"oh, beware, my lord, of jealousy;

it is the green-eyed monster who doth mock

the meat it feeds on."

—othello.

next day at luncheon mr. amherst, having carefully mapped out one of his agreeable little surprises, and having selected a moment when every one is present, says to her, with a wicked gleam of anticipative amusement in his cunning old eyes:

"sir penthony is in england."

although she has neither hint nor warning of what is coming, lady stafford is a match for him. mr. potts's intelligence of the evening before stands her now in good stead.

"indeed!" she says, without betraying any former knowledge, turning eyes of the calmest upon him; "you surprise me. tired so soon of egyptian sphinxes! i always knew he had no taste. i hope he is quite well. i suppose you heard from him?"

"yes. he is well, but evidently pines for home quarters and old friends. thinking you would like to see him after so long a separation, i have invited him here. you—you don't object?"

"i?" says her ladyship, promptly, reddening, but laughing too very successfully. "now, why should i object? on the contrary, i shall be charmed; he will be quite an acquisition. if i remember rightly,"—with a little affected drooping of the lids,—"he is a very handsome man, and, i hear, amusing."

mr. amherst, foiled in his amiable intention of drawing confusion on the head of somebody, subsides into a grunt and his easy-chair. to have gone to all this trouble for nothing, to have invited secretly this man, who interests him not at all, in hopes of a little excitement, and to have those hopes frustrated, disgusts him.

yet, after all, there will, there must be some amusement in store for him, in watching the meeting between this strange pair. he at least may not prove as cool and indifferent as his pretty wife.

"he will be here to dinner to-day," he says, grumpishly, knowing that all around him are inwardly rejoicing at his defeat.

this is a thunder-bolt, though he is too much disheartened by his first defeat to notice it. lady stafford grows several shades paler, and—luncheon being at an end—rises hurriedly. going toward the door, she glances back, and draws molly by a look to her side.

"come with me," she says; "i must speak to some one, and to you before any of the others."

when they have reached cecil's pretty sitting-room, off which her bedroom opens, the first thing her ladyship does is to subside into a seat and laugh a little.

"it is like a play," she says, "the idea of his coming down here, to find me before him. it will be a surprise; for i would swear that horrible old man never told him of my being in the house, or he would not have come. am i talking greek to you, molly? you know my story, surely?"

"i have heard something of it—not much—from mr. luttrell," says molly, truthfully.

"it is a curious one, is it not? and one not easily matched. it all came of that horrible will. could there be anything more stupid than for an old man to depart this life and leave behind him a document binding two young people in such a way as makes it 'do or die' with them? i had never seen my cousin in all my life, and he had never seen me; yet we were compelled at a moment's notice to marry each other or forfeit a dazzling fortune."

"why could you not divide it?"

"because the lawyers said we couldn't. lawyers are always aggressive. my great-uncle had particularly declared it should not be divided. it was to be all or none, and whichever of us refused to marry the other got nothing. and there was so much!" says her ladyship, with an expressive sigh.

"it was a hard case," molly says, with deep sympathy.

"it was. yet, as i managed it, it wasn't half so bad. now, i dare say many women would have gone into violent hysterics, would have driven their relations to the verge of despair and the shivering bridegroom to the brink of delirious joy, and then given in,—married the man, lived with him, and been miserable ever after. but not i."

here she pauses, charmed at her own superior wisdom, and, leaning back in her chair, with a contented smile, puts the tips of her fingers together daintily.

"well, and you?" says molly, feeling intensely interested.

"i? i just reviewed the case calmly. i saw it was a great deal of money,—too much to hesitate about,—too much also to make it likely a man would dream of resigning it for the sake of a woman more or less. so i wrote to my cousin explaining that, as we had never known each other, there could be very little love lost between us, and that i saw no necessity why we ever should know each other,—and that i was quite willing to marry him, and take a third of the money, if he would allow me to be as little to him in the future as i was in the present, by drawing up a formal deed of separation, to be put in force at the church-door, or the door of any room where the marriage ceremony should be performed."

"well?"

"well, i don't know how it would have been but that, to aid my request, i inclosed a photograph of our parlormaid (one of the ugliest women it has ever been my misfortune to see), got up in her best black silk, minus the cap, and with a flaming gold chain round her neck,—you know the sort of thing,—and i never said who it was."

"oh, cecil, how could you?"

"how couldn't i? you mean. and, after all, my crime was of the passive order; i merely sent the picture, without saying anything. how could i help it if he mistook me for mary jane? besides, i was fighting for dear life, and all is fair in love and war. i could not put up with the whims and caprices of a man to whom i was indifferent."

