It was a duplicate of a message which was even then speeding on its way to the two grand-nieces in Liverpool.

CHAPTER THIRTY SEVEN.

BERNARD FARRELL'S HEIR.

"I'm not sorry; I'm _glad_!" cried Mollie, while a rain of tears rolled down her cheeks. "He was old and was tired, and everyone he loved had gone before him. It will be like going home to meet them again. He was grim and cross and suspicious, but I loved him all the same, and in his queer way I am sure that he liked me too. I'm thankful he is at rest!

... 'Will write details.' Thursday!--that means that she will write on Thursday evening. Mrs Thornton is nothing if not businesslike. We shall hear from her by the second post on Friday. By Friday at ten o'clock we shall know our fate. To be, or not to be--that is the question. Oh, I hope--I hope he has remembered us a little! There is no chance of inheriting the Court, as we once dreamt of doing; but still, there is a hope, and it will be a shock to bury it for ever. I used to feel comparatively indifferent; but the strain of these last six months has made me greedy; while you, you dear goose, who used to be all ambition, are in such a ludicrous condition of bliss that you can hardly rouse yourself to take any interest in the question! What it is to be engaged!"

Ruth tried to look contrite, but succeeded only in smiling seraphically.

"When you are perfectly happy it is impossible to be happier, and I honestly don't care very much. I should like Uncle Bernard to leave me a nice message, and I shouldn't at all object to a legacy, which would provide my trousseau; but the Court itself would be a white elephant to me now. Donald adores his work, and would not give it up for any consideration, so we could never live there ourselves."

"You might lend it to a poor but deserving family! Astonishing as it may appear, there are a few other people in the world beside yourself and Donald, and they are not all going to be married and live happily ever after!"

This time Ruth did, indeed, look contrite, and that without an effort.

"Oh, Mollie, I am horribly selfish! Forgive me, darling! I honestly do forget everybody but ourselves sometimes; and it is hateful of me, for when I am so happy I ought to be more sympathetic, instead of less. I am, when I remember! I am so bubbling over with happiness and good-will that I feel inclined to kiss everyone I meet. But there is so much to be thought about, and every time we meet there seems to be more, and I get lost in dreams."

"Bless your heart, don't apologise to me. I like it!" cried Mollie heartily. "I know your heart is right; and it's a poor thing if lovers can't live in a world of their own for a few weeks of their life. I'm thankful beyond words that your future is settled. But oh, what a help a few hundreds would be to the rest of us just now! I feel as if I could hardly live until Friday morning, I am so anxious to hear the news! And the mysterious condition, Ruth! Do you realise that we shall know all about it in three more days?"

"I wonder!" sighed Ruth dreamily. Then, with sudden animation, "If it is good news,--if either of us came in for something really big, Mrs Thornton would wire! She simply could not wait. She is far too impulsive!"

It was an unfortunate suggestion, as it added tenfold to the strain of waiting. The minutes seemed to drag on Thursday afternoon and evening; but no telegram appeared, and Mollie's heart sank heavily. She knew better than her sister how difficult it was to make both ends meet, and what a long and arduous task it would be to pay off the loans which had tided the family through their time of need, and she was tired--as any natural, high-spirited young thing would be--of all work and no play, and eagerly longing for a respite. Mr Farrell had expressly stated that he would not divide his property; but that did not prohibit small legacies, and when he knew that his nearest relations were in straits, surely--surely...

Mollie was up and dressed even before her usual early hour the next morning, for sleep was impossible in such a whirl of nervous anxiety.

Ruth kissed her before departing to her work, and said--

"Rush down to me, dear, if there is anything good to tell. I shall look out for you about eleven."

Mollie set about her household duties with great fervour, so as to make the long hour pa.s.s by more quickly. At last ten o'clock struck, and almost at the same time came the sound of the postman's rat-tat. She flew to the door, arriving at the very moment that three letters fell into the box.

One was of that long, narrow shape, which inevitably foretells a bill; a second was unmistakably a circular; the third-- Mollie stared at it, turned it over, looked at the postmark, stared at the writing again, in a whirl of bewildered dismay. It could not be an ordinary, unimportant letter from the children's aunt at Brighton! It could not! The thing was impossible! Yet why, then, the address to Trix, the well-known writing--most of all, the horrible postmark?

She put her hand to her head, wondering if it were true, or only a horrible nightmare that Mrs Thornton had not written, after all!

The little mother came creeping out of the dining-room, and, seeing her child's blanched face, was persistently optimistic. Absurd to give up hope because a letter did not come by the first possible post! A hundred things might have happened to cause a delay; and, even if it had been posted in time, the post-office was not always infallible.

