all are, and all about them. Don’t trouble yourself any more, dear Lady Cuxhaven; I’ll take charge of her; pray leave her to me!”
Molly grew hotter and hotter as these last words met her ear. If they would only leave her alone, and not labour at being kind to her; would “not trouble themselves” about her! These words of Mrs. Kirkpatrick’s seemed to quench the gratitude she was feeling to Lady Cuxhaven for looking for something to amuse her. But, of course, it was a trouble; and she ought never to have been there.
By-and-by, Mrs. Kirkpatrick was called away to accompany Lady Agnes’s song, and then Molly really had a few minutes’ enjoyment. She could look round the room, unobserved, and, sure, never was any place out of a king’s house so grand and magnificent! Large mirrors, velvet curtains, pictures in their gilded frames, a multitude of dazzling lights decorated the vast saloon; and the floor was studded with groups of ladies and gentlemen, all dressed in gorgeous attire. Suddenly, Molly bethought her of the children whom she had accompanied into the dining-room, and to whose ranks she had appeared to belong—where were they? Gone to bed an hour before, at some quiet signal from their mother. Molly wondered if she might go, too— if she could ever find her way back to the haven of Mrs. Kirkpatrick’s bedroom. But she was at some distance from the door; a long way from Mrs. Kirkpatrick, to whom she felt herself to belong more than to any one else. Far, too, from Lady Cuxhaven, and the terrible Lady Cumnor, and her jocose and good-natured lord. So Molly sate on, turning over pictures which she did not see; her heart growing heavier and heavier in the desolation of all this grandeur. Presently a footman entered the room, and, after a moment’s looking about him, he went up to Mrs. Kirkpatrick, where she sate at the piano, the centre of the musical portion of the company, ready to accompany any singer, and smiling pleasantly as she willingly acceded to all requests. She came now towards Molly, in her corner, and said to her—
“Do you know, darling, your papa has come for you, and brought your pony for you to ride home; so I shall lose my little bedfellow, for I suppose you must go?”
Go! was there a question of it in Molly’s mind, as she stood up quivering, sparkling, almost crying out loud? She was brought to her senses, though, by Mrs. Kirkpatrick’s next words.
“You must go and wish Lady Cumnor good-night, you know, my dear, and thank her ladyship for her kindness to you. She is there, near that statue, talking to Mr. Courtenay.”
Yes! she was there—forty feet away—a hundred miles away! All that blank space had to be crossed; and then a speech to be made!
“Must I go?” asked Molly, in the most pitiful and pleading voice possible.
“Yes; make haste about it; there is nothing so formidable in it, is there?” replied Mrs. Kirkpatrick, in a sharper voice than before, aware that they were wanting her at the piano, and anxious to get the business in hand done as soon as possible.
Molly stood still for a minute, then, looking up, she said softly—
“Would you mind coming with me, please?”
“No! not I!” said Mrs. Kirkpatrick, seeing that her compliance was likely to be the most speedy way of getting through the affair; so she took Molly’s hand, and, on the way, in passing the group at the piano, she said, smiling, in her pretty genteel manner—
“Our little friend here is shy and modest, and wants me to accompany her to Lady Cumnor to wish good- night; her father has come for her, and she is going away.”