"did you know he had whims and caprices?"

"molly," says lady stafford, slowly, with a fine show of pity, "you are disgracefully young: cure yourself, my dear, as fast as ever you can, and as a first lesson take this to heart: if ever there was a mortal man born upon this earth without caprices it must have been in the year one, because no one that i have met knows anything about him."

"well, for the matter of that," says molly, laughing, "i don't suppose i should like a perfect man, even if i did chance to meet him. by all accounts they are stilted, disagreeable people, with a talent for making everybody else seem small. but go on with your story. what was his reply?"

"he agreed cordially to all my suggestions, named a very handsome sum as my portion, swore by all that was honorable he would never interfere with me in any way, was evidently ready to promise anything, and—sent me back my parlor-maid. was not that insulting?"

"but when he came to marry you he must have seen you?"

"scarcely. i decided on having the wedding in our drawing-room, and wrote again to say it would greatly convenience my cousin and myself (i lived with an old cousin) if he would not come down until the very morning of the wedding. need i say he grasped at this proposition also? i was dressed and ready for my wedding by the time he arrived, and shook hands with him with my veil down. you may be sure i had secured a very thick one."

"do you mean to tell me," says molly, rising in her excitement, "that he never asked you to raise your veil?"

"never, my dear. i assure you the 'best man' he brought down with him was by far the more curious of the two. but then, you must remember, sir penthony had seen my picture." here cecil goes off into a hearty burst of laughter. "if you had seen that maid once, my dear, you would not have been ambitious of a second view."

"still i never heard of anything so cold, so unnatural," says miss massereene, in high disgust. "i declare i would have broken off with him then and there, had it been me."

"not if you lived with my cousin amelia, feeling yourself a dependent on her bounty. she was a startling instance of how a woman can worry and torment. the very thought of her makes my heart sore in my body and chills my blood to this day. i rejoice to say she is no more."

"well, you got married?"

"yes, in amelia's drawing-room. i had a little gold band put on my third finger, i had a cold shake-hands from my husband, a sympathetic one from his groomsman, and then found myself once more alone, with a title and plenty of money, and—that's all."

"what was his friend's name?"

"talbot lowry. he lives about three miles from here, and"—with an airy laugh—"is rather too fond of me."

"what a strange story!" says molly, regarding her wistfully. "do you never wish you had married some one you loved?"

"i never do," gayly. "don't look to me for sentiment, molly, because i am utterly devoid of it. i know i suffer in your estimation by this confession, but it is the simple truth. i don't wish for anything. and yet"—pausing suddenly—"i do. i have been wishing for something ever since that old person down-stairs tried to take me back this morning, and failed so egregiously."

"and your wish is——"

"that i could make my husband fall madly in love with me. oh, molly, what a revenge that would be! and why should he not, indeed?" going over to a glass and gazing earnestly at herself. "i am pretty,—very pretty, i think. speak, molly, and encourage me."

"you know you are lovely," says molly, in such good faith that cecil kisses her on the spot. "but what if you should fall in love with him?"

"perhaps i have done so long ago," her ladyship replies, in a tone impossible to translate, being still intent on the contemplation of her many charms. then, quickly, "no, no, molly, i am fire-proof."

"yet any day you may meet some one to whom you must give your love."

"not a bit of it. i should despise myself forever if i once found myself letting my pulse beat half a second faster for one man than for another."

"do you mean to tell me you have never loved?"

"never, never, never. and, indeed, to give myself due credit, i believe the fact that i have a husband somewhere would utterly prevent anything of the sort."

"that is a good thing, if the idea lasts. but won't you feel awkward in meeting him this evening?"

"i? no, but i dare say he will; and i hope so too," says her ladyship, maliciously. "for three long years he has never been to see whether i were well or ill—or pining for him," laughing. "and yet, molly, i do feel nervous, awfully, ridiculously nervous, at the bare idea of our so soon coming face to face.

"is he handsome?"

"ye—es, pretty well. lanky sort of man, with a good deal of nose, you know, and very little whisker. on my word, now i think of it, i don't think he had any at all."

"nose?"

"no, whisker. he was clean-shaven, all but the moustache. i suppose you know he was in ted's regiment for some time?"

"so he told me."

"i wonder what he hasn't told you? shall i confess, molly, that i know your secret, and that it was i chose that diamond ring upon your finger? there, do not grudge me your confidence; i have given you mine and anything i have heard is safe with me. oh, what a lovely blush, and what a shame to waste such a charming bit of color upon me! keep it for dessert."

"how will sir penthony like mr. lowry's close proximity?" molly asks, presently, when she has confessed a few interesting little facts to her friend.

"i hope he won't like it. if i thought i could make him jealous i would flirt with poor talbot under his nose," says cecil, with eloquent vulgarity. "i feel spitefully toward him somehow, although our separation was my own contrivance."

"have you a headache, dear?" seeing her put her hand to her head.

"a slight one,—i suppose from the nerves. i think i will lie down for an hour or two before commencing the important task of arming for conquest. and—are you going out, molly? will you gather me a few fresh flowers—anything white—for my hair and the bosom of my dress?"

"i will," says molly, and, having made her comfortable with pillows and perfumes, leaves her to her siesta.

"anything white." molly travels the gardens up and down in search of all there is of the loveliest. little rosebuds, fresh though late, and dainty bells, with sweet-scented geraniums and drooping heaths,—a pure and innocent bouquet.

yet surely it lacks something,—a little fleck of green, to throw out its virgin fairness. above, high over her head, a creeping rosebush grows, bedecked with palest, juiciest leaves.

reaching up her hand to gather one of the taller branches, a mote, a bit of bark—some hateful thing—falls into molly's right eye. instant agony is the result. tears stream from the offended pupil; the other eye joins in the general tribulation; and molly, standing in the centre of the grass-plot, with her handkerchief pressed frantically to her face, and her lithe body swaying slightly to and fro through force of pain, looks the very personification of woe.

so thinks philip shadwell as, coming round the corner, he unperceived approaches.

"what is it?" he asks, trying to see her face, his tones absolutely trembling from agitation on her behalf. "molly, you are in trouble. can i do anything for you?"

"you can," replies miss massereene, in a lugubrious voice; though, in spite of her pain, she can with difficulty repress an inclination to laugh, so dismal is his manner. "oh! you can."

"tell me what. there is nothing—speak, molly."

"well, i'm not exactly weeping," says miss massereene, slowly withdrawing one hand from her face, so as to let the best eye rest upon him; "it is hardly mental anguish i'm enduring. but if you can get this awful thing that is in my eye out of it i shall be intensely grateful."

"is that all?" asks philip, much relieved.

"and plenty, too, i think. here, do try if you can see anything."

"poor eye!"—pathetically—"how inflamed it is! let me see—there—don't blink—i won't be able to get at it if you do. now, turn your eye to the right. no. now to the left. yes, there is," excitedly. "no, it isn't," disappointedly. "now let me look below; it must be there."

just at this delicate moment who should turn the corner but luttrell! oh, those unlucky corners that will occur in life, bringing people upon the scene, without a word of warning, at the very time when they are least wanted!

luttrell, coming briskly onward in search of his ladylove, sees, marks, and comes to a dead stop. and this is what he sees.

molly in philip's—well, if not exactly in his embrace, something very near it; philip looking with wild anxiety into the very depths of molly's lovely eyes, while the lovely eyes look back at philip full of deep entreaty. tableau!

it is too much. luttrell, stung cruelly, turns as if to withdraw, but after a step or two finds himself unable to carry out the dignified intention, and pauses irresolutely. his back being turned, however, he is not in at the closing act, when philip produces triumphantly on the tip of his finger such a mere atom of matter as makes one wonder how it could ever have caused so much annoyance.

"are you better now?" he asks, anxiously, yet with pardonable pride.

"i—am—thank you." blinking thoughtfully, as though not yet assured of the relief. "i am so much obliged to you. and—yes, i am better. quite well, i think. what should i have done without you?"

"ah, that i could believe myself necessary to you at any time!" philip is beginning, with fluent sentimentality, when, catching sight of tedcastle, he stops abruptly. "here is luttrell," he says, in an injured tone, and seeing no further prospect of a tête-à-tête, takes his departure.

molly is still petting her wounded member when luttrell reaches her side.

"what is the matter with you?" he asks, with odious want of sympathy. "have you been crying?"

"no," replies molly, indignant at his tone,—so unlike shadwell's. "why should you think so?"

"why? because your eyes are red; and certainly as i came up, shadwell appeared to be doing his utmost to console you."

"anything the matter with you, teddy?" asks miss massereene, with suspicious sweetness. "you seem put out."

"yes,"—sternly,—"and with cause. i do not relish coming upon you suddenly and finding you in shadwell's arms."

"where?"

"well, if not exactly in his arms, very nearly there," says tedcastle, vehemently.

"you are forgetting yourself." coldly. "if you are jealous of philip, say so, but do not disgrace yourself by using coarse language. there was a bit of bark in my eyes. i suppose you think it would have been better for me to endure torments than allow philip—who was very kind—to take it out? if you do, i differ from you."

"i am not speaking alone of this particular instance in which you seem to favor shadwell," says the young man, moodily, his eyes fixed upon the sward beneath him. "every day it grows more palpable. you scarcely care to hide your sentiments now."

"you mean"—impatiently—"you would wish me to speak to no one except you. you don't take into account how slow this would be for me." she says this cruelly. "i care no more for philip than i do for any other man."

"just so. i am the other man, no doubt. i have never been blind to the fact that you do not care for me. why take the trouble of acting a part any longer?"

"'acting a part'! nonsense!" says molly. "i always think that the most absurd phrase in the world. who does not act a part? the thing is to act a good one."

"is yours a good part?" bitterly.

"you are the best judge of that," returns she, haughtily. "if you do not think so, why keep to our engagement? if you wish to break it, you need fear no opposition from me." so saying, she sweeps past him and enters the house.

yet in spite of her anger and offended pride, her eyes are wet and her hands trembling as she reaches cecil's room and lays the snow-white flowers upon her table.

cecil is still lying comfortably ensconced among her pillows, but has sufficient wakefulness about her to notice molly's agitation.

"you have been quarreling, ma belle," she says, raising herself on her elbow; "don't deny it. was it with marcia or tedcastle?"

"tedcastle," molly replies, laughing against her will at the other's shrewdness, and in consequence wiping away a few tears directly afterward. "it is nothing; but he is really intolerably jealous, and i can't and won't put up with it."

"oh, that some one was jealous about me!" says cecil, with a prolonged sigh. "go on."

"it was nothing, i tell you. all because philip kindly picked a little bit of dust out of my eye."

"how good of philip! considering all the dust you have thrown into his of late. and ted objected?"

"yes, and was very rude into the bargain. i wouldn't have believed it of him."

"well, you know yourself you have been going on anyhow with philip during the past few days."

"oh, cecil, how can you say so? am i to turn my back on him when he comes to speak to me? and even supposing i had flirted egregiously with him (which is not the case), is that a reason why one is to be scolded and abused and have all sorts of the most dreadful things said to one?" (i leave my readers to deplore the glaring exaggeration of this speech.) "he looked, too, as if he could have eaten me then and there. i know this, i shan't forgive him in a hurry."

"poor ted! i expect he doesn't have much of a time with you," says cecil, shaking her head.

"are you laughing at me?" cries molly, wrathfully. "then make ready for death." and, taking the smaller cecil in her arms, she most unkindly lifts her from among her cozy cushions and deposits her upon the floor. "there! now will you repent? but come, cecil, get up, and prepare for your husband's reception. i will be your maid to-night, if you will let me. what will you wear?"

"pale blue. it suits me best. see, that is my dress." pointing to a light-blue silk, trimmed with white lace, that lies upon the bed. "will you really help me to dress? but you cannot do my hair?"

"try me."

she does try, and proves so highly satisfactory that cecil is tempted to offer splendid wages if she will consent to come and live with her.

the hair is a marvel of artistic softness. every fresh jewel lends a grace; and when at length cecil is attired in her blue gown, she is all that any one could possibly desire.

"now, honestly, how do i look?" she asks, turning round to face molly. "anything like a housemaid?" with a faint laugh that has something tremulous about it.

"i never saw you half so charming," molly answers, deliberately. "oh, cecil! what will he say when he finds out—when he discovers how you have deceived him?"

"anything he likes, my dear!" exclaims cecil, gayly giving a last touch to the little soft fair locks near her temples. "he ought to be pleased. it would be a different thing altogether, and a real grievance, if, being like the housemaid, i had sent him a photo of venus. he might justly complain then; but now—— there, i can do no more!" says her ladyship, with a sigh, half pleased, half fearful. "if i weren't so shamefully nervous i would do very well."

"i don't believe you are half as frightened for yourself at this moment as i am for you. if i were in your shoes i should faint. it is to me an awful ordeal."

"i am so white, too," says cecil, impatiently. "you haven't—i suppose, molly—but of course you haven't——"

"what, dear?"

"rouge. after all, therese was right. when leaving town she asked me should she get some; and, when i rejected the idea with scorn, said there was no knowing when one might require it. perhaps afterward she did put it in. let us ring and ask her."

"never mind it. you are no comparison prettier without it. cecil,"—doubtingly,—"i hope when it comes to the last moment you will have nerve."

"be happy," says cecil. "i am always quite composed at last moments; that is one of my principal charms. i never create sensations through vulgar excitement. i shall probably astonish you (and myself also) by my extreme coolness. in the meantime i"—smiling—"i own i should like a glass of sherry. what o'clock is it, molly?"

