London," says Molly, still gloomy.
"Perhaps so. Still, we must be prepared for the worst," wickedly. "Therefore, cook and I must consult. Molly,"—pausing at the door,—"you have exactly four hours in which to make yourself beautiful, as he cannot possibly be here before two. And if in that time you cannot create a costume calculated to reduce him to slavery, I shall lose my good opinion of you. By the bye, Molly,"—earnestly, and with something akin to anxiety,—"do you think he likes meringues?"
"How can you be so foolish?" says Miss Massereene, reprovingly. "Of course if he dines he will be in the humor to like anything I like, and I love meringues. But if not,—if not,"—with a heavy sigh,—"you can eat all the meringues yourself."
"Dear, dear!" says Letitia. "She is really very bad."
Almost as the clock strikes two, Molly enters the orchard, having given strict orders to Sarah to send Mr. Luttrell there when he arrives, in search of Mrs. Massereene.
She has dressed herself with great care, and very becomingly, being one of those people who know instantly, by instinct, the exact shade and style that suits them. Besides which, she has too much good taste and too much good sense to be a slave to that tyrant, Fashion.
Here and there the fruit-trees are throwing out tender buds, that glance half shrinkingly upon the world, and show a desire to nestle again amidst their leaves, full of a regret that they have left so soon their wiser sisters.
There is a wonderful sweetness in the air,—a freshness indescribable,—a rare spring perfume. Myriad violets gleam up at her, white and purple, from the roots of apple-trees, inviting her to gather them. But she heeds them not: they might as well be stinging-nettles, for all the notice she bestows upon them. Or is it that the unutterable hope in her own heart overpowers their sweetness?
All her thoughts are centred on the impending interview. How if she shall fail after all? What then? Her heart sinks within her, her hands grow cold with fear. On the instant the blackness of her life in such a case spreads itself out before her like a map,—the lonely pilgrimage,—the unlovely journey, without companionship, or warmth, or pleasant sunshine.
Then she hears the click of the garden gate, and the firm, quick step of him who comes to her up the hilly path between the strawberry-beds.