Mrs Farrell recalled stories of belated letters from her own experience, and related them at length, while Mollie went numbly about her work. The disappointment was severe, and seemed like a foretaste of worse to come. Nevertheless, as time went on, her naturally buoyant nature a.s.serted itself, and, as each delivery drew near, excitement grew to fever-pitch.

One o'clock, and a letter for the maid; three o'clock, and the postman walked past the door. Poor Mollie! The sound of his departing footsteps rang like a knell in her ears, and two hot rebellious tears rose to her eyes. It did not seem possible that anything would have prevented the kindly Mrs Thornton from keeping her promise except sheer inability to communicate bad news; and bad news meant that her own name and Ruth's were not mentioned in the will, and that everything went to Victor Druce. Oh, it was hard to give up so much to so unworthy a supplanter!

The children came home from school and settled down to their "prep."

Mrs Connor retired to her room for a rest, and Mollie took her way to her stepfather's little den to set a match to the fire, and hold a newspaper before it to make it blaze cheerily in preparation for his return. It was one of the pleasures of the day to make the sanctum look cheery and home-like for the tired man, and to-day there was an additional impetus in the knowledge that he would share in her own disappointment.

Mollie knelt by the grate, holding the newspaper in place--a tired, disheartened little Cinderella, who would have liked to lay her head on the table and indulge in a good cry. But such luxuries are not for the brave-hearted; so she resolutely blinked away the rising tears, and, rising to her feet, lighted the crimson-shaded lamp on the writing- table. Its rosy light had a wonderfully beautifying effect on the little room, giving an air of luxury to the commonplace furnishings; and when the curtains were drawn, and the easy-chair drawn up to the fire, it was as bright and cheerful a little interior as one need wish to see.

Mollie looked round with a glance of satisfaction, then suddenly rushed into the hall at the sound of a loud knock at the door. So soon! She had not expected the next delivery for another half-hour at least. No letter appeared in the box; so, with wild visions of a legal missive, registered for greater safety, she threw open the door and peered out into the night.

A man's tall figure stood on the step; but it was not the figure of a postman. Mollie leant forward--the light from above shining on cheeks flushed from contact with the fire, and ruffled golden head--leant forward, and stared into his face with incredulous eyes.

"Mollie!" cried a well-remembered voice, which broke into an eloquent tremor over the name.

"You!" cried Mollie! "Mr Melland! It can't be! What does it mean?

You can't really be here!"

He laughed at that, and took a step forward, like the masterful Jack of old.

"I am here; it is myself, and n.o.body else! I'll tell you all about it if you will let me in. It's rather cold to-night, you know."

She held the door wide open at that, and hurried him across the hall into the little, pink-lighted room, which she had just prepared for another's reception. There they stood face to face, staring at each other for a breathless moment.

"I thought you were in Raby--"

"So I was yesterday. I left this morning, and came down by the first train."

"Mrs Thornton promised to write. I thought you were the postman just now; and, of course, one cannot help being curious.--Have you come to tell us anything nice? Did Uncle Bernard remember us at all?"

"He has left your sister his wife's rubies. They are very beautiful, I am told, and of considerable value."

"Oh, I am glad! Ruth will be pleased; and she will be able to wear them when she is married. How beautiful she will look! And--and me?"

Jack shook his head.

"Nothing? Not even a word to say he forgave me for coming away?"

"There is a letter. You will see it later on. What I meant was that your name was not mentioned in the will. He left you no legacy."

Mollie sat down in the easy-chair, and leant her head against the cushions. In spite of all that had pa.s.sed, in spite of every determination to be prepared for the worst, the blow fell with crushing weight. She was conscious of a feeling of physical weakness, as if the body shared with the mind in grieving over the vanished dream; but she tried bravely to smile and look unconcerned.

"Then I suppose he--Victor Druce--inherits all?"

Jack looked at her with anxious eyes.

"You expected it, didn't you? You are not surprised? It seems to have been generally taken for granted for the last six months."

"Yes; so Mrs Thornton said. If it had been anyone else I should not grudge it so much. And you are left out too! I wish--oh, I wish it had been different!"

Jack Melland took a step forward, and bent over her chair.

"Mollie," he said softly, "shall we console each other? I have been waiting until this question was settled before coming to see you. It seemed an endless time to wait, but I couldn't come till I knew the truth. How could a poor fellow, with a few beggarly hundreds a year, approach a girl who might be one of the biggest heiresses in the kingdom? But I didn't forget you--I couldn't forget. I have been thinking of you night and day. It was all the harder to be silent when you were in trouble; but it was the straight thing to do. You can't tell what it means to me to see you again! When you opened the door just now, and the lamp-light showed me your little golden head--"

He broke off, with the same strange quiver in his voice which had marked his first utterance of her name; but Mollie shrank back still further in her chair, staring at him with troubled eyes.

"What do you mean? I don't understand!"

"It's simple enough--only that I love you, and want you to love me in return!"