"just seven."

"ah! he must be here now. how i wish it was over!" says lady stafford, with a little sinking of the heart.

"and i am not yet dressed. i must run," exclaims molly. "good-bye, cecil. keep up your spirits, and remember above all things how well your dress becomes you."

two or three minutes elapse,—five,—and still cecil cannot bring herself to descend. she is more nervous about this inevitable meeting than she cares to own. will he be openly cold, or anxious to conciliate, or annoyed? the latter she greatly fears. what if he should suspect her of having asked mr. amherst to invite him? this idea torments her more than all the others, and chains her to her room.

she takes up another bracelet and tries it on. disliking the effect, she takes it off again. so she trifles, in fond hope of cheating time, and would probably be trifling now had not the handle of her door been boldly turned, the door opened, and a young man come confidently forward.

his confidence comes to an untimely end as his astonished eyes rest on cecil.

"i beg your pardon, i'm sure," he says, beating a hasty retreat back to the landing outside. "i had no idea—i'm awfully sorry—but this room used to be mine."

"it is mine now," says cecil, accepting the situation at a glance, recognizing sir penthony without hesitation.

he is a tall young man,—"lanky," as she has herself expressed him,—with thick brown hair, closely cropped. he has handsome dark eyes, with a rather mocking expression in them, and has a trick of shutting them slightly if puzzled or annoyed. his voice is extremely charming, though it has a distinct croak (that can hardly be called husky or hoarse) that is rather fascinating. his short upper lip is covered by a heavy brown moustache that hides a laughing mouth. he is aristocratic and good-looking, without being able to lay claim to actual beauty.

just now he is overwhelmed with confusion, as cecil, feeling compelled thereto, steps forward, smiling, to reassure him.

"you have made a mistake,—you have lost your way," she says, in a tone that trembles ever such a little in spite of her efforts to be calm.

"to my shame i confess it," he says, laughing, gazing with ill-concealed admiration at this charming azure vision standing before him. "foolishly i forgot to ask for my room, and ran up the stairs, feeling certain that the one that used to be mine long ago must be so still. can you forgive me?"

"i think i can. meantime, if you are sir penthony stafford, your room lies there," pointing to the last door opening on the corridor.

"thank you," yet making no haste to reach the discovered shelter. "may i not know to whom i am indebted for so much kindness?"

"i dare say you will be introduced in proper form by and by," says cecil, demurely, making a movement as though to leave him. "when you are dressed you shall be formally presented."

"at least," he asks, hastily, with a view to detaining her, "do me one more service before you go. if you know me so well, perhaps you can tell me if any of my friends are staying here at present?"

"several. teddy luttrell for one."

"indeed! and——"

"the darleys. you know them?"

"little woman,—dolly,—bizarre in manner and dress?"

"a most accurate description. and there is another friend,—one who ought to be your dearest: i allude to lady stafford."

"lady stafford!"

"yes, your wife. you don't seem over and above pleased at my news."

"is a man always pleased at his wife's unexpected appearance?" asks sir penthony, recovering himself with a rather forced laugh. "i had no idea she was here. i—— is she a friend of yours?"

"the dearest friend i have. i know no one," declares her ladyship, fervently, "i love so fondly."

"happy lady stafford! i almost think i would change places with her this moment. at all events, whatever faults she may possess, she has rare taste in friends."

"you speak disparagingly. has she a fault?"

"the greatest a woman can have: she lacks that one quality that would make her a 'joy forever.'"

"your severity makes you unkind. and yet, do you know she is greatly liked. nay, she has been loved. perhaps when you come to know her a little better (i do not conceal from you that i have heard something of your story), you will think more tenderly of her. remember, 'beauty is only skin deep.'"

"yes,"—with a light laugh,—"but 'ugliness goes to the bone.'"

"that is the retort discourteous. i see it is time wasted to plead my friend's cause. although, perhaps,"—reproachfully,—"not blessed with actual beauty, still——"

"no, there's not much beauty about her," says sir penthony, with something akin to a groan. then, "i beg your pardon," he murmurs; "pray excuse me. why should i trouble a stranger with my affairs?" he stands aside, with a slight bow, to let her pass. "and you won't tell me your name?" he cannot resist saying before losing sight of her.

"make haste with your dressing; you shall know then," glancing back at him, with a bewitching smile.

"be sure i shall waste no time. if, in my hurry, i appear to less advantage than usual to-night, you must not be the one to blame me."

"a very fair beginning," says cecil, as she slips away. "now i must be firm. but, oh dear, oh dear! he is much handsomer even than i